ENGLISH  PROSE 

1137-1890 


MANLY 


r  Vi'-' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


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ENGOSH    PROSE 


'   '^dy 


SELECTED   BY 


.^ 


JOHN  MATTHE\yS  MANLY,  Ph.D. 

Professor  and  Head  of  the  Department  of  English 
IN  THE  University  of  Chicago 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON    .   NEW  YORK   •   CHICAGO    •   LONDON 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
JOHN   MATTHEWS   MANLY 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


99.4 


iCfte   gttienaum   jgreeK 

GINN  AND  CuMPANY  •  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  volume  and  its  companion,  English  Poetry,  i  170-1892,  were  suggested  some 
twelve  years  ago  by  the  experience  of  Professors  Bronson,  Dodge,  and  myself  with  an 
introductory  course  in  English  Literature  in  Brown  University.  Our  plan  was  to  have 
the  students  read  Enghsh  classics  in  the  same  manner  and  spirit  in  which  they  would  read 
interesting  contemporary  poems,  novels,  speeches,  essays,  etc.,  and  then  to  discuss  with 
them  what  they  had  read.  No  attention  was  given  to  hnguistic  puzzles,  unessential  allu- 
sions, or  any  other  minutiae.  Such  things  are  of  course  a  legitimate  and  indispensable 
part  of  the  study  of  hterature,  but  it  seemed  well  not  to  confuse  and  defeat  our  principal 
aim  by  dealing  with  them  in  this  course.  Literary  history,  however,  was  not  neglected, 
and  care  was  taken  to  supply  such  information  in  regard  to  the  setting  of  each  piece  in 
life  or  literature  as  seemed  necessary  for  the  interpretation  of  its  subject,  purpose,  and 
method. 

The  greatest  difificulty  we  had  to  contend  with  was  the  lack  of  cheap  texts.  No  single 
volume  on  the  market  contained  what  we  needed,  and  separate  texts,  even  when  accessible 
at  very  low  prices,  cost  in  the  aggregate  more  than  students  could  afford  to  pay.  I  there- 
fore attempted  to  bring  together  in  the  volume  of  English  Poetry  such  a  collection  of  poems, 
important  either  historically  or  for  their  intrinsic  merits,  as  would  permit  every  teacher  to 
make  his  own  selection  in  accordance  with  his  tastes  and  the  needs  of  his  class.  The 
present  volume  is,  in  like  manner,  intended  to  be  used  by  teachers  as  a  storehouse  or  treas- 
ury of  prose. 

In  the  Preface  of  the  volume  of  poetry,  I  tried  to  make  it  clear  that  I  did  not  suppose 
that  any  teacher  would  require  his  pupils  to  read  all  the  poems  contained  in  it.  This 
would  indeed  be  absurd.  That  volume  contains  between  fifty-five  and  sixty  thousand 
lines,  and,  as  there  are  in  the  ordinary  school  year  only  about  thirty  weeks  of  three  recita- 
tions each,  the  pupil  would  have  to  read  more  than  six  hundred  lines  —  between  fifteen 
and  twenty  pages  of  an  ordinary  book  —  for  each  recitation.  Yet  some  teachers  have 
attempted  this  and  have  been  surprised  to  find  the  attempt  unsuccessful.  It  will  be  well 
to  bear  in  mind  that  this  prose  book,  also,  contains  much  more  than  at  first  sight  it  may 
seem  to  contain.  Each  page,  it  may  be  noted,  contains  about  as  much  as  three  ordinary 
octavo  pages  of  medium  size. 

As  to  the  manner  in  which  the  choice  shall  be  made  for  the  use  of  a  class,  the  teacher 
may  of  course  confine  the  work  to  as  few  authors  as  he  chooses,  or  may  require  only  the 
most  interesting  parts  of  the  long  selections,  or  may  in  both  ways  reduce  to  reasonable 
limits  the  amount  of  reading  required.  Some  teachers  w^ill  wish  a  large  number  of  short 
passages  illustrating  the  characteristics  of  as  many  authors  as  possible ;  others  will  prefer 
to  study  a  smaller  number  of  authors  in  selections  long  enough  to  show,  not  merely  what 
heights  of  excellence  each  writer  could  occasionally  attain,  but  also  what  qualities  and  what 
degree  of  sustained  power  each  possessed.  This  volume,  it  is  believed,  provides  materials 
for  both  kinds  of  study. 


iv  PREFACE 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that,  after  leaving  the  earlier  periods  of  English  Literature,  in 
which  unknown  words  and  forms  confront  the  reader  in  every  sentence,  the  main  diffi- 
culties that  a  student  meets  in  reading  the  English  classics  arise  not  so  much  from  internal 
as  from  external  causes.  And  these  can  easily  be  removed.  Simple  and  clear  presenta- 
tion by  the  teacher  of  the  theme  of  the  writer,  of  his  attitude  toward  his  theme,  of  the 
relations  of  writer  and  theme  to  contemporaneous  life  and  art,  and  of  other  matters  neces- 
sary to  intelhgent  reading,  should  precede  the  student's  reading  of  each  piece,  whether  of 
prose  or  verse.  Great  hterature  is  usually  great  no  less  because  of  its  content  than  be- 
cause of  its  form,  and  it  will  generally  be  found  that  students  are  prepared  to  appreciate 
fine  thoughts  before  they  are  able  to  understand  grace  or  beauty  of  form  in  literature.  And 
certainly,  if,  as  Spenser  tells  us, 

Soul  is  form  and  doth  the  body  make, 

we  must  understand  the  soul,  the  content,  and  aim,  of  a  piece  of  literature  before  we  can 
judge  whether  or  not  it  has  created  for  itself  an  appropriate  and  beautiful  body  or  form. 
To  expect  a  student  who  has  not  the  knowledge  implied  or  assumed  in  a  bit  of  prose  or 
verse  to  read  it  sympathetically  is  as  grave  an  error  as  that  ancient  one  —  now  happily 
abandoned  —  of  causing  students  of  Enghsh  composition  to  spin  out  of  their  entrails  vast 
webs  of  speculation  upon  subjects  lying  far  beyond  their  knowledge  or  experience.  If  the 
teacher  will  attempt  to  make  every  selection  as  real  and  vital  to  his  students  as  if  it  were 
concerned  with  some  subject  of  the  life  of  to-day,  the  study  of  English  Literature  will  be- 
come a  new  and  interesting  thing  for  himself  as  well  as  for  his  pupils.  And  although  this 
is  theoretically  a  counsel  of  perfection  not  easily  fulfilled,  it  will  be  found  in  practice  not 
difficult  to  secure  a  large  measure  of  success. 

In  this  volume,  as  in  its  predecessor,  the  remarks  in  the  Introduction  are  not  intended 
to  take  the  place  of  a  history  of  Enghsh  Literature.  Here  and  there  they  furnish  informa- 
tion not  usually  found  in  elementary  text-books;  here  and  there  they  have  not  even  that 
excuse  for  existence,  being  often  merely  hints  or  suggestions  or  explanations  which  the 
editor  wished  to  make ;  in  a  few  instances  it  may  be  thought  that  their  proper  place  is  the 
Preface  rather  than  the  Introduction. 

In  printing  the  earlier  texts  —  that  is,  all  before  Sidney's  Arcadia  —  the  old  spelling  is 
preserved,  except  that/,  A,  3,  i,  j,  u,  v,  have  been  reduced  to  modern  forms  and  usage. 
Such  inconsistencies  as  appear  are  due  to  variations  in  the  texts  themselves  or  to  variant 
editorial  methods  in  the  standard  editions.  The  punctuation  of  the  earlier  texts  has  been 
modernized,  sometimes  by  me,  sometimes  by  the  editor  whom  I  follow. 

In  the  later  texts,  the  speUing  and  punctuation  of  standard  editions  has  usually  been 
retained,  even  where  they  differ  from  modern  usage;  but  in  a  few  instances,  where  the 
older  punctuation  was  not  only  faulty  but  seriously  misleading,  I  have  not  scrupled  to 
change  it.  In  no  such  instance,  however,  was  there  any  doubt  as  to  the  author's  meaning. 
The  division  of  the  book  into  periods  is  of  course  not  altogether  satisfactory.  Not  to 
mention  general  difficulties,  Ben  Jonson's  relations  with  Shakspere  and  Bacon  induced 
me  to  put  him  in  the  same  period  with  Bacon,  though  it  would  doubtless  have  been  better 
to  put  both  him  and  Dekker  in  the  following  period.  Again,  in  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
it  seems  hardly  justifiable  to  put  Stevenson  in  the  same  period  with  Newman,  Borrow, 
Thackeray,  and  Dickens;  but  I  found  that  I  had  room  for  him  and  him  only  among  the 
departed  masters  of  his  generation,  and  it  seemed  undesirable  to  put  him  alone  in  a  sepa- 
rate division. 

No  attempt  has  been  made  to  apportion  the  space  given  to  a  writer  in  close  accordance 
with  his  importance.  My  plan  originally  was  that  every  piece,  whether  essay,  letter,  speech, 
or  chapter  of  a  book,  should  be  given  as  a  whole  composition,  in  its  entirety.     But  lack  of 


PREFACE  V 

space  made  it  necessary  to  make  many  cuts,  —  though  none,  I  hope,  that  affect  the  essen- 
tial quahties  of  any  selection  or  interfere  with  its  intelligibility.  The  attempt  to  present 
whole  selections  rather  than  brilliant  scraps  of  course  made  proportional  representation 
impossible,  and  the  cuts  that  were  made  did  not  better  the  adjustment,  as  they  were  made 
where  they  would  cause  the  least  loss  of  formal  and  material  excellences. 

In  spite  of  careful  calculations,  far  too  large  an  amount  of  copy  was  sent  to  the  printer. 
Nor  did  such  cutting  as  is  mentioned  above  suffice  to  reduce  it  to  the  necessary  Hmits.  It 
became  necessary,  while  the  book  was  going  through  the  press,  to  omit  several  writers 
altogether,  —  some  of  them,  no  doubt,  writers  whom  I  shall  be  criticised  for  omitting.  I 
can  only  say  that  my  regret  is  perhaps  greater  than  that  which  will  be  felt  by  any  one  else. 
I  now  feel  that,  as  I  was  obliged  to  omit  Henley  and  some  other  recent  writers,  it  might 
have  been  well  to  omit  Stevenson  also  and  let  the  book  end  with  Walter  Pater. 

The  selection  from  the  so-called  Mabinogion  in  the  Appendix  was  added  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Professor  Cunliffe  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  Many  teachers  will  no 
doubt  wish  to  use  it  in  connection  with  the  study  of  mediaeval  romances,  and  will  join  me 
in  thanks  to  Professor  Cunliffe. 

For  aid  in  collating  the  copy  for  the  printer  and  in  reading  proofs  I  am  indebted  to  my 
sister,  Annie  Manly. 

J.  M.  M. 


iv  PREFACE 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that,  after  leaving  the  earlier  periods  of  English  Literature,  in 
which  unknown  words  and  forms  confront  the  reader  in  every  sentence,  the  main  diffi- 
culties that  a  student  meets  in  reading  the  English  classics  arise  not  so  much  from  internal 
as  from  external  causes.  And  these  can  easily  be  removed.  Simple  and  clear  presenta- 
tion by  the  teacher  of  the  theme  of  the  writer,  of  his  attitude  toward  his  theme,  of  the 
relations  of  writer  and  theme  to  contemporaneous  life  and  art,  and  of  other  matters  neces- 
sary to  intelligent  reading,  should  precede  the  student's  reading  of  each  piece,  whether  of 
prose  or  verse.  Great  literature  is  usually  great  no  less  because  of  its  content  than  be- 
cause of  its  form,  and  it  will  generally  be  found  that  students  are  prepared  to  appreciate 
fine  thoughts  before  they  are  able  to  understand  grace  or  beauty  of  form  in  literature.  And 
certainly,  if,  as  Spenser  tells  us, 

Soul  is  form  and  doth  the  body  make, 

we  must  understand  the  soul,  the  content,  and  aim,  of  a  piece  of  literature  before  we  can 
judge  whether  or  not  it  has  created  for  itself  an  appropriate  and  beautiful  body  or  form. 
To  expect  a  student  who  has  not  the  knowledge  implied  or  assumed  in  a  bit  of  prose  or 
verse  to  read  it  sympathetically  is  as  grave  an  error  as  that  ancient  one  —  now  happily 
abandoned  —  of  causing  students  of  English  composition  to  spin  out  of  their  entrails  vast 
webs  of  speculation  upon  subjects  lying  far  beyond  their  knowledge  or  experience.  If  the 
teacher  will  attempt  to  make  every  selection  as  real  and  vital  to  his  students  as  if  it  were 
concerned  with  some  subject  of  the  life  of  to-day,  the  study  of  English  Literature  will  be- 
come a  new  and  interesting  thing  for  himself  as  well  as  for  his  pupils.  And  although  this 
is  theoretically  a  counsel  of  perfection  not  easily  fulfilled,  it  will  be  found  in  practice  not 
difficult  to  secure  a  large  measure  of  success. 

In  this  volume,  as  in  its  predecessor,  the  remarks  in  the  Introduction  are  not  intended 
to  take  the  place  of  a  history  of  English  Literature.  Here  and  there  they  furnish  informa- 
tion not  usually  found  in  elementary  text-books ;  here  and  there  they  have  not  even  that 
excuse  for  existence,  being  often  merely  hints  or  suggestions  or  explanations  which  the 
editor  wished  to  make ;  in  a  few  instances  it  may  be  thought  that  their  proper  place  is  the 
Preface  rather  than  the  Introduction. 

In  printing  the  earlier  texts  —  that  is,  all  before  Sidney's  Arcadia  —  the  old  spelling  is 
preserved,  except  that/.  A,  3,  i,  j,  w,  v,  have  been  reduced  to  modern  forms  and  usage. 
Such  inconsistencies  as  appear  are  due  to  variations  in  the  texts  themselves  or  to  variant 
editorial  methods  in  the  standard  editions.  The  punctuation  of  the  earlier  texts  has  been 
modernized,  sometimes  by  me,  sometimes  by  the  editor  whom  I  follow. 

In  the  later  texts,  the  speUing  and  punctuation  of  standard  editions  has  usually  been 
retained,  even  where  they  differ  from  modern  usage;  but  in  a  few  instances,  where  the 
older  punctuation  was  not  only  faulty  but  seriously  misleading,  I  have  not  scrupled  to 
change  it.     In  no  such  instance,  however,  was  there  any  doubt  as  to  the  author's  meaning. 

The  division  of  the  book  into  periods  is  of  course  not  altogether  satisfactory.  Not  to 
mention  general  difficulties,  Ben  Jonson's  relations  with  Shakspere  and  Bacon  induced 
me  to  put  him  in  the  same  period  with  Bacon,  though  it  would  doubtless  have  been  better 
to  put  both  him  and  Dekker  in  the  following  period.  Again,  in  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
it  seems  hardly  justifiable  to  put  Stevenson  in  the  same  period  with  Newman,  Borrow, 
Thackeray,  and  Dickens;  but  I  found  that  I  had  room  for  him  and  him  only  among  the 
departed  masters  of  his  generation,  and  it  seemed  undesirable  to  put  him  alone  in  a  sepa- 
rate division. 

No  attempt  has  been  made  to  apportion  the  space  given  to  a  writer  in  close  accordance 
with  his  importance.  My  plan  originally  was  that  every  piece,  whether  essay,  letter,  speech, 
or  chapter  of  a  book,  should  be  given  as  a  whole  composition,  in  its  entirety.     But  lack  of 


PREFACE  V 

space  made  it  necessary  to  make  many  cuts,  —  though  none,  I  hope,  that  affect  the  essen- 
tial qualities  of  any  selection  or  interfere  with  its  intelligibility.  The  attem])t  to  present 
whole  selections  rather  than  brilliant  scraps  of  course  made  proportional  representation 
impossible,  and  the  cuts  that  were  made  did  not  better  the  adjustment,  as  they  were  made 
where  they  would  cause  the  least  loss  of  formal  and  material  excellences. 

In  spite  of  careful  calculations,  far  too  large  an  amount  of  copy  was  sent  to  the  printer. 
Nor  did  such  cutting  as  is  mentioned  above  suffice  to  reduce  it  to  the  necessary  limits.  It 
became  necessary,  while  the  book  was  going  through  the  press,  to  omit  several  writers 
altogether,  —  some  of  them,  no  doubt,  writers  whom  I  shall  be  criticised  for  omitting.  I 
can  only  say  that  my  regret  is  perhaps  greater  than  that  which  will  be  felt  by  any  one  else. 
I  now  feel  that,  as  I  was  obliged  to  omit  Henley  and  some  other  recent  writers,  it  might 
have  been  well  to  omit  Stevenson  also  and  let  the  book  end  with  Walter  Pater. 

The  selection  from  the  so-called  Mabinogion  in  the  Appendix  was  added  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Professor  Cunliffe  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  Many  teachers  will  no 
doubt  wish  to  use  it  in  connection  with  the  study  of  mediaeval  romances,  and  will  join  me 
in  thanks  to  Professor  Cunliffe. 

For  aid  in  collating  the  copy  for  the  printer  and  in  reading  proofs  I  am  indebted  to  my 
sister,  Annie  Manly. 

J.  M.  M. 


CONTENTS 


EARLY   MIDDLE   ENGLISH 

Introduction ^^ 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  (extract  from 
An.  1137) 

(by  a  Monk  of  Peterborough) i 

An  Old  English  Homily  (extract) 

(by  an  unknown  author) i 

Richard   Poore    (?),    Bishop   of   Chichester, 
Salisbury,  and  Durham 
The  Ancren  Riwle   (Speech;    Nuns  May 

Keep  No  Beast  but  a  Cat) 2 

English  Proclamation  of  Henry  III 4 

Richard  Rolle  (of  Hampole) 

Epistle  III:    The  Commandment  of  Love 

to  God 5 

Sir  John  Mandeville 

The   Voiage   and   Travaile   of    Sir    John 
Maundevile,  Kt.,    Capp.    IV,    XVII, 

XXVII 6 

John  Wiclif 

The  Gospel  of  Mathew  (Both  versions) ...      9 
John  de  Trevisa 

Higden's  Polychronicon,  Bk.  I,  Cap.  LIX  11 
Geoffrey  Chaucer 

A  Treatise  on  the  Astrolabe;  Prologus 12 

Translation  of  Boethius,  Bk.  Ill,  Prose  IX, 

and  Metre  IX 13 

Reginald  Pecock,  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  and 
Chichester 
The  Repressor  of  Over  Much  Blaming  of 
the  Clergy,  Pt.  I,  Cap.  XIII 16 

THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 

Sir  Thomas  Malory 

Le  Morte  Darthur,  Bk.  XXI,  Capp.  IV- 

VI 18 

William  Caxton 

Preface  to  the  Booke  of  Eneydos 21 

Sir  John  Bourchier,  Lord  Berners 

The  Cronycle  of  Syr  John  Froissart,  Capp. 
CCCLXXXIII,  CCCLXXXIIII 22 

THE  TRANSITION  TO  MODERN  TIMES 

Sir  Thomas  More 

A  Dialogue  of  Svr  Thomas  More,  Kt.,  Bk. 

Ill,  Cap.  XVI 29 

William  Tyndale 

The  Gospell  of  S.  Mathew,  Cap.  V 34 

Hugh  Latimer 

The  First  Sermon  before   King  Edward 

VI 36 


Roger  Ascham 

The  Scholemaster :   The  First  Booke  for 

the  Youth 3^ 

John  Foxe 

Acts  and  Monuments  of  these  Latter  and 
Perillous  Dayes:  The  Behaviour  of 
Dr.  Ridley  and  Master  Latimer  at 
the  Time  of  their  Death 41 

THE   AGE   OF   ELIZABETH 

Sir  Philip   Sidney 

Arcadia  (from  Bk.  I) 45 

Richard  Hooker 

Of  the  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity  (ex- 
tract from  Bk.  I) 54 

John  Lyly 

Euphues  and  his  England  (extract) 57 

Thomas  Lodge 

Rosalynde:  Euphues' Golden  Legacy  (ex- 
tract)    60 

Robert  Greene 

A  Groat's  Worth  of  Wit,  bought  with  a 

Million  of  Repentance  (extract) 64 

The  Art  of  Cony-Catching  (extract) 67 

Greene's  Never  Too  Late;    The  Palmer's 

Tale  (extract) 69 

Francis  Bacon,  Viscount  St.  Albans 

Essays  (I,  Of  Truth,  p.  74 ;  H,  Of  Death, 
p.  7S;  IV,  Of  Revenge,  75;  V,  Of 
Adversity,  p.  76;  VIII,  Of  Marriage 
and  Single  Life,  p.  76;  X,  Of  Love, 
p.  77;  XI,  Of  Great  Place,  p.  78; 
XVI,  Of  Atheism,  p.  79;  XXIII,  Of 
Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self,  p.  80;  XXV, 
Of  Dispatch,  p.  81;  XXVII,  Of 
Friendship,  p.  82;  XLII,  Of  Youth 
and  Age,  p.  85;   XLIII,  Of  Beauty, 

p.  85) 74 

Thomas  Nashe 

The  Unfortunate  Traveller  (or  Jack  Wil- 
ton) (extract) 86 

Thomas  Dekker 

The  Gull's  Hornbook,  Capp.  VI-VIII ....   89 
Ben  Jonson 

Timber:  or  Discoveries  made  upon  Men 
and  Matter  (LXIV,  De  Shakespeare 
Nostrati,  p.  94;  LXXI,  Dominus 
Verulamius,  p.  94;  C,  De  Boms  et 
Malis;  De  Innocentia,  p.  95;  CXV, 
De  Stilo,  et  Optimo  Scribendi  Genere, 

P-95) 94 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


THE   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY 

Robert  Burton 

The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Pt.  IH,  Sec. 

II,  Mem.  I,  Subs.  1 97 

Thomas  Hobbes 

Leviathan,   Pt.    I,    Cap.    XIII    (Of   the 

^  Natural  Condition  of  Mankind) 102 

^   IzAAK  Walton 

The  Complete  Angler  (extract) 104 

O  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

Religio  Medici:  Charity m 

Hydriotaphia:  Urn-Burial,  Chap.  V 115 

Thomas  Fuller 

The  Holv   State,   Bk.  II,  Chap.  XXII: 

The  Life  of  Sir  Francis  Drake 117 

(~)  John  Milton 

Of  Education 120 

Areopagitica:    A  Speech  for  the  Liberty 

of  Unlicensed  Printing  (extract) 1 26 

(  Jeremy  Taylor 

The  Rule  and  Exercises  of  Holy  Dymg, 

Chap.  I,  Sec.  II 136 

r    John  Bunyan 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress:    The  Fight  with 
Apollyon    (p.     139);     Vanity    Fair 

(p.  141) 139 

Sir  William  Temple 

Observations  upon  the  United  Provmces 

of  the  Netherlands,  Chap.  VIII 143 

O    John  Dryden 

An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy  (extract) 146 

John  Locke 

Of  the   Conduct  of  the  Understanding 

(extract) 163 

Samuel  Pepys 

His  Diary  (extract) 168 

r    Robert  South 

A  Sermon:    Of  the  Fatal  Imposture  and 

Force  of  Words  (extract) 1 73 

THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY 

Daniel  Defoe 

The  Life,  Adventures,  and  Piracies  of  the 

Famous  Captain  Singleton  (extract) .    1 76 
Jonathan  Swift 

The  Tale  of  a  Tub:    The  Preface  and 

Sections  II  and  IX 184 

A  Modest  Proposal i93 

Anthony  Asecley  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftes- 
bury 
Characteristics  of  Men,  Manners,  Opin- 
ions, Times,  etc.,  Pt.  Ill,  Sec.  III. . . .    197 
Joseph  Addison 

The  Spectator  (No.  10,  Aims  of  the  Spec- 
tator, p.  198;  26,  Thoughts  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  p.  200;  98,  The 
Head-Dress,  201 ;  159,  The  Vision  of 
Mirza,  p.  203;  584,  Hilpa  and  Sha- 
lum,  p.  205;  585,  The  Same,  con- 
tinued, p.  206) 198 

Sir  Richard  Steele 

The  Tatler  (Nos.  82,  95,  167,  264) 207 


Sir  Richard  Steele  (Continued) 

The  Spectator  (No.  11) 214 

George  Berkeley,  Bishop  of  Cloyne 

A  Proposal  for  a  College  to  be  erected  in 

the  Summer  Islands 216 

Samuel  Richardson 

The  History  of  Clarissa  Harlowe,  Letter 

XVI 221 

Henry  Fielding 

Tom    Jones,  Bk.   I,  Chap.   I;    Bk.   II, 
Chap.  I;  Bk.  V,  Chap.  I;  Bk.  VIII, 

Chap.  I;   Bk.  X,  Chap.  1 226 

Samltel  Johnson 

Congreve 234 

The  Rambler  (Nos.  68,  69) 239 

David  Hume 

An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Principles  of 

Morals,  Sec.  V,  Pt.  II 243 

Laurence  Sterne 

Tristram    Shandy,    Vol.    VIII,    Chaps. 

XXIII-XXX 247 

Tobias  Smollett 

Humphry  Clinker  (Letter  to  Sir  Watkin 

Phillips) 251 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

Letters  from  a  Citizen  of  the  World  to 
his  Friends  in  the  East,  XXI,  XXVI- 

XXX 255 

Edmund  Burke 

Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot's  Debts 

(extract) 267 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France 

(extract) 270 

James  Macpherson  (?) 

The    Poems    of     Ossian:      Cath-Loda, 

Duan  III 275 

James  Boswell 

The   Life  of   Samuel    Johnson,   LL.D., 

Chap.  XIII 277 

Junius  [?  Sir  Philip  Francis] 

Letters  XII  and  XV,   to  the  Duke  of 

Grafton 292 

THE   NINETEENTH   CENTURY,   I 

William  Wordsworth 

Preface  to  the ' '  Lyrical  Ballads  " 298 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

Wandering  Willie's  Tale  (from  Redgaunt- 

let) 308 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

Biographia  Literaria,  Chap.  XIV 317 

Francis  Jeffrey,  Lord  Jeffrey 

The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone 320 

Robert  Southey 

The  Life  of  Nelson,  Chap.  V  (extract), 

the  Battle  of  the  Nile 321 

Jane  Austen 

Pride  and  Prejudice,  Chaps.  I-VI 328 

Charles  Lamb 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 337 

Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on  Whist 340 

A  Chapter  on  Ears 343 


CONTENTS 


IX 


Walter  Savage  Landor 

Imaginary    Conversations:      JEsop    and 

Rhodope 345 

William  Hazlitt 

Mr.  Coleridge 349 

Leigh  Hunt 

The  Daughter  of  Hippocrates 354 

Thomas  De  Quincey 

The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 

Eater  (extract) 357 

Thomas  Carlyle 

Sartor  Resartus,  Chaps.  VI-IX 366 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Baron  Ma- 
caulay 
The  History  of  England,  Vol.  I,  Chap. 

Ill  (extract) 382 

THfi   NINETEENTH   CENTURY,   II 

John  Henry  Newman,  Cardinal 

The  Idea  of  a  University,  Discourse  VI 

(extract) 409 

George  Borrow 

Lavengro,  Chaps.  LXX,  LXXI 417 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

The  English  Humourists:  Sterne 425 

Vanity  Fair,  Chaps.  XII,  XIII 430 

Charles  Dickens 

A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star 440 


Charles  Dickens  {Continued) 

Our  Mutual  Friend:  Chap.  V,    Boffin's 

Bower 441 

James  Anthony  Froude 

Cffisar,  Chap.  XIII 450 

"George  Eliot,"  Mary  Ann  Evans  (Cross) 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Bk.  VII,  Chap.  V, 

The  Last  Conflict 458 

John  Ruskin 

The  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  II,  Chaps.  I, 

IV,  V  (extracts) 463 

The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  Preface 473 

Matthew  Arnold 

Culture   and    Anarchy:     Sweetness   and 

Light 478 

Sir  Leslie  Stephen 

Newman's  Theory  of  Belief  (extract).  . .  .    489 
Walter  Pater 

Style 492 

The  Child  in  the  House 502 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Franfois     Villon,     Student,     Poet,     and 

Housebreaker 509 

APPENDIX 

The  Mabinogion:  Peredur  the  Son  of  Ev- 
rawc  (translated  by  Lady  Charlotte 
Guest) 521 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  (p.  i)  belongs  for  the  most  part,  of  course,  to  the 
history  of  English  literature  before  the  Norman  Conquest;  but  the  later  records, especially 
those  of  the  Peterborough  version,  from  which  our  selection  is  taken,  are  of  great  im- 
portance for  the  study  of  modern  English  prose.  The  Chronicle  seems  to  have  been 
begun  in  the  reign  of  Alfred  the  Great,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  his  efforts  for  the  edu- 
cation of  his  people.  It  exists  in  six  versions,  differing  more  or  less  from  one  another  both 
as  to  the  events  recorded  and  the  period  of  time  covered,  but  together  forming,  in  a  man- 
ner, a  single  work.  The  early  entries,  beginning  with  60  B.C.,  were  compiled  from  various 
sources  and  are,  for  the  most  part,  very  meager  and  uninteresting.  Here  are  the  complete 
records  for  two  years:  "An.  DCCLXXII.  Here  (that  is,  in  this  year)  Bishop  Milred 
died;"  "An.  DCCLXXHI.  Here  a  red  cross  appeared  in  the  sky  after  sunset;  and  in 
this  year  the  Mercians  and  the  men  of  Kent  fought  at  Otford;  and  wondrous  serpents 
were  seen  in  the  land  of  the  South-Saxons."  For  long,  weary  stretches  of  years,  there  are, 
with  the  notable  e.xception  of  the  \avid  account  of  the  death  of  Cynewulf,  few  more  excit- 
ing entries  than  these.  Even  when  great  events  are  recorded,  no  effort  is  made  to  tell 
how  or  why  they  occurred,  no  attempt  to  produce  an  interesting  narrative.  In  the  time 
of  King  Alfred,  however,  a  change  appears,  and,  though  the  records  still  have  the  character 
of  annals  rather  than  of  history,  the  narrative  is  often  very  detailed  and  interesting,  espe- 
cially in  regard  to  the  long  and  fierce  contest  with  the  Danes.  After  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, one  version  of  the  Chronicle,  that  kept  by  the  monks  of  Peterborough,  contains 
entries  of  the  greatest  importance  both  for  the  history  of  the  times  and  for  the  state  of  the 
English  language  then.  The  latest  of  these  entries  is  for  the  year  1154,  when  the  turbu- 
lent reign  of  the  weak  Stephen  was  followed  by  the  strong  and  peaceful  administration  of 
Henry  II.  The  selection  we  have  chosen  is  from  the  entry  for  1137,  and  gives  a  startling 
picture  of  the  terrors  of  the  time.  It  is  almost  astounding  to  recall  that  it  was  just  at  this 
time  that  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  started  the  story  of  King  Arthur  on  its  long  and  brilliant 
career  in  literature.  The  most  notable  things  about  the  passage,  considered  as  English 
prose,  are  its  simplicity  and  straightforwardness  and  its  strong  resemblance  to  modern 
English  in  sentence  structure  and  word  order.  These  features  are  probably  to  be  ac- 
counted for  by  the  fact  that,  though  the  writer  doubtless  understood  Latin,  he  did  not  feel 
that  he  was  producing  literature,  but  only  making  a  plain  record  of  facts,  and  conse- 
quently did  not  attempt  the  clumsy  artificialities  so  often  produced  by  those  who  tried  to 
imitate  Latin  prose  in  English. 

The  Old  English  Homily  (p.  i)  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  kind  of  sermons  preached 
in  the  twelfth  century.  The  homilies  that  have  come  down  to  us  show  scarcely  any 
originality  of  conception  or  expression.  All  are  reproductions  of  older  English  homilies 
or  are  based  upon  similar  compositions  in  Latin  by  such  writers  as  St.  Anselm  of  Canter- 
bury, St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux,  Hugo  of  St.  Victor,  and  Radulphus  Ardens.  In  both 
matter  and  manner  they  follow  closely  their  chosen  models.  The  short  extract  here  given 
has  been  selected  principally  because  of  the  curious  and  amusing  anecdote  of  the  young 
crab  and  the  old,  which  is  its  sole  touch  of  freshness  or  originality.  Very  noticeable  in 
all  of  these  homilies  is  the  allegorical  interpretation  of  Scripture,  which  w-as  in  vogue  for 
so  many  centuries;    and,  in  some  of  them,  the  mysticism  which  was  rapidly  developing 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  (p.  i)  belongs  for  the  most  part,  of  course,  to  the 
history  of  English  literature  before  the  Norman  Conquest;  but  the  later  records, especially 
those  of  the  Peterborough  version,  from  which  our  selection  is  taken,  are  of  great  im- 
portance for  the  study  of  modern  English  prose.  The  Chronicle  seems  to  have  been 
begun  in  the  reign  of  Alfred  the  Great,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  his  efforts  for  the  edu- 
cation of  his  people.  It  exists  in  six  versions,  differing  more  or  less  from  one  another  both 
as  to  the  events  recorded  and  the  period  of  time  covered,  but  together  forming,  in  a  man- 
ner, a  single  work.  The  early  entries,  beginning  with  60  B.C.,  were  compiled  from  various 
sources  and  are,  for  the  most  part,  very  meager  and  uninteresting.  Here  are  the  complete 
records  for  two  years:  "An.  DCCLXXII.  Here  (that  is,  in  this  year)  Bishop  Milred 
died;"  "An.  DCCLXXHI.  Here  a  red  cross  appeared  in  the  sky  after  sunset;  and  in 
this  year  the  Mercians  and  the  men  of  Kent  fought  at  Otford;  and  wondrous  serpents 
were  seen  in  the  land  of  the  South-Saxons."  For  long,  weary  stretches  of  years,  there  are, 
with  the  notable  exception  of  the  vivid  account  of  the  death  of  Cynewulf,  few  more  excit- 
ing entries  than  these.  Even  when  great  events  are  recorded,  no  effort  is  made  to  tell 
how  or  why  they  occurred,  no  attempt  to  produce  an  interesting  narrative.  In  the  time 
of  King  Alfred,  however,  a  change  appears,  and,  though  the  records  still  have  the  character 
of  annals  rather  than  of  history,  the  narrative  is  often  very  detailed  and  interesting,  espe- 
cially in  regard  to  the  long  and  fierce  contest  with  the  Danes.  After  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, one  version  of  the  Chronicle,  that  kept  by  the  monks  of  Peterborough,  contains 
entries  of  the  greatest  importance  both  for  the  history  of  the  times  and  for  the  state  of  the 
English  language  then.  The  latest  of  these  entries  is  for  the  year  11 54,  when  the  turbu- 
lent reign  of  the  weak  Stephen  was  followed  by  the  strong  and  peaceful  administration  of 
Henry  II.  The  selection  we  have  chosen  is  from  the  entry  for  1137,  and  gives  a  startling 
picture  of  the  terrors  of  the  time.  It  is  almost  astounding  to  recall  that  it  was  just  at  this 
time  that  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  started  the  story  of  King  Arthur  on  its  long  and  brilliant 
career  in  literature.  The  most  notable  things  about  the  passage,  considered  as  English 
prose,  are  its  simplicity  and  straightforwardness  and  its  strong  resemblance  to  modern 
English  in  sentence  structure  and  word  order.  These  features  are  probably  to  be  ac- 
counted for  by  the  fact  that,  though  the  writer  doubtless  understood  Latin,  he  did  not  feel 
that  he  was  producing  literature,  but  only  making  a  plain  record  of  facts,  and  conse- 
quently did  not  attempt  the  clumsy  artificialities  so  often  produced  by  those  who  tried  to 
imitate  Latin  prose  in  English. 

The  Old  English  Homily  (p.  i)  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  kind  of  sermons  preached 
in  the  twelfth  century.  The  homilies  that  have  come  down  to  us  show  scarcely  any 
originality  of  conception  or  expression.  All  are  reproductions  of  older  English  homilies 
or  are  based  upon  similar  compositions  in  Latin  by  such  writers  as  St.  Anselm  of  Canter- 
bury, St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux,  Hugo  of  St.  Victor,  and  Radulphus  Ardens.  In  both 
matter  and  manner  they  follow  closely  their  chosen  models.  The  short  extract  here  given 
has  been  selected  principally  because  of  the  curious  and  amusing  anecdote  of  the  young 
crab  and  the  old,  which  is  its  sole  touch  of  freshness  or  originality.  Very  noticeable  in 
all  of  these  homilies  is  the  allegorical  interpretation  of  Scripture,  which  was  in  vogue  for 
so  many  centuries;    and,  in  some  of  them,  the  mysticism  which  was  rapidly  developing 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

under  the  influence  of  the  ideals  and  sentiments  of  chivalry.  The  style  is  determined 
largely  by  the  fact  that  they  were  intended  to  be  read  aloud  to  a  congregation.  The 
symbol  //here  and  in  other  early  texts  is  to  be  pronounced  like  French  ii,  German  u,  or, 
less  accurately,  hke  Latin  i. 

The  Ancren  Riwle  (p.  2),  as  its  name  indicates,  is  a  treatise  for  the  guidance  and 
instruction  of  some  nuns.  We  learn  from  the  book  itself  that  it  was  written,  at  their 
special  request,  for  three  young  ladies  of  gentle  birth,  —  "daughters  of  one  father  and  one 
mother,"  who  had  forsaken  the  world  for  the  life  of  religious  contemplation  and  medi- 
tation. There  has  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  author,  but  he  is  generally  believed 
to  have  been  Richard  Poore,  or  Le  Poor,  bishop  successively  of  Chichester,  Salisbury,  and 
Durham,  who  was  born  at  Tarrent,  where  these  nuns  probably  had  their  retreat,  and 
whose  heart  was  buried  there  after  his  death  in  1237.  At  any  rate,  the  author  was  evi- 
dently a  man  in  whom  learning  and  no  little  knowledge  of  the  world  were  combined  with 
a  singularly  sweet  simplicity,  which  has  often  been  taken  for  naivete.  His  learning 
appears  abundantly  from  his  familiarity  with  the  writings  of  the  great  Church  Fathers 
and  the  classical  Latin  authors  who  were  known  in  his  day;  his  knowledge  of  the  world 
appears  partly  in  his  sagacious  counsels  as  to  the  more  serious  temptations  of  a  nun's 
life,  and  partly  in  his  adaptation  of  courtly  romantic  motives  to  spiritual  themes;  while 
the  sweet  simplicity  of  his  character  is  constantly  and  lovably  revealed  in  the  tone  of  all 
that  he  says  —  even  in  its  sly  and  charming  humor  —  and  in  his  solicitude  about  infinite 
petty  details,  which  are  individually  insignificant,  to  be  sure,  but  mean  much  for  the 
delicacy  and  peace  of  life.  Of  the  eight  parts  or  books  into  which  the  work  is  divided 
only  two  are  devoted  to  external,  material  matters,  the  other  six  to  the  inner  life ;  and  this 
proportion  is  a  true  indication  of  the  comparative  values  which  the  good  counselor  sets 
upon  these  things.  The  style,  for  all  the  learning  displayed,  is  simple  and  direct,  with 
few  traces  of  Latin  sentence  structure  or  word  order  —  a  fact  due  perhaps  to  the  nature 
and  destination  of  the  book  no  less  than  to  the  character  of  the  author. 

The  English  Proclamation  of  Henry  III  (p.  4)  has,  of  course,  no  place  in  the 
history  of  literature,  though  it  has  in  the  history  of  prose  style.  As  the  first  royal  procla- 
mation in  the  English  language  after  the  Conquest  its  importance  is  great,  but  may  be 
easily  misunderstood  or  exaggerated.  It  does  not  mark  the  real  beginning  of  the  use  of 
the  English  language  for  such  purposes;  that  did  not  come  until  many  years  later.  It 
was  issued  in  English  as  a  political  measure,  to  secure  for  the  king  support  against  his 
enemies  from  the  large  portion  of  the  commonwealth  who  understood  no  Latin  or  French, 
and  as  such  it  is  an  important  evidence  of  the  power  of  the  English-speaking  people  and 
the  value  of  their  support.  In  view  of  its  peculiar  nature  its  spelling  has  been  retained 
without  modification.  The  only  features  worthy  of  special  notice  are  the  sign  J>,  which 
means  th,  the  sign  3,  which  represents  a  spirant  g  that  has  become  in  modern  English 
either  g,  gh,  y,  or  w,  and  the  use  of  v  for  ti  and  u  for  v. 

Richard  Rolle  (p.  5),  the  greatest  of  the  English  mystics,  was  both  a  poet  and  a 
writer  of  Latin  and  English  prose.  His  favorite  theme  of  meditation  was  the  love  of 
Christ,  a  subject  which  so  exalted  him  that  he  heard  in  his  meditations  music  of  unearthly 
sweetness  and  felt  that  he  had  tasted  food  of  heavenly  savor.  It  is  in  the  descriptions 
of  these  mystical  experiences  that  he  is  most  interesting  and  most  poetical,  but  unfortu- 
nately for  us  they  are  written  in  Latin.  His  English  prose  is,  however,  more  remarkable 
than  his  verse.  The  note  of  mysticism  is  unmistakable  in  the  extract  here  given  from 
one  of  his  epistles.  His  importance  in  the  history  of  English  religious  thought  is  very 
great,  especially  in  emphasizing  the  significance  of  the  inner  life  in  contrast  to  the  mere 
externals  of  religious  observance  —  a  tendency  which  we  have  already  noted  in  English 
literature  in  connection  with  The  Ancren  Riwle. 

The  Voiage  and  Travaile  of  Sir  John  Maundevile,  Kt.  (p.  6),  is  one  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

greatest  and  most  successful  literary  impostures  ever  perpetrated.  It  seems  first  to  have 
been  issued  about  137 1  in  French,  from  which  it  was  very  soon  translated  into  Latin, 
English,  and  many  other  languages.  Its  popularity  was  enormous,  as  is  attested  by  the 
immense  number  of  Mss.  which  have  come  down  to  us,  and  by  the  frequency  with  which 
it  has  been  reprinted  ever  since  1475,  the  date  of  the  first  printed  edition.  Incredible  as 
are  many  of  the  stories  it  contains,  the  apparent  simplicity  and  candor  of  the  author,  his 
careful  distinction  between  what  he  himself  had  seen  and  what  he  reported  only  on  hear- 
say, his  effort  to  avoid  all  exaggeration  even  in  his  most  absurd  statements,  gained  ready 
belief  for  his  preposterous  fabrications,  and  this  was  confirmed  by  the  fact  that  some  of 
the  statements  which  at  first  seemed  most  incredible  —  such  as  the  roundness  of  the 
earth  —  were  actually  true  and  were  proved  to  be  so  by  the  discoveries  of  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  book  was  really  compiled  from  many  sources,  princi[)ally 
the  travels  of  William  of  Boldensele,  a  German  traveler  of  the  previous  century,  and 
Friar  Odoric  of  Pordenone,  an  Italian  who  visited  Asia  in  1316-1320,  the  Speculum 
Historiale  of  Vincent  of  Beauvais,  a  great  mediaeval  compilation  of  history  and  legend, 
and  Pliny's  Natural  History,  that  great  storehouse  of  the  marvelous.  As  to  the  identity 
of  the  author,  he  is  now  believed  to  have  been  one  Jean  de  Bourgogne,  an  Englishman 
who  fled  from  England  after  the  execution  of  his  lord,  John  baron  de  Mowbray,  in  1322, 
but  it  is  not  certainly  known  whether  Mandeville  or  Bourgogne  was  his  real  name.  Two 
witnesses  of  the  sixteenth  century  record  having  seen  at  Liege  a  tomb  to  the  memory  of 
Dominus  Johannes  de  Mandeville,  on  which  was  an  epitaph  giving  the  date  of  his  death 
as  Nov.  17,  1371,  and  some  verses  declaring  him  to  have  been  the  English  Ulysses.  In 
any  event,  the  book  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  books  of  marvels  ever  written,  and  the 
English  version,  although  a  translation,  is  of  the  highest  importance  for  the  history  of 
English  prose. 

Of  John  Wiclif  (p.  9)  no  account  is  necessary  here.  Whatever  may  have  been  his 
own  part  in  the  translations  of  the  Bible  which  go  under  his  name,  these  translations  are 
of  great  importance  for  the  history  of  English  prose  style.  The  same  selection  (the  fifth 
chapter  of  vSt.  Alatthew)  has  therefore  been  given  from  both  the  earlier  and  the  later  ver- 
sion. The  differences  between  them  are  very  striking  and  instructive.  In  order  to  afford 
opportunity  for  further  study  of  the  gradual  development  of  the  matchless  style  of  the 
Authorized  Version  of  the  English  Bible,  the  same  chapter  is  given  from  Tyndale's  ver- 
sion (p.  34,  below).  Both  the  Authorized  and  the  Revised  versions  are  so  easily  accessible 
that  it  seems  unnecessary  to  print  the  same  chapter  from  them,  but  they  should  not  be 
neglected  in  the  comparison. 

John  de  Trevisa  (p.  11)  translated  into  English  in  1387  the  Polychronicon  of  Ranulph 
Higden,  a  sort  of  universal  history  and  geography  written  about  half  a  century  earlier. 
Higden's  work  is  largely  a  compilation  from  other  authors,  whose  names  he  often  gives,  — 
sometimes  wrongly,  to  be  sure,  —  but  he  added  a  good  deal  from  his  own  personal  knowl- 
edge. Trevisa,  in  his  turn,  made  some  additions  in  his  translation.  The  chapter  here 
given  is  interesting  as  a  specimen  of  fourteenth-century  English  prose,  but  still  more  so 
for  the  glimpses  it  affords  as  to  the  state  of  the  language  in  the  time  of  Higden  and  the 
changes  that  took  place  between  then  and  the  time  when  Trevisa  wrote. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  (p.  12)  is  also  too  well  known  to  require  an  additional  note.  It 
may,  however,  be  remarked  that  the  simplicity  of  the  Prologue  to  the  Astrolabe  and  the  skill 
shown  in  the  translation  of  BoetJiius  indicate  that,  had  prose  been  regarded  as  a  proper 
medium  for  literary  art  in  his  day,  Chaucer  could  have  told  his  tales  in  a  prose  as  simple, 
as  musical,  and  as  flexible  as  his  verse,  for  he  obviously  could  have  wrought  out  such  a 
prose  had  there  been  the  incentive  to  do  so. 

The  Repressor  of  Over  Much  Blaming  of  the  Clergy  (p.  16)  is  the  most  im- 
portant monument  of  English  prose  in  the  first  two  thirds  of  the  fifteenth  century.     It  is 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

clear  and  vigorous  in  style,  and  well  organized  and  arranged  as  a  discussion.  It  was 
intended  as  a  defense  of  the  practices  of  the  Church  of  England  against  the  criticisms  of 
the  Lollards,  and  is  distinguished  by  great  ingenuity  and  subtlety.  Its  author,  Reginald 
Pecock,  bishop  successively  of  St.  Asaph  and  Chichester,  was  very  proud  of  his  skill  as 
a  logician  and  delighted  to  undertake  a  difficult  discussion.  In  this  book  he  alienated 
some  of  the  officials  of  the  Church  by  the  arguments  used  to  defend  it,  and  completed  this 
alienation  by  the  publication  of  heretical  doctrines,  such  as  his  denial  of  the  authenticity 
of  the  Apostles'  Creed.  He  was  seized  and  compelled  to  recant  his  opinions  and  to  see 
his  books  burnt  as  heretical.     He  died  a  disappointed  and  broken  man. 

The  Morte  Darthiir  of  Sir  Thomas  Malory  (p.  i8)  has  long  been  famous,  not  only 
as  the  source  of  most  of  the  modern  poems  about  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights,  but  also 
as  one  of  the  most  interesting  books  in  any  language.  It  has  recently  been  shown  by 
Professor  Kiltredge  that  Sir  Thomas  was  not,  as  some  have  supposed,  a  priest,  but,  as  the 
colophon  of  his  book  tells  us,  a  soldier,  with  just  such  a  career  as  one  would  wish  for  the 
compiler  of  such  a  volume.  He  was  attached  to  the  train  of  the  famous  Richard  Beau- 
champ,  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  perhaps  was  brought  up  in  his  service.  As  Professor  Kit- 
tredge  says,  "  No  better  school  for  the  future  author  of  the  Morte  Darthiir  can  be  imagined 
than  a  personal  acquaintance  with  that  Englishman  whom  all  Europe  recognized  as  em- 
bodying the  knightly  ideal  of  the  age."  The  Emperor  Si^jismund,  we  are  informed  on 
excellent  authority,  said  to  Henry  V,  "that  no  prince  Cristen  for  wisdom,  norture,  and 
manhode,  hadde  such  another  knyght  as  he  had  of  therle  Warrewyk;  addyng  therto  that 
if  al  curtesye  were  lost,  yet  myght  hit  be  founde  ageyn  in  hym ;  and  so  ever  after  by  the 
emperours  auctorite  he  was  called  the  'Fadre  of  Curteisy.'"  Sir  Thomas  derived  his 
materials  from  old  romances,  principally  in  French,  which  he  attempted  to  condense  and 
reduce  to  order.  His  style,  though  it  may  have  been  affected  to  some  extent  by  his  originals, 
is  essentially  his  own.  Its  most  striking  excellence  is  its  diction,  which  is  invariably 
picturesque  and  fresh,  and  this  undoubtedly  must  be  ascribed  to  him.  The  syntax, 
though  sometimes  faulty,  has  almost  always  a  certain  naive  charm.  On  the  whole,  re- 
garding both  matter  and  manner,  one  can  hardly  refuse  assent  to  Caxton  when  he  says, 
"But  thystorye  {i.e.  the  history)  of  the  sayd  Arthur  is  so  gloryous  and  shynyng,  that  he  is 
stalled  in  the  fyrst  place  of  the  moost  noble,  beste,  and  worthyest  of  the  Cristen  men." 

William  Caxton  (p.  21)  of  course  rendered  his  greatest  services  to  English  literature 
as  a  printer  and  publisher,  but  the  charming  garrulity  of  his  prefaces,  as  well  as  their 
intrinsic  interest,  richly  entitles  him  to  be  represented  here.  The  passage  chosen  is,  in 
its  way,  a  classic  in  the  history  of  the  English  language.  I  have  tried  to  make  it  easier 
to  read  by  breaking  up  into  shorter  lengths  his  rambling  statements,  —  they  can  hardly 
be  called  sentences,  —  but  I  somewhat  fear  that,  in  so  doing,  a  part,  at  least,  of  their 
quaint  charm  may  have  been  sacrificed. 

The  Cronycle  of  Syr  John  Froissart  (p.  22),  written  in  French  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  is  as  charming  in  manner  and  almost  as  romantic  in  material  as  Le  Morte  Darthiir 
itself.  Sir  John  was  intimately  acquainted  with  men  who  were  actors  or  eyewitnesses  of 
nearly  all  the  chivalric  deeds  performed  in  his  day  in  England  and  France,  and  indeed  in 
the  whole  of  western  Europe,  and  his  chronicle  has  all  the  interest  of  a  personal  narrative 
combined  with  the  charm  of  his  shrewd  simplicity  and  his  fine  enthusiasm  for  noble  deeds. 
The  age  in  which  he  lived  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  in  history.  Chivalry  had 
reached  the  height  of  its  splendid  development,  and,  though  doomed  by  the  new  forces 
that  had  come  into  the  world,  —  gunpowder,  cannon,  and  the  growing  importance  of 
commerce,  —  its  ideals  were  cherished  with  perhaps  a  greater  intensity  of  devotion  than 
ever  before.  It  was  the  age  of  Chaucer  and  the  author  of  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight 
in  literature,  and  of  Edward  III  and  the  Black  Prince  with  their  brilliant  train  of  follow- 
ers in  tourney  and  battle.     Froissart  wrote  professedly  "to  the  intent  that  the  honourable 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

and  noble  adventures  of  feats  of  arms,  done  and  achieved  by  the  wars  of  France  and 
England,  should  notably  be  enregistered  and  put  in  perpetual  memory,  whereby  the 
prewe  (noble)  and  hardy  may  have  ensample  to  encourage  them  in  their  well-doing." 
His  accounts  of  events  are  sometimes  colored  by  this  pious  intention,  as  well  as  by  the 
prejudices  of  his  informants;  and  that  is  the  case  with  the  selection  here  given.  It  apjjcars 
from  other  sources  that  the  young  king  did  not  act  as  nobly  and  bravely  at  Mile-end  Green 
as  Froissart  represents  him,  but  no  doubt  his  friends  persuaded  themselves  and  Frois.sart 
that  he  did,  and  it  seemed  a  fine  example  to  record  for  the  encouragement  of  high-spirited 
young  men.  The  interest  and  importance  of  the  passage  may  excuse  its  length ;  it  has 
been  quoted  or  parai)hrased  by  every  historian  who  has  written  about  the  famous  Revolt 
of  1 38 1.  The  style  of  the  translator.  Lord  Berners,  is  admirable  in  its  simple  dignity  and 
its  wonderful  freshness  and  vividness  of  diction. 

Sir  Thomas  More  (p.  29)  is  one  of  the  most  striking  and  charming  figures  in  the 
brilliant  court  of  Henry  VIII,  and  is  known  to  all  students  of  literature  as  the  author  of 
Utopia.  Unfortunately  for  our  purposes  that  interesting  book  was  written  in  Latin  and, 
though  soon  translated  into  English,  cannot  represent  to  us  the  author's  English  style. 
I  have  chosen  a  selection  from  his  Dialogues  rather  than  from  the  History  of  Richard  III, 
partly  because  the  style  seems  to  me  more  touched  with  the  author's  emotion,  and  partly 
because  the  passage  presents  the  attitude  of  the  writer  on  a  question  which  may  interest 
many  modern  readers.  It  is  characteristic  in  its  mixture  of  dignity,  good  sense,  prejudice, 
enlightenment,  spiritual  earnestness,  and  playfulness  of  temf:)er. 

The  Sermon  by  Hugh  Latimer,  an  extract  from  which  is  here  given  (j).  36),  represents 
English  pulpit  oratory  of  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  at  its  very  best.  Latimer 
was  famous  for  his  sound  learning,  his  sturdy  common  sense,  his  pithy  colloquial  style, 
and  his  intellectual  and  s])iritual  fearlessness.  A  very  fair  concei)tion  of  the  man  may  be 
obtained  from  this  sermon  and  Fo.xe's  account  of  his  death  (p.  41,  below). 

Roger  Ascham,  tutor  to  Queen  Elizabeth  and  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  his 
time,  declared  that  he  could  more  easily  have  written  his  Scholemaster  (p.  38)  in  Latin 
than  in  English,  and  no  doubt  he  could ;  but,  fortunately,  other  considerations  than  ease 
induced  him  to  write  in  English.  The  book  is  intensely  interesting,  because  of  the  thor- 
oughly wholesome  attitude  towards  learning,  not  as  of  value  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  a 
means  for  the  cultivation  of  mind  and  si)irit  and  an  aid  toward  the  development  of  the 
perfect  man,  perfect  in  body,  in  mind,  and  in  soul,  in  agility  and  strength,  in  intellectual 
power  and  knowledge,  in  courtesy  and  honor  and  religion,  which  was  the  finest  ideal  of 
the  leaders  of  that  great  intellectual  and  spiritual  awakening  which  we  call  the  Renaissance. 
The  same  attitude  is  displayed  in  his  other  interesting  book,  the  I'oxo phi! us,  which  ii>  also 
well  worth  reading,  especially  by  all  who  care  both  for  learning  and  for  outdoor  sports. 
The  methods  of  training  children  and  of  teaching  Latin  outlined  in  the  Scholemaster  are 
so  humane  and  sane  and  effective,  that  it  is  hard  to  believe  that,  having  once  been  practiced 
or  even  suggested,  they  could  have  been  forgotten  and  neglected,  and  needed  to  be  redis- 
covered within  our  own  time,  —  indeed  have  not  yet  been  discovered  in  their  entirety  by 
all  teachers.  In  spite  of  Ascham's  facility  in  Latin,  his  English  is  simple,  clear,  and  idio- 
matic, and  is  permeated  by  the  attractiveness  of  his  nature. 

Foxe's  Acts  and  Monuments  of  these  latter  and  periUous  Dayes  ([).  41),  better  known 
as  Foxe^s  Book  of  Martyrs,  was  for  many  years  one  of  the  most  ])()pular  books  in  the  I'^ng- 
lish  language  and  was  re])rinted  many  times.  It  is,  of  course,  in  many  respects  a  barba- 
rous book,  the  product  of  an  age  when  scarcely  any  one.  Catholic  or  Protestant,  doubted 
that  cruel  torture  was  a  proper  means  of  inculcating  the  true  faith,  and  death  a  proper 
penalty  for  refusing  to  accept  it.  The  book  long  kept  alive  the  bitter  and  distorted  memo- 
ries of  that  time.  The  style  is  usually  plain  and  a  trifle  stiff,  but  occasionally  rises  to 
eloquence. 


j^,j  INTRODUCTION 


Sir  Philip  Sidney's  famous  book,  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia  (p^  45),  is  too 
leisurely  in  movement  and  too  complicated  in  structure  to  be  well  illustrated  by  a  con- 
X  'selcTon  except  as  to  its  st^l,  but  the  passage  here  P--nted  seems^  b^^^^^^^^^^^ 
than  any  other  of  similar  length  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  story  and  the 

--^U^Z!:]^^^^^:^':^  UsEn^an^^.  57) -yseemto  .me 
teachers  shorter  than  is  warranted  by  Lyly's  reputation  and  h.s  indubitable  service,  to 
En-lish  prose.  But  the  characteristics  of  his  style  are  such  as  can  be  exhibited  in  com- 
panitively  small  compass;  and  its  excessive  ornamentation  soon  becomes  monotonous 
and  unendurable.  Moreover,  it  is  not  by  its  ornamental  but  by  its  structural  teatures 
that  it  rendered  its  services  to  English  prose,  and  the  most  significant  of  these,  as  Pro- 
fessor Morsbach  has  recently  shown,  is  exact  balance  of  accents  in  correlative  phrases 
and  clauses.  This  very  important  feature  can  easily  and  quickly  be  worked  out  by  teacher 
or  pupils ;  and  the  process,  if  applied  to  several  authors,  cannot  fail  to  be  profitable. 

Robert  Greene  (p.  64)  is  fully  discussed  in  all  histories  of  English  Literature.  I  wish 
here  only  to  explain  that  I  have  given  three  selections  from  works  attributed  to  him,  not 
because  I  regard  him  as  more  important  for  the  history  of  English  prose  than  some  others 
less  generously  represented,  but  for  other  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  if  all  three  are  really 
by  Greene,  they  deserve  attention  as  presenting  three  different  styles  and  kinds  of  w-riting; 
in  the  second  place,  at  least  two  of  them  are  of  special  interest  to  historians  of  literature 
and  are  often  quoted  for  the  illustration  of  Elizabethan  life.  I  confess  that,  in  my  opinion, 
the  most  famous  of  the  three,  the  Groat's  Worth  of  Wit,  is,  as  some  of  Greene's  friends 
declared  when  it  was  published  (after  his  death),  not  the  product  of  Greene's  pen,  but 
the  work  of  Henry  Chettle.  Professor  Vetter's  arguments  against  Greene's  authorship  ^ 
seem  to  me  conclusive,  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  add  to  them. 

The  length  of  the  extract  from  Dekker's  Gull's  Hornbook  (p.  89)  will  no  doubt  be 
excused,  even  by  the  student,  for  the  sake  of  its  vivid  picture  of  the  w-ay  in  which  the 
"  young  bloods  "  of  Shakspere's  day  and  those  who  wished  to  be  thought  such  conducted 
themselves.  The  advice  is  of  course  ironical  throughout,  but,  like  many  another  humor- 
ist who  has  poked  fun  at  men  with  a  grave  face,  Dekker  has  been  supposed  by  some 
readers  to  have  written  a  serious  guide  for  frivolous  men. 

Robert  Burton  (p.  97)  will  doubtless  be  little  to  the  taste  of  the  ordinary  modern 
reader,  not  only  because  of  his  love  for  Latin  phrases  and  quotations  with  uncouth  refer- 
ences, but  also  because  of  the  quaint  style  and  fantastic  humor  which  have  endeared  him 
to  so  many  of  the  greatest  lovers  of  literature.  His  book  is,  as  might  be  expected  the 
product  of  an  uneventful  life  of  studious  leisure,  passed  in  the  quiet  shades  of  the  TJni 

Srr^ped^t  ^aXf  p  erir^rte  Z°f:!l\'^"''  -ecdce  from  which  kT^I 
Balzac's  remarkable  s.or^  "  plTZ'l^  t^'l^'j:  ^  rA::;4iTTZX''-  "' 

they  are'lharacteris'rof  the  author  '"^'' '""  "^  '"  "'"'  °^^='^»"^'  ™g"^"ess. 

r.entZ't\tcln?h    '^hf  "T  ","'  '^'™>  '^"""^  "^^^^  '»  ^s  book  on  govern- 

that  a..  error\„d  aU  ^^orantljeXtr^/r^are'LTearSV^d^^^^^^^^^ 

1  Abhandl.  d.  44ten  SammJung  a.  deut.  Schulmanner  (Teubner,  1897). 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

and  his  thoroughgoing  appUcation  of  his  principle  that  "there  is  no  conception  in  a  man's 
mind  which  hath  not,  totally  or  by  parts,  been  begotten  upon  the  organs  of  sense."  His 
own  thought  is  always  clear  and  simple ;  all  that  he  could  see  in  the  world  he  could  under- 
stand, and  all  that  he  could  understand  he  could  express  in  its  entirety.  He  conceived  of 
all  men  (and  of  God)  as  made  in  his  own  image,  differing  from  himself  only  in  that  some  are 
very  foolish  and  none  so  clear  and  consistent  in  reasoning  as  he.  His  style  is  very  charac- 
teristic, clear,  vigorous,  rapid,  and  full  of  phrases  that  stick  in  the  memory. 

Thomas  Fuller  (p.  117)  is  famous  as  antiquary,  biographer,  historian,  pulpit  orator, 
and  wit.  His  wit  —  the  quality  which  has  most  effectively  kept  his  work  alive  for  modern 
lovers  of  literature  —  is  displayed  at  its  best,  not  in  the  limning  of  a  picture  or  the  develop- 
ment of  a  theme,  but  by  flashes,  in  quaint  and  impressive  phrases  or  in  glances  at  unnoted 
aspects  of  a  subject.  It  therefore  does  not  appear  so  strikingly  in  a  continuous  extract  as 
in  such  a  collection  of  brief  paragraphs  as  Charles  Lamb  made  for  the  delectation  of  him- 
self and  spirits  akin  to  his.  The  short  biographical  sketch  of  Sir  Francis  Drake  here 
given  does  not,  indeed,  illustrate  the  versatility  of  his  genius,  but  it  presents  a  good  speci- 
men of  his  sustained  power  as  a  writer  of  English  prose. 

Jeremy  Taylor  (p.  136)  was  a  master  of  elaborate  and  involved  prose  rhythms  and 
as  such  will  always  retain  his  place  in  the  history  of  English  literature.  Whether  his 
fondness  for  themes  of  decay  and  death  was  due  to  a  morbid  liking  for  the  subjects  them- 
selves, or  to  the  value  which  religious  teachers  in  general  at  that  time  attached  to  the 
contemplation  of  physical  corruption,  or  whether  such  themes  offered  a  specially  favor- 
able opportunity  for  lyrical  movements  in  prose  ending  in  minor  cadences,  may  admit  of 
discussion.  Certainly  one  hears  even  in  the  most  soaring  strains  of  his  eloquence  the 
ground  tone  of  the  futility  and  vanity  of  life. 

Sir  William  Temple  (p.  143)  was  not  a  great  writer,  but  his  prose  is  so  good  in  technique 
that  it  may  serve  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  secrets  of  prose  style  had  been  mastered 
and  a  flexible  and  effective  instrument  of  expression  had  been  created  by  the  long  line  of 
writers  who  had  wrought  at  the  problem.  Henceforth,  while  great  writing  was,  as  always, 
possible  only  to  that  special  temperamental  organization  which  we  call  genius,  clear  and 
graceful  prose  was  within  the  scope  of  any  intelligent  man  of  good  taste  and  good  train- 
ing, as  is  distinctly  shown  by  the  high  level  maintained  in  the  eighteenth  century  even  by 
writers  of  mediocre  ability. 

The  Diary  oi  Samuel  Pepys  (p.  168)  is  probably  the  most  honest  and  unsophisticated 
self-revelation  ever  given  to  the  world.  This  is  due  partly  to  the  fact  that  Pepys  did  not 
suppose  that  it  would  ever  be  read  by  any  one  but  himself,  and  partly  to  an  intellectual 
clearness  and  candor  which  enabled  him  to  describe  his  actions  and  feelings  without  self- 
deception.  Other  autobiographies  —  even  the  most  famous  —  have,  without  exception, 
been  written  with  half  an  eye  on  the  public;  either  the  author  has,  consciously  or  half- 
consciously,  posed  to  excite  admiration  for  his  cleverness  or  to  shock  by  his  unconven- 
tionalities,  or  he  has  become  secretive  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  beginning  to  be 
most  interesting.  But  the  reader  would  judge  unjustly  who  estimated  Pepys's  character 
solely  on  the  basis  of  the  diary.  He  was  in  his  own  day  regarded  as  a  model  of  propriety 
and  respectability  and  a  man  of  unusual  business  capacity.  He  may  be  said,  indeed,  with 
Httle  exaggeration,  to  have  created  the  Enghsh  navy;  when  he  became  Secretary  to  the 
Generals  of  the  Fleet,  the  Admiralty  Office  was  practically  without  organization,  before 
the  close  of  his  career  he  had  organized  it  and,  as  a  recent  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  says, 
provided  it  with  "the  principal  rules  and  establishments  in  present  use."  That  he  was 
not  altogether  averse  to  what  we  now  call  "graft,"  is  true;  but  in  an  age  of  universal 
bribery  he  was  a  notably  honest  and  honorable  official,  and  he  never  allowed  his  private 
interests  to  cause  injury  or  loss  to  the  service.  No  document  of  any  sort  gives  us  so  full 
and  varied  and  vivid  an  account  of  the  social  life  and  pursuits  of  the  Restoration  period ; 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

Pepys  is  often  ungrammatical,  but  he  is  never  dull  in  manner  or  unprovided  with  interest- 
ing material.  The  carelessness  of  his  style  is  due  in  no  small  measure  to  the  nature  of 
his  book.  He  wrote  for  his  own  eye  alone,  using  a  system  of  shorthand  which  was  not 
deciphered  until  1825.  That  he  was  a  man  of  cultivation  is  proved  by  the  society  in  which 
he  moved,  by  his  interest  in  music  and  the  drama,  by  the  valuable  library  of  books  and 
prints  which  he  accumulated  and  bequeathed  to  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge,  by  his 
interest  in  the  Royal  Society,  and  by  the  academic  honors  conferred  upon  him  by  the 

universities.  r   1     u  •  u  j 

Shaftesbury's  Characteristics  (p.  197)  is  another  notable  example  of  the  high  develop- 
ment which  English  prose  style  had  obtained  at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
His  philosoi)hy,  like  most  of  the  philosophy  of  the  time,  seems  to  us  of  the  present  day  to 
be  singularly  lacking  in  breadth,  depth,  and  solidity  of  content,  but  there  can  be  no  question 
of  the  clearness  and  grace  of  his  presentation  of  it.  Occasionally,  to  be  sure,  Shaftesbury's 
style  becomes  florid  and  acquires  a  movement  inappropriate  to  prose,  but  such  occasions 
are  rare  and  in  the  main  his  prose  will  bear  comparison  with  the  best  of  its  time. 

In  such  a  volume  as  this  it  is,  of  course,  impossible  to  illustrate  the  work  of  the  novel- 
ists as  novelists;  and  considerations  of  space  have  made  necessary  the  omission  of  all  but 
a  few  of  the  most  notable.  In  some  cases  it  has  been  necessary  to  choose  an  extract  from 
a  novel  in  order  to  present  the  writer  at  his  best ;  but  wherever  it  is  possible  a  selection 
has  been  chosen  with  a  view  to  presenting  the  writer  only  as  a  writer  of  prose,  leaving 
the  more  important  aspect  of  his  work  to  be  presented  in  some  other  way.  Thus  from 
Fielding  chapters  have  been  chosen  which  give  his  theory  of  narrative  art. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  real  basis  for  Macpherson's  so-called  translation  of  the 
Poems  of  Ossian  (p.  275),  the  work- exercised  a  great,  and,  indeed,  almost  immeasurable, 
influence  upon  English  and  other  literatures.  Some  persons  may  be  disposed  to  criticise 
the  inclusion  of  an  extract  from  this  translation  in  this  volume  rather  than  in  the  volume 
of  poetry,  but  the  translation  itself  is  rhythmical  prose,  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  show 
that  it  has  exercised  an  equal  or  even  greater  influence  upon  prose  than  upon  poetry. 
The  question  as  to  Macpherson's  responsibility  for  the  poems  will  probably  never  be 
entirely  resolved.  Celtic  poems  bearing  considerable  resemblance  to  his  translations 
undoubtedly  existed  in  considerable  number,  but  it  seems  certain  that  his  work  was  in  no 
case  merely  that  of  a  translator. 

The  long  chapter  from  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  is  full  of  the  prejudice  and  injus- 
tice of  the  author  toward  Oliver  Goldsmith,  whose  ideas  were  often  too  advanced  for 
such  stanch  worshipers  of  the  established  order  as  both  Boswell  and  his  master,  John- 
son, were,  and  whose  personal  sensitiveness  made  him,  despite  his  intellectual  independ- 
ence, constantly  the  victim  of  the  great  dictator's  methods  of  argument.  That  this 
chapter  has  had  no  little  influence  in  the  formation  of  false  opinion  about  Goldsmith 
and  even  in  promoting  misunderstanding  of  his  work,  there  can  be  Httle  doubt;  but  it 
illustrates  Boswell's  method  so  well  and  presents  Johnson  so  interestingly  that  I  have  not 
hesitated  to  print  it. 

The  Letters  of  Junius  (p.  292)  produced  in  their  day  a  very  great  sensation,  and 
their  fame  has  been  heightened  by  the  mystery  surrounding  their  authorship.  Many  of 
the  prominent  men  of  the  time  were  accused  of  writing  them  and  not  a  few  either  shyly 
admitted  or  boldly  claimed  the  credit  and  the  infamy.  The  reason  why  the  real  author 
did  not  appear  and  establish  his  claims  was,  as  De  Quincey  long  ago  pointed  out,  that  he 
could  not  assert  his  right  to  the  literary  fame  without  at  the  same  time  convicting  himself 
of  having  made  improper  use  of  his  official  position  under  the  government  to  obtain  the 
information  which  made  his  attacks  so  effective.  Historians  of  English  literature  have 
long  accustomed  us  to  believe  that  these  letters  depended  for  their  success  solely  upon  their 
literary  style,  their  bitterness  of  invective,  and  their  sardonic  irony;  but,  although  they 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

are  remarkable  as  literature,  the  special  feature  which  aroused  the  fears  of  the  govern- 
ment was  the  fact  that  no  state  secret  seemed  safe  from  the  author  and  that  he  might  at 
any  moment  reveal  matters  which  it  was  important  to  keep  unknown.  Recent  researches 
have  made  it  practically  certain  that  Junius  was  Sir  Philip  Francis,  who  was  a  clerk  in 
the  war  office  during  the  period  of  the  publication  of  the  letters. 

If  Francis  Jeffrey  (p.  320)  was  unjust  in  his  reviews  of  Wordsworth,  lovers  of  Words- 
worth —  and  who  is  not  ?  —  have  been  at  least  equally  unjust  in  their  treatment  of  Jeffrey. 
Sentences  have  been  quoted,  often  in  garbled  form  and  always  without  the  context,  to 
illustrate  the  unfairness  and  stupidity  and  poetic  insensibility  of  Jeffrey.  Most  sane 
critics  of  the  present  day  differ  from  Jeffrey  mainly  in  emphasis,  they  recognize  that  Words- 
worth really  had  the  defects  which  Jeffrey  pointed  out,  and  that  they  are  grave.  But  in 
literature  only  the  successes  count,  the  failures  fall  away  and  should  be  forgotten.  The 
selection  here  printed  presents  Jeffrey  in  his  most  truculent  mood;  another  selection,  the 
review  of  the  Excursion,  was  planned  for  this  volume,  but  the  limitation  of  our  space 
necessitated  its  omission. 

Leigh  Hunt  (p.  354)  hardly  deserves  to  be  retained  in  a  book  from  which  it  has 
been  necessary,  on  account  of  lack  of  space,  to  exclude  so  many  of  his  betters,  but  the 
interest  of  comparing  his  version  of  the  Daughter  of  Hippocrates  with  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville's  prose  (p.  6)  and  William  Morris's  poem  (English  Poetry,  p.  551)  was  too  great  for 
my  powers  of  resistance.  Mandeville's  version  is  a  masterpiece  of  simple  vivid  narration, 
Morris's  a  wonder  of  visualized  color  and  form  and  action,  while  Hunt's  is  a  bit  of  clever 
but  feeble  prettiness,  the  work  of  a  man  totally  deficient  in  distinction  and  power.  These 
versions  may  help  the  student  to  understand  when  borrowing  is  not  plagiarism  —  a  task 
,  apparently  too  difficult  for  many  who  are  sincerely  interested  in  the  problem. 

The  long  selection  from  Macaulay's  famous  chapter  on  the  state  of  England  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution  of  1688  (p.  382)  is  of  course  out  of  proportion  to  his  importance 
among  writers  of  English  prose ;  but  teachers  who  are  tired  of  reading  over  and  over  again 
his  biographical  sketches  will  doubtless  welcome  it  as  a  change,  and  both  teachers  and 
pupils  will  surely  find  it  valuable  for  the  vivid  picture  it  gives  of  the  physical  and  social 
background  against  which  so  large  a  part  of  English  literature  must  be  seen  if  it  is  to  be 
seen  truly.     Moreover,  in  style  it  presents  Macaulay  at  his  best. 

The  title  Mabinogion  (p.  521)  was  given  by  Lady  Charlotte  Guest  to  the  Welsh 
tales  which  she  translated  from  the  Red  Book  of  Hergest,  a  collection  of  bardic  materials. 
The  Red  Book  was  apparently  written  in  the  fourteenth  century,  but  all  of  the  stories 
probably  took  their  present  form  earlier,  and  some  of  them  are,  in  some  form,  of  great 
antiquity.  The  term  Mabinogion,  though  it  has  been  generally  accepted,  does  not  properly 
include  the  tale  here  given.  A  young  man  who  aspired  to  become  a  bard  was  called  a 
Mabinog  and  was  expected  to  learn  from  his  master  certain  traditional  lore  called  Mabi- 
nogi.  Four  of  the  tales  included  in  the  Red  Book  are  called  "branches  of  the  Mabinogi." 
Lady  Charlotte  Guest  treated  Mabinogi  as  a  singular,  meaning  a  traditional  Welsh  tale, 
and  from  it  formed  the  plural  Mabinogion,  which  has  since  been  widely  used  as  she  used 
it.  Her  translation  was  published  in  1838-1849,  and  has  been  greatly  admired  for  its 
preservation  of  the  simplicity  and  charm  of  the  originals.  The  story  here  printed  is  not 
purely  Welsh,  but  has  been  affected  in  greater  or  less  degree  by  the  form  and  ideas  of 
Arthurian  romance  as  developed  in  France  and  England  under  the  influence  of  chivalry. 


ENGLISH    PROSE 


EARLY    MIDDLE    ENGLISH 


THE    ANGLO-SAXON    CHRONICLE 

(c.  1154) 

A  MONK  OF   PETERBOROUGH 

(From  the  Record  for  1137) 

This  gaere  '  for  ^  the  king  Stephne  ofer  sae  ^ 
to  Normandi,  and  ther  wes  *  underfangen,^ 
forthithat  *  hi '  uuenden  *  that  he  sculde  ^ 
ben  '"  alsuic  "  aise  '^  the  eom  "  wes,  and  for ' 
he  hadde  get  his  tresor;  "  ac  '^  he  to-deld  '*  it 
and  scatered  sotHce.'^  Micel "  hadde  Henri 
king  gadered  gold  and  sylver,  and  na  '^  god  ^^ 
ne  dide  me  ^'  for  his  saule  -^  tharof.^^ 

Tha  ^■*  the  king  Stephne  to  Englalande  com,'^ 
tha  ""^  macod  "  he  his  gadcring  ^*  aet  Oxeneford ; 
and  thar  he  nam  ^*  the  biscop  Roger  of  Sere- 
beri  ^^  and  Alexander  biscop  of  Lincol  and  te  ^' 
Canceler  Roger  his  neves,^^  and  dide  '^  a^lle  in 
prisun  til  hi '  iafen  '^  up  here  ^^  castles.  Tha  ^* 
the  suikes  ^^  undergaeton  "  that  he  milde  man 
was  and  softe  and  god  -*"  and  na  ''  justise  ^*  ne 
dide,  tha  ^*  diden  hi '  alle  wunder.'*  Hi '  had- 
den  him  *°  manred  '*'  maked "  and  athes  *^ 
suoren,^'  ac  '^  hi  nan  ''  treuthe  ne  heolden.** 
Alle  he  '  waeron  *^  forsworen  and  here  ^^  treothes 
■  forloren ;  '^  for  aevric  "  rice  *^  man  his  castles 
makede,**  and  agaenes  ^^  him  heolden,"  and 
fylden  "  the  land  ful  of  castles.  Hi  suencten  " 
suythe  ^*  the  uurecce  ^^  men  of  the  land  mid  ^^ 
castel  weorces."     Tha  '*  the  castles  uuaren^^ 

1  year  ^  went  ^  sea  *  was  ^  received  ^  because 
^  they  *  weened,  thought  ^  should  '"  be  ''  just 
such  '-  as  '^  uncle  '*  treasure  '*  but  '^  dispersed 
•'  foolishly  '^  much  '®  no  ^  good  ^i  anyone  ^  soul 
2^  on  account  of  it  -*  when  ^^  came  ^^  then  ^  made 
2*  assembly  ^^  seized  ^^  Salisbury  ^'  the  ^^  nephews 
{i.e.  the  son  and  nephew  of  Roger  of  Salisbury) 
33  put  34  gave  '^  their  ^'  traitors  ^'  perceived 
^^  justice,  punishment  ^^  gtrange  things,  evils  *°  to 
him  "  homage  ^^  oaths  *^  sworn  *^  kept  ^^  were 
*8  entirely  abandoned  *^  every  ^*  powerful  ^^  fortified 
*°  against  *'  held  ^^  gHe^^i  63  oppressed  ^*  greatly 
**  wretched    ^^  with    ^^  works 


maked,  tha '  fylden  hi  mid  deovles  and  y\'ele  ^ 
men.  Tha  '  namen  ^  hi  tha  *  men  the  *  hi 
wenden  *  that  ani  god  '  hefden,*  bathe  "  be  '" 
nihtes  and  be  daeies,  carlmen  "  and  wimmen, 
and  diden  "  heom  '^  in  prisun  efter  '*  gold  and 
sylver,  and  pined '^  heom  untellendlice"  pining," 
for  ne  uuajren'*  naevre'*  nan  martyrs  swa^"  pined 
alse^'  hi  waeron.  Me"  henged^^  up  bi  the  fet  ^* 
and  smoked  heom  mid  ful "  smoke.  Me 
henged  bi  the  thumbes,  other ''  bi  the  hefed,'' 
and  hengen^^  bryniges^'  on  her'"  fet.  Me 
dide  ^^  cnotted  strenges  ''  abuton  '^  here  '" 
haeved"  and  uurythen '^  to'*  that  it  gaede '* 
to  the  haemes.'"  Hi  dyden  heom  in  quarteme  " 
thar'*  nadres'"  and  snakes  and  pades  "  waeron 
inne,  and  drapen  *'  heom  swa.^"  .  .  . 

I  ne  can  ne  I  ne  mai  *^  tellen  alle  the  wun- 
der*'  ne  alle  the  pines  *^  that  hi  diden  wrecce''* 
men  on  *"  this  land;  and  that  lastede  tha  .xix. 
wintre  "  wile  ■**  Stephne  was  king,  and  aevre  ■" 
it  was  uuerse  *"  and  uuerse. 

From   AN    OLD    ENGLISH    HOMILY 
(before  1200) 

(Unknown  Author) 

Missus  est  Jeremias  in  puteum   et  stetit  ibi 
usque  ad  os,  etc. 

(See  Jeremiah  38  :  6-13) 

Leofemen,''  we  vindeth*^  in  Halie  Boc"  thet 
Jeremie  the  prophete  stod  in  ane^'  piitte  ^^  and 
thet^'  in  the  venne"  up  to  his  muthe;**  and 

1  then  2  evil  ^  seized  *  those  *  who  *  weened, 
thought  ^property  »had  » both  '"by  "men  '^put 
'Hhem  '*  after  (/.e.  to  obtain)  i«  tortured  »«  unspeakable 
lUorture  i«were  i»  never  ^Ogo  2' as  22  one  (i.e.,  they 
■indefinite)  ^3  hanged  '*  feet  ^s  foul  » or  "  head 
28  hung  2»  corselets  (as  weights)  '"  their  »'  cords 
32  about  33  twisted  'Mill  «» went,  penetrated 
36  brains  '7  prison  '*  where  '9  adders  *°  toads 
^1  killed  *2  niay  *'  evils  "  tortures  *"  wretched 
49  in  *^  years  *^  while  *^  ever  *°  worse  *'  beloved 
62  find  "  holy  book  =  the  Bible  "  a  "  pit 
^  that  {emphatic)     "  fen,  mire    '»  mouth 


RICHARD    POORE 


tha '  he  hefede '  ther  ane '  hwile  istonde/ 
tha '  bicom  '  his  licome  '  swithe  *  feble,  and 
me  *  nom  '"  rapes  "  and  caste  in  to  him  for 
to  draghen  ''  hine  '^  ut  of  thisse  piitte.  Ah  '^ 
his  licome  '  wes  se  ''  swithe  *  feble  thet  he  ne 
mihte  noht "  itholie  "  the  herdnesse  '*  of  the 
rapes.  Tha  *  sende  me  *  clathes  '»  ut  of  thes  ^^ 
kinges  huse  for  to  bi-winden  "  the  rapes,  thet 
his  licome,'  the"  feble  wes,  ne  sceolde '^ 
noht  "  wursien.'^  Leofemen,"  theos  ^*  ilke  " 
weord  "  the  "  ic  ^»  habbe  '"  her  i-seid ''  hab- 
beth  muchele^^  bi-tacnunge,"  and  god  ^* 
ha  "  beoth  ^°  to  heren  and  muchele  betere  to 
et-halden."  .  .  . 

Bi  Jeremie  the  prophete  we  aghen  ^'  to 
understonden  Ulcne'*  mon  sunfulle^"  thet  lith 
in  hevie  siinne  and  thurh  sothe  ^'  scrift  ^^  his 
siinbendes  ''^  niile  "  slakien.'"  Funiculi  aniari- 
tiidincs  penetencie  significant.  The  rapes  the  " 
weren  i-cast  to  him  bi-tacneth  ■"  the  herdnesse 
of  scrifte^^;  for  nis  ■"  nan  ^*  of  us  se  "  strong 
the''*  hefde  idon^"  thre  hefed"  siinnen  thet 
his  licome  nere  *^  swithe  feble  er  ^^  he  hefde 
i-dreghen "  thet  '*  scrift  the  ^^  ther-to  bi- 
limpeth.**  Thas  kinges  hus  bi-tacneth  Hali 
Chirche.  Tha  clathes  thet  weren  i-sende  ut  of 
thes  kinges  huse  for  to  binden  the  rapes  mid" 
bi-tacnet  ^'  the  halie  *'  ureisuns  *"  the  "  me  ®^ 
singeth  in  halie  chirche  and  the  halie  sacra- 
mens  the  "  me  ^^  sacreth  "^  in  **  a-lesnesse  ^  of 
alia  siinfulle.  Leofemen,  nu  ye''  habbeth  i-herd 
of  this  piitte  the  bi-tacninge  the  ic  habbe  embe '' 
i-speken  *'  and  the  bi-tacninge  of  the  prophete 
and  thet  °*  the  rapes  bi-tacneth,  and  hwat  "* 
tha  clathes  bi-tacneth  the  ^*  the  rapes  weren 
mide^'  bi-wunden.  I-hereth'°  nuthe"  whiilche" 
thinges  wunieth "'  in  thisse  piitte.  Ther 
wunieth  fower  '*  ciinnes  "  wiirmes  "  inne,''  thet 
for-doth  "  nuthe  ''  al  theos  midelard.'*    Ther 

'  when  ^  had  ^  a  *  stood  *  then  *  became  ^  body 
*very  ^ one^,  t\iey  {indefinite)  '"took  "ropes  '^draw 
"him  '*  but  >*so  '*  not  ''endure  '*  hardness 
»»  cloths  20  the  {gen.  s.)  21  ^ind  about  22  ^.^ich 
^  should  24  grow  worse,  suffer  2*  beloved  2«  these 
2'  same  23  words  29  j  30  ^ave  ^i  gaid,  spoken 
*2much  ^' meaning,  significance  ^*good  ^'they  ^are 
S7  jjggp  38  ought  3»  each  *"  sinful  *'  true  ''2  confes- 
sion, penance  *^  sin-bonds  **  will  not  **  loosen 
*"  signify  "  there  is  not  *»  none  *»  that  *"  done 
*'  head,  chief  *2  ^gj-g  ^ot,  would  not  become  '^  ere, 
before  **  endured,  performed  **  the  ^'  belongs 
"  with  *8  signifies  *»  holy  ^^  orisons,  prayers  •'  that 
•2  one,  they  {indefinite)  «*  celebrate(s)  «*  for  "'  re- 
lease "o  ye  0'  about  "^  spoken  <>9  what  '<>  hear 
^'  now  '2  ^hat  sort  of  "«  dwell  "*  four  '«  kinds 
"  reptiles  ''''  in  {to  he  taken  with  Ther)  ^s  destroy 
^*  world 


wunieth  inne '  faghe^  neddren,^  and  beoreth* 
atter  *  under  heore '  tunge;  blake  tadden,' 
and  habbeth  atter  uppon  heore  heorte ;  yeluwe  ' 
froggen,  and  crabben. 

Crabbe  is  an  manere  °  of  fissce  '"  in  there  " 
sea.  This  fis  '"  is  of  swiilc'^  ciinde"  thet  ever 
se  '*  he  mare  *'  strengtheth  him  to  swimminde 
mid ''  the  watere,  se "  he  mare  swimmeth 
abac."  And  the  aide  crabbe  seide  to  the 
yunge,'*  "  Hwi  ne  swimmest  thu  forth  ward  in 
there  "  sea  alse  '*  other  fisses  doth  ? "  And 
heo  ^^  seide,  "Leofe  "  moder,  swim  thu  foren" 
me  and  tech  me  hu  ^^  ic  seal  ^^  swimmen  forth- 
ward."  And  heo '"  bigon  to  swimmen  forth- 
ward  mid  the  streme,  and  swam  hire  "  ther- 
ayen.^'  Thas  ^'  faghe  neddre  ^  bi-tacneth  this 
faghe  ^  folc  ^^  the^*  wuneth  in  thisse  weorlde, 
[etc.] 

RICHARD   POORE?    (d.  1237) 

From  THE  ANCREN  RIWLE^o 

Speech 

On  alre-erest,'*  hwon  ^^  ye  schulen  ''  to  oure  '* 
parlures  ^'  thiirle,^  iwiteth  ^'  et  '*  ower  ^*  meiden '° 
hwo  hit  "  beo  *'  thet  is  icumen,*^  vor  *^  swiich  ** 
hit  mei  ^  beon  ^'  thet  ye  schulen  *'  aschunien  *^ 
ou ;  *'  and  hwon  ye  alles  "  moten  "  vorth," 
creoiseth  "  ful  yeome  ^*  our  ^*  muth,^  earen, 
and  eien,^  and  te  "  breoste  eke ;  and  goth  *' 
forth  mid  Godes  drede  to  preoste.*'  On  erest '" 
siggeth  "  confiteor^'^  and  ther-efter  henedicite.^ 
Thet "  he  ouh  '*  to  siggen,'"  hercneth  his 
wordes,  and  sitteth  al  stille,  thet,*'  hwon  ^^  he 
parteth  vrom  ou,'^  thet  he  ne  cunne  "*  ower 
god  '"  ne  ower  iivel  '^  nouther;  ne  he  ne  cunne 
ou  nouther  "  blamen  ne  preisen.     Sum  '^  is  so 

'  in  {to  he  taken  with  Ther)  2  spotted  ^  adders 
*  bear  ^  poison  *  their  '  toads  *  yellow  *  kind 
"•  fish  "  the  '2  such  '*  nature  '*  as  "  more 
'*  with  ''so  '*  aback  '^  young  20  gfje  21  (jg^r 
22  before  *^  how  24  shall  2fi  her  {reflexive)  29  against 
it  27  these  28  folk  29  that  ^o  xhe  Nuns'  Rule 
*'  first  of  all  ^2  when  '*  shall  [go]  '*  your 
^*  parlor's  ^  window  *'  know,  learn  **  from 
'*  maid  *"  it  *'  is  *^  come  "  for  **  such  *^  may 
*'  be  *'  shall,  ought  to  **  shun,  avoid  **  you  {re- 
flexive, not  to  be  translated)  *"  by  all  means  or 
necessarily  "  must  [go]  "  forth,  i.e.  out  of  your 
dwelling  "  cross,  i.e.  bless  with  the  sign  of  the  cross 
'*  zealously  *'  mouth  **  eyes  *'  the,  i.e.  your  **  go 
{Imper.)  *9  the  priest  *"  first  "  say  {Imperative, 
as  are  some  of  the  other  verbs  in  -eth)  '2  the  formula 
of  confession  ^a  canticle  or  hymn:  "Bless  ye  the 
Lord!"  "what  *' ought  *  say  "' that,  in  order 
that  ^  you  ^  know   '"  good    "  evil   '2  neither   '^  one 


THE   ANCREN   RIWLE 


wel  ilered  '  other  ^  se  ^  wis-iworded,  thet  heo  * 
wolde  ^  thet  he  '  wiiste  '  hit ;  *  the  '  sit '"  and 
speketh  touward  him,  and  yelt "  him  word 
ayein  ^^  word,  and  bicumeth  meister,'^  the 
schulde  beon  ancre ;  and  leareth  '^  him  thet  is 
icumen  '*  to  leren  '"  hire :  "  wolde  '*  bi  hire 
tale  sone "  beon  mit  -"  te  wise  icud  ^'  and 
icnowen."  Icnowen  heo  ■*  is  wel,  vor  ^'  thurh 
thet  ilke  ^  thet  heo  *  weneth  ^^  to  beon  ^^  wis 
iholden, "  he  understont  ^'  thet  heo  is  sot.^'  Vor 
heo  hunteth  efter  pris,^"  and  keccheth  lastunge.^' 
Vor  et  ^^  te  ^^  laste,  hwon  '*  he  is  iwend  ^  a-wei, 
"Theos^'  ancre,"  he  wiile ''  siggen,^'  "is  of 
muchele  ^'  speche."  Eve  heold  ine  parais " 
longe  tale  •"  mid  '^  te  neddre,"  and  tolde  hire  " 
al  thet  lescun  "  thet  God  hire  hefde  ^^  ilered  ^' 
and  Adam  of  then  "  epple ;  and  so  the  veond  ** 
thurh  hire  word  understod  an-on-riht "  hire 
wocnesse,^*  and  ivond "  wei  touward  hire  of 
hire  vorlorenesse.^"  Ure^'  Lefdi,"  Seinte  Marie, 
diide  *^  al  "  an  other  wise :  ne  tolde  heo  then  ^^ 
engle  ^^  none  tale,  auh  ^"  askede  him  thing 
scheortliche  "  thet  heo  "*  ne  kuthe.^^  Ye,  mine 
leove "  siistren,  voleweth  *'*  Ure  "  Lefdi,  and 
nout ''  the  kakele "'  Eve.  Vor-thi  ^^  ancre, 
hwat-se  "*  heo  beo,"^  alse  ^'  muchel  ^°  ase  heo 
ever  con  ''  and  mei,  holde  hire  '*  stille :  nabbe  '* 
heo  nout  henne  '"  kiinde."  The  hen,  hwon  heo 
haveth "  ileid,  ne  con*'  buten  ^^  kakelen." 
And  hwat  biyit  '■■  heo  ther-of  ?  Kumeth'^  the 
coue'*  anon-nhf"  and  reveth  "  hire  hire  eiren,'* 
and  fret  '*  al  thet  of  hwat  ^^  heo  schulde  vorth- 
bringen  hire  cwike  ''  briddes;  "  and  riht  also  *^ 
the  luthere*"*  coue,  deovel,*^  berth*"  a-wei  vrom 
the  kakelinde  "  ancren  and  vorswoluweth  **  al 
thet  '^  god  "  thet  heo  istreoned  '"  habbeth,"  thet 
schulden  ase°^  briddes  beren  "  ham  *^  up  tou- 

*  taught  ^  or  ^  so  *  she  *  would  ^  i.e.  the 
priest  ^  should  know  'it  ^  who  '"  sits  *^  yields 
**  against,  for  '^  master  '*  teacheth  '*  come  '•  teach 
1^  her  **  she  would  '*soon  *  with  ^^  recognized 
**  known  ^^  for  ^^  very  thing  ^^  thinks,  expects  ^  be 
*^  held  ^*  understands  ^  foolish  ^°  praise  **  blame 
« at  33  the  31  ^vhen  a*  turned  ^a  this  >"  will 
38  g^y  39  much  *"  paradise  *'  talk  ^^  adder,  ser- 
pent *^  lesson  **  had  *'  taught  *8  fiend  ^'  at 
once  **  weakness  *^  found  ^  perdition  *'  Our 
"  Lady  "  did  "  all,  entirely  '^  angel  ^^  but  "'  briefly 
**  knew  *^  dear  ^°  follow  ^^  not  *^  chattering 
*'  therefore  *■*  what-so,  i.e.  whosoever  ^  be,  may 
be  ^^  as  "^  can  **  herself  ^  have  not  (hortative 
Suhj.)  ^0  hen's  ^'  nature  ^^  hath  '^  cackle  '*  ob- 
tains ^*  Cometh  '^  chough  '''  takes  from  '*  eggs 
^^  eats  8"  which  *■  live,  living  *^  young  birds  ^^  so 
^*  wicked  **  the  devil  so  bears  *'  cackling  **  swal- 
lows up  *^  good  ®°  produced  *'  has  *^  as  ^^  bear 
"^  them 


ward  heovene,  yif  hit  nere '  icakeled.  The 
wrecche  peoddare  ^  more  noise  he  maketh  to 
yeien  ^  his  sope ''  then  ^  a  riche  mercer  al  his 
deorewurthe  *  ware.  To  summe  '  gostliche  * 
monne  "  thet  ye  beoth  trusti  uppen,  ase  "*  ye 
muwen  "  beon  of  lUt,'^  god  "  is  thet  ye  asken 
red  '*  and  salve,'^  thet  he  teche  ou  toyeines '" 
fondunges,''  and  ine  schrifte  '*  scheaweth  " 
him,  yif  he  wiile  iheren,^"  ower  ^'  greste  ^^  and 
ower  lodlukeste  ^^  sUnnen,^''  vor-thi-thet  him 
areowe  ou;  ^^  and  thurh  the  bireounesse  ^'  crie 
Crist  inwardliche  "  merci  vor  ou,  and  habbe  ^' 
ou  ine  mijnde  -'  and  in  his  bonen.^"  Sed  iniilti 
vcniunt  ad  vos  in  vcsthnentis  oviimi;  intrin- 
secus  autem  sunt  lupi  ra paces.  "Auh  "  witeth  '^ 
ou,  and  beoth  ^^  iwarre,"  ^*  he  seith,  ure  ^* 
Loverd,  "vor  monie  ^°  cumeth  to  ou  ischrud '' 
mid  lombes  fleose,^*  and  beoth  ^'  wode  ■"•  wulves." 
Worldliche  men  ileveth  ^'  liit;''^  religiuse  yet 
lesse.  Ne  wilnie  *^  ye  nout  to  muchel  hore  " 
kuthlechunge.^^  Eve  withute  drede  spec  ■"  mit 
te  neddre.  Ure  ^*  Lefdi  *''  was  ofdred  **  of 
Gabrieles  speche. 

Ure  deorewurthe '  Lefdi,  Seinte  Marie,  thet 
ouh  ^*  to  alle  vmmmen  beon  vorbisne,^"  was  of 
so  lute  ^"  speche  thet  nouhware  ^'  ine  Holi  Write 
ne  ivinde  "  we  thet  heo  spec  **bute  vor  ^^sithen;^* 
auh  ^'  for  ^^  the  seldspeche  ^*  hire  wordes  weren 
hevie,"  and  hefden  ^*  muche  mihte.  Hire 
vorme  ^'  wordes  thet  we  redeth  of  weren  tho  *" 
heo  onswerede  then*'  engle  Gabriel,  and  theo"^ 
weren  so  mihtie  thet  mid  tet  *^  thet  ^*  heo  seide, 
Ecce  ancilla  Domini;  fiat  mihi  secundum  ver- 

bum  tuum,  et  tisse  '^  worde  Godes  sune 

andsoth'"  God  bicom"  mon;  and  the  Loverd, 
thet  al  the  world  ne  miihte  *'  nout  bivon,*'  bi- 
tiinde'"  him"  withinnen  the  meidenes"  wombe 
Marie.  Hire  othre  '^  wordes  weren  thoa  *"  heo 
com  and  grette  '^  Elizabeth  hire  mowe ;  "  and 
hwat  mihte,  wenest-tu,'*  was  iciid  "  ine  theos  *^ 

'  were  not  ^  peddler  ^  crj^  ■•  soap  *  than  ^  precious 
^  some  *  spiritual  ^  man  '"  as  "  may  '^  few  '^  good 
1*  counsel  '^  remedy  ^^  against  '^ temptations  '*  confes- 
sion *8  show  ^  hear  ^^  your  ^  greatest  ^^  most  hateful 
^*  sins  2*  in  order  that  he  may  pity  you  (areowe  is 
impersonal)  ^  pity  ^  sincerely  ^  have  ^*  mind, 
memory  *"  prayers  ^^  but  '^  guard  ^^  be  ^*  cautious 
36  Quj.  38  many  ^  clothed  ^  fleece  ^^  are  *°  wild 
*'  believe  (Imperative)  *^  little  "  desire  **  their 
^*  acquaintance  ^*  spoke  *'  Lady  **  afraid  *'  ought 
^  example  *'  nowhere  *^  find  "  four  "  times 
^*  because  of  *^  seldom-speaking  '^  weighty  "^  had 
59  grst  e"  when  »'  the  6^  these  «» that  ^  which 
**  at  this  *'  true  '^  became  **  might  ^^  encompass 
'°  enclosed  ''  himself  "^  maiden's  "^  second  "*  greeted 
'5  kinswoman  '^  thinkcst   thou  ""  manifested 


RICHARD    POORE 


wordcs?  Hwat,'  thct  a  child  bigon  vor  to 
plcicn  ^  toyeines  ^  ham  *  —  thet  was  Sein 
Johan  —  in  his  moder  wombe !  The  thridde 
time  thet  heo  spec,*  thet  was  et  te  neoces,' 
and  ther,  thurh  hire  bone,'  was  water  iwend  * 
to  wine.  The  veorthe  time  was  thoa*  heo 
hefde'"  imist "  hire  sune,'^  and  eft"  hine  " 
ivond.'*  And  hu  muchel  wunder  voluwede*'* 
theos  wordes !  Thet  God  almihti  beih  "  him  '^ 
to  one  •'  monne,-"  to  one  "  smithe,  and  to  ane  " 
wummone,^'  and  foluwude  "  ham,*  ase  "  hore,^^ 
hwiider-so^'  heo  ^*  ever  wolden.^"  Nimeth  " 
nu  ^*  her  '"  yeme,^"  and  leorneth  yeorne  ^'  her-bi 
hu  '^  seldcene  ^^  speche  haveth  muche  strencthe. 

Nuns  May  Keep  No  Beast  but  a  Cat 

Ye,  mine  leove  '■'  siistren,^*  ne  schulen  ^'  hab- 
ben"  no  best,38  bute  j^^t  one.^'  Ancre  ""  thet 
haveth  eihte  "  thuncheth  *^  bet  *^  husewif,^*  ase 
Marthe  was,  then  ancre;"  ne  none-weis  **  ne 
mei  heo  *^  beon  *"  Marie  mid  grithfulnesse  **  of 
heorte.  Vor  theonne  ■"•  mot '"  heo  thenchen  " 
of  the  kues  "  foddre,  and  of  heordemonne  *^ 
huire,"  oluhnen  "  thene  *"  heiward,"  warien  *' 
hwon  *'  me  '"  piint  "  hire,  and  yelden,"^  thauh,"^ 
the  hermes.''*  Wat"*  Crist,  this  is  lodHch "» 
thing  hwon  *'  me  *"  maketh  mone  "  in  tune  "^ 
of  ancre"'  eihte.^  Thauh,*'^  yif '»  eni  mot*" 
nede  habben  "  ku,  loke  "  thet  heo  *^  none 
monne  ne  eilie,"  ne  ne  hermie;  '*  ne  thet  hire 
thouht  ne  beo  "  nout  ther-on  ivestned.'"  Ancre 
ne  ouh"  nout  to  habben"  no  thing  thet  drawe'* 
utward  hire  heorte.  None  cheffare  '*  ne  drive 
ye.  Ancre  thet  is  cheapild,*"  heo  cheapeth  ^' 
hire  soule  the  chepmon  *^  of  helle.  Ne  wite  *^ 
ye  nout  in  oure  **  huse  **  of  other  monnes 
thinges,  ne  eihte,""  ne  clothes;  ne  nout  ne 
under\'o'°  ye  the  chirche  vestimenz,  ne  thene  " 

•  behold  *  play  ^  against,  at  the  sound  of 

*  them  *  spoke   ^  marriage  '  prayer,  request  *  turned 

•  when  '"  had  "  missed  '^  son  '^  again  ^*  him  '*  found 
"followed  •'bowed,  humbled  '*  himself  '^  a 
*°  man  ^'  woman  ^^  as  ^^  theirs  ^*  whitherso 
**  they  ^*  would  ^'  take  {Imperative)  ^^  now  ^^  here 
'"  heed  ^^  well  '^  how  ^*  rare  '*  dear  ^^  sisters 
**  shall  ''  have  **  beast  *^  only  ^^  a  nun  *'  property 
^  seems  *^  rather  **  housewife  **  no-ways  "  she 
*'  be  **  peacefulness  **  then  *^  must  *'  think 
•*  cow's  *^  herdsmen's  **  hire  5'  flatter  ^  the 
•'  heyward,  bailiff  **  curse  **  when  **  one 
•'  impounds  *2  p^y  63  nevertheless  <"*  damages 
•*  knows  ^  hateful  «'  complaint  «*  town,  farm 
•0  a  nun's  '"  if  '»  have  "  look  "  disturb 
''*  harm  '*  be  '^  fastened  '^  ought  ^*  may  draw 
^*  bargain  *"  bargainer  *'  sells  ^^  tradesman 
^  keep,  take  care  of  ®*  your  **  house  *•  receive  *'  the 


caliz,'  bute-yif  ^  strencthe  '  hit  makie,^  other  ^ 
muchel  eie;  "  vor  of  swiiche'  witunge'  is  iku- 
men'  muchel  iivel  "  ofte-sithen." 

ENGLISH   PROCLAMATION  OF 
HENRY   III    (1258) 

Henr',  |>ur3  '^  godes  fultume  '^  king  on  ** 
Engleneloande,  Lhoauerd  on  Yrloand',  Duk 
on  Norm',  on  Aquitain',  and  eorl  on  Aniow, 
Send  '*  igretinge  '"  to  alle  hise  holde,"  ilaerde  '^ 
and  ileawede  '*  on  Huntendon'schir'.  t>aet  '" 
witen^'  36  "  wel  alle,  Jiaet  we  willen  and  vnnen  ^^ 
]>s£t  baet  "  vre  ^*  rasdesmen  ^"  alle,  ober  *  J)e  " 
moare  ^*  dtel  ^°  of  heom  ^^  Jjaet  beo)>  ^'  ichosen 
>ur3  '^  vs  and  burs  J>aet  ^'  loandes  ^^  folk  on 
vre  kuneriche,^^  habbej>  ^*  idon  '*  and  schullen  ^* 
don  "  in  ^e  worjmesse  ^'  of  gode  ^'  and  on  vre 
treowl>e  ■*"  for  l>e  freme  "  of  l>e  loande  )?ur3  be 
besiste  *-  of  ban  "  to-foreniseide  *^  redesmen,^' 
beo  stedefaest  and  ilestinde  **  in  alle  binge 
a"**  buten*"  aende.*'  And  we  hoaten^*  alle  vre 
treowe,"  in  '^  be  treowbe  *"  bast  heo*"  us  osen,*' 
baet  heo  stedefaestliche  healden*^  and  sweren 
to  healden  and  to  werien  "  bo  "  isetnesses  " 
baet  beon  ^'  imakede  and  beon  to  makien  ** 
bur3  '^  ban  "  to-foren-iseide  *^  raedesmen  ober  * 
burs  be  moare  ^*  dasl  ^*  of  heom,^"  alswo  ^* 
alse  "  hit  **  is  biforen  iseid.**  And  baet  aehc  "" 
ober  *'  helpe  baet  for  to  done  "  bi  ban  "  ilche  *' 
obe  *^  a3enes "  alle  men  Ri3t  for  to  done " 
and  to  foangen."*  And  noan  ""  ne  nime  *'  of 
loande  ne  "*  of  este  **  wherburs  bis  besiste  *^ 
muse  '"  beon  ilet  "  ober  iwersed  "  on  onie  " 
wise.  And  sif  ''*  oni  "  ober  *  onie  "  cumen 
her-onsenes,"  we  willen  and  hoaten  *^  baet  alle 
vre  treowe  *^  heom  healden  deadliche  ifoan.'* 
And  for  baet  we  willen  baet  bis  beo  stedefaest 
and    lestinde,**  we   sended "    sew*"   bis    writ 

•  chalice  ^  unless  '  strength,  necessity 

*  make,  cause  'or  ^  fear  '  such  *  guarding 
»  come  1"  evil  "  oft-times  ^^  by  13  aid  i«  in 
•*  sends  ^^  greeting  *'  faithful         '*  learned 

»9  unlearned  20  that  ^i  ^now  22  yg  23  gr^nt 
24  what  26  our  2'  counselors  27  the  28  greater 
29  part  30  them  ^i  are  *2  land's  ^^  kingdom  ^*  have 
35  done  36  shall  «'  do  *»  honor  »9  God  *"  loyalty 
*'  benefit  *2  provision  **  aforesaid  **  lasting  "  ever 
«  without  "  end  ^^  command  **  loyal  ""  they  *'  owe 
*2  hold  '3  defend  "  laws  *'  to  make,  to  be  made 
"just  "as  *3  it  s'said  •"each  •' the  other  ^2  game 
•3  oath  **  towards  •*  receive  ^  none  •^  take  (jwfc;.  of 
command)  "*  nor  ^9  property  ''*'  may  ^*  hindered 
'2  injured  '^  any  '*  if  '»  any  one  '"  any  (/>/.)  '''here 
against,  i.e.  against  this  proclamation  '^  foes  "  send 
so  you 


EPISTLE    III 


open,  iseined  '  wib  vie  seel  to  halden  ^  amanges 
sew  ine  hord.'  Witnesse  vs-seluen  *  aet 
Lunden'  bane^  Estetenhe "  day  on  \>e  Monk 
of  Octobr'  In  k  Two  and  fowertisk'  seare 
of  vre  cruninge." 


RICHARD    ROLLE    (i290?-i349) 

From  EPISTLE   III 

THE  COMMANDMENT  OF  LOVE   TO    GOD 

The  lufe    of    Jhesu    Criste    es »    ful    dere '» 
tresure,  ful  delytabyl ''  joy,  and  ful  syker  '^  to 
trayst"*'  man  on.     For-thi,'^  he  wil  not  gyf  it  to 
folys,'*  that  kan  noght  hald '°   it  and  kepe  it 
tenderly;   hot"   tir^   thaim   he   gese '"  it    the 
whilk  ^^  nowther  ^'  for  wele  ne  for  wa  "  wil  lat  ^^ 
it  passe  fra  tham,  hot  are"   thai  wil  dye  or" 
thai  wolde  wrath  Jhesu  Criste.     And  na  ^^  wyse 
man  dose  "  precyous  lycor  in  a  stynkand  ves- 
sell,  bot  in  a  clene.     Als  ^^  Criste  dose  "  noght 
his  lufe  in  a  foule  hert  in  syn  and  bownden  in 
vile  lust  of  flesche,  bot  in  a  hert  that  es  fayre 
and  clene  in  vertues.     Noght-for-thi,^"  a  fowle 
vessel  may   be  made   sa  clene  that  a  ful  dere 
thyng  savely  ^°  may  be  done  ''  tharin.^^     And 
Jhesu  Criste  oft-sythes  '^  purges   many  synfuU 
mans  sawle  '^  and  makes  it  abyl  ^^  thurgh  his 
grace  to  receyve  the  delitabel  "    swetnes  of  hys 
luf,  and  to  be  his  wonnyng-stede  ^^  in   halynes ;  " 
and  ay  '*  the  clennar  it  waxes,  the   mare  ^*  joy 
and  solace  of  heven  Criste  settes  thar-in.      For- 
thi,"  at  the  fyrst  tyme  when  a  man  es  '  turned 
to  God,  he  may  not  fele  ^  that  swete  lycor  til 
he  have    bene   wele   used  in   Goddes  servys  ■*' 
and  his  hert  be  purged  thorow  *^   prayers  and 
penance  and  gode  thoghtes  in  God.      For  he 
that  es  slaw  *^  in  Goddes  servyce  may  noght  be 
bymand  "  in  lufe,  bot-if  *^  he  do  al  his  myght 
and  travell  *"'  nyght  and  day  to  fulfill   Goddes 
will.     And  when  that  blyssed  lufe  es  in  a  mans 
hert,  it  will  not  suffer  hym  be  ydel,"  bot  ay  it 
stirres  hym   to   do  som  gode   that    myght    be 
lykand  ""^  til  God,  as  in  praying,  or  in  wirkyng 

'  signed  ^  hold  '  safe-keeping  *  ourselves  *  the 
•  eighteenth  ^  fortieth  *  crowning  ^  is  '"  precious 
"  delightful  '2  secure  ''  trust  '*  therefore  '*  fools 
'"  hold  ^'  but  '*  to  '*  gives  ^^  which  ^*  neither 
^  woe  ^^  let  ^^  sooner  2*  ere  *  no  ^  puts  **  so 
^'nevertheless  ^"safely  "put  '^therein  ^^ oft-times 
'*  soul  ^^  able  ^  dwelling-place  ^^  holiness  '*  ever 
*'  more  *"  feel  *'  service  *^  through  *^  slow 
**  burning        *^  unless    *^  labor      *'  idle       **  pleasing 


profitabel  thynges,  or  in  spekyng  of  Cristes 
passyon;'  and  principally  in  thoght,  that  the 
mynde  ^  of  Jhesu  Criste  passe  noght  fra  his 
thoght.  For  if  thou  lufe  hym  trewly,  thou 
wil  '■'  glad  the"  in  hym  and  noght  in  other 
thyng ;  and  thou  wil  thynk  on  hym,  kastand  ■* 
away  al  other  thoghtes.  Bot  if  thou  be 
fals,  and  take  other  than  hym,  and  delyte 
the  in  erthly  thyng  aga>Ties  his  wille,  wit* 
thou  wele  he  will  forsake  the  *  as  thou 
base  '  done  hyme,  and  dampne  the  for  thi 
synne. 

Wharfore,  that  thou  may  lufe  hym  trewly, 
understand    that   his   lufe   es   proved   in    thre 
thynges;   in  thj-nkyng,  in  spekyng,  in  wirkyng. 
Chaunge  thi  thoght  fra  the  worlde,  and  kast  it 
haly  ^   on    hym,    and    he    sail    norysche    the.' 
Chaunge  thi  mowth  fra  unnayte  '  and  warldes  '" 
speche,  and  speke  of  hym,  and  he  sail ''  corn- 
forth  '2    the.     Chaunge    thi     hend  '^    fra    the 
warkes  "  of  vanitese,  and  lyft  tham  **  in   his 
name,  and  wyrke  anly  '°  for  hys  lufe,  and  he 
sail  "  receyve  the.     Do  thus,  and  than  lufes  " 
thou  trewly  and  gase  '*  in  the  way  of  perfitenes. 
Delyte  the  sa '"  in  hym  that  thi  hert  receyve 
nowther-"  worldes  joy  ne  worldes  sorow,  and 
drede  no  anguys  ^^  ne  noy  "  that  may  befalle 
bodyly  on  the*  or  on  any  of  thi  frendes;    bot 
betake  ^^  all  in-til  Goddes  will  and  thank  hym 
ay  of  all  hys  sandes,"  swa'*  that  thou  may  have 
rest  and  savowre  in  hys  lufe.     For  if  thi  hert 
owther  "  be  ledde  with  worldes  drede  or  worldes 
solace,  thou  ert  ^^  full  fer"  fra  the  swetnes  of 
Cristes    lufe.  .  .  .     Wasche    thi    thoght    clene 
wyth   lufe-teres^*   and  brennand-'    yernyng,^" 
that  he  fynd  na ''  thyng  fowle  in  the,  for  his 
joy  es  that  thou  be  fayre  and  lufsom  ^^  in  his 
eghen.'^     Fayrehede  ^*   of   thi   sawle,    that   he 
covaytes,  es  that  thou  be  chaste  and  meke, 
mylde  and   sufferand,  never   irk  ^'   to   do   his 
wille,   ay  hatand  all  wykkednes.     In  al  that 
thou  dose,'"  thynk  ay  to  com  to  the  syght  of 
his    fairehede,'*    and    sett    al    thine    entent " 
thar-in,  that  thou  may  com  thar-til  '*  at  thine 
endyng;    for  that  aght '"  to  be  the  ende  of  al 
oure  traveyle,  that  we  evermare,  whils  we  lyve 
here,  desyre  that  syght,  in  all  oure  hert,   and 

»  passion,  suffering  2  memory  '  wilt  *  casting 
*know  6  thee  'hast  » wholly  'vain  '"world's, 
worldly  "shall  '^  comfort  '^  hands  »*  works  ">them 
18  only  "lovest  "Sgoest  ''so  20  neither 
2'  anguish  ^2  annoy,  injury  "  commit  ^i  sendings, 
dispensations  2s  either  ^a  art  27  f^r  2*  love-tears 
29  burning  3"  yearning,  desire  2'  no  ^2  lovable 
83  eves  '*  fairness  «*  weary  *«  dost  *'  intent 
»8  thereto      "  ought 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 


that  we  th>Tik  ay  lang  thar-till.'  Als  sa  ^ 
fasten  '  in  thi  hert  the  mynd  ■*  of  his  passyon 
and  of  his  woundes:  grete  del)1;e  and  swetnes 
sal  thou  fele  if  thou  halde  thi  thoght  in  mynde  * 
of  the  pyne  ^  that  Cryst  sufferd  for  the.  .  .  . 
I  wate  *  na  thyng  that  swa '  inwardly  sal  take 
thi  hert  to  covayte  Goddes  lufe  and  to  desyre 
the  joy  of  heven  and  to  despyse  the  vanitees 
of  this  worlde,  as  stedfast  thynkyng  of  the 
myscheves  and  grevous  woundes  and  of  the 
dede  *  of  Jhesu  Criste.  It  wil  rayse  thi 
thoght  aboven  erthly  lykyng,*  and  make 
thi  hert  brennand '"  in  Cristes  lufe,  and 
purches  in  thi  sawle  delitabelte  "  and  savoure 
of  heven. 

Bot  per-aunter'^  thou  will  say:  "I  may 
noght  despyse  the  worlde,  I  may  not  fynd  it  in 
my  hert  to  pyne  ^  my  body,  and  me  behoves  " 
lufe  my  fleschly  frendes  and  take  ese  when  it 
comes."  If  thou  be  temped'*  with  swilk '* 
thoghtes,  I  pray  the  that  thou  umbethynk  " 
the,"  fra  the  begynnyng  of  this  worlde,  whare  '^ 
the  worldes  lovers  er ''  now,  and  whare  the 
lovers  er  of  God.  Certes  thai  war  ^^  men  and 
wymen  as  we  er,  and  ete  and  drank  and  logh;  ^' 
and  the  wreches  that  lofed  "  this  worlde  toke 
ese  til "  thair  body  and  lyved  as  tham  lyst," 
in  likjTig  of  thair  wikked  will,  and  led  thair 
dayes  in  lust  and  delyces;^^  and  in  a  poynt  ^* 
thai  fel  intil  hell.  Now  may  thou  see  that  thai 
wer^"  foles  and  fowle  glotons,  that  in  a  few 
yeres"  wasted  endles  joy  that  was  ordand  ^^ 
for  tham  if  thai  walde  ^^  have  done  penance  for 
thair  synnes.  Thou  sese  3»  that  al  the  ryches 
of  this  world  and  delytes  vanys  "  away  and 
commes  til  noght.  Sothely,^^  swa  dose''  al 
the  lofers  ^'  thar-of ;  for  nathyng  may  stande 
stabely  on  a  fals  gronde.  Thair  bodys  er  gyn  ^^ 
til  wormes  in  erth,  and  thair  sawles  til  the  devels 
of  hell.  Bot  all  that  forsoke  the  pompe  and 
the  vanite  of  this  lyfe  and  stode  stalworthly  '» 
agaynes  all  temptacions  and  ended  in  the  lufe 
of  God,  thai  ar  now  in  joy  and  hase  "  the 
erytage  '«  of  heven,  thar  to  won  '»  with-owten 
end,  restand "  in  the  delyces "  of  Goddes 
syght.  .  .  . 


*  thereto  2  also  '  fasten  *  memory  » torture  « know 
^so  8  death  »  liking,  desire  i"  burning  »  delight 
>2  peradventure  »»  behooves  (impersonal)  "tempted 
"such  >6  consider  ^-i  Reflexive,  not  to  be  translated 
>»  where  "Bare  20  were  21  laughed  22  loved  23  jq 
2*  pleased  (impersonal)  25  pleasures  20  moment 
2^  years  28  ordained  29  would  30  seest  ai  vanish 
*2  truly  33  do  34  lovers  ««  given  ^e  steadfastly  8^  have 
»8  heritage     3»  dwell     "  rgstjng     41  joyg 


SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE?  (d.  1371) 

THE    VOIAGE    AND    TRAVAILE    OF    SIR 
JOHN   MAUNDEVILE,   KT. 

From  CHAP.  IV 

And  from  Ephesim  Men  gon '  throghe  many 
lies  in  the  See,  unto  the  Cytee  of  Paterane, 
where   Seynt   Nicholas  was   bom,   and  so  to 
Martha,  where  he  was  chosen   to  ben  ^  Bis- 
schoppe;    and  there  growethe  right  gode  Wyn 
and   strong;    and   that   Men    callen   Wyn   of 
Martha.     And  from  thens '  gon  Men  to  the 
He  of  Crete,  that  the  Emperour  yaf  *  somtyme  ^ 
to  Janeweys.^    And  thanne  passen  Men  thorghe 
the  Isles  of  Colos  and  of  Lango;  of  theVhiche 
lies  Ypocras  was  Lord  offe.     And  some  Men 
seyn,'  that   in   the   He   of  Lango  is  yit  '  the 
Doughtre  of  Ypocras,  in  forme  and  lykeness 
of  a  gret  bragoun,  that  is  a  hundred  Fadme  * 
of  lengthe,  as  Men  seyn :   For  I  have  not  seen 
hire.     And  thei  of  the  Isles  callen  hire,  Lady 
of  the  Lond."    And  sche  lyethe  in  an  olde 
castelle,  in  a  Cave,  and  schewethe  "  twyes  or 
thryes   in   the   Yeer.       And   sche  dothe  none 
harm    to   no   Man,    but-yif "    Men   don    hire 
harm.   And  sche  was  thus  chaunged  and  trans- 
formed, from  a  fair  Damysele,  in -to  lyknesse 
of   a   Dragoun,    be'^    a   Goddesse,    that   was 
clept  '*  Deane.'*     And    Men  seyn,    that    sche 
schalle  so  endure  in  that  forme  of  a  Dragoun, 
unto  the  tyme  that  a  Knyghte  come,  that   is 
so   hardy,   that   dar   come   to   hire   and    kiss 
hire  on  the  Mouthe:    And  then  schalle  sche 
turne  ayen  '"  to  hire  owne  Kynde,"  and  ben  a 
Woman  ayen:    But  aftre  that  sche  schalle  not 
liven  longe.     And  it  is  not  long  siththen,''  that 
a  Knyghte  of  the  Rodes,  that  was  hardy  and 
doughty  in  Armes,  seyde  that  he  wolde  kyssen 
hire.     And  whan  he  was  upon  his  Coursere, 
and  wente  to  the  Castelle,  and  entred  into  the 
Cave,  the  Dragoun  lifte  up  hire  Hed  ayenst " 
him.     And  whan  the  Knyghte  saw  hire  in  that 
Forme  so  hidous  and  so  horrible,  he  fleyghe  ^^ 
awey.     And  the  Dragoun  bare  "  the  Knyghte 
upon  a  Roche,"  mawgre  his  Hede;^'   and  from 
that  Roche,  sche  caste  him  in -to  the  See:   and 
so  was  lost  bothe  Mors  and  Man.     And  also 
a  yonge^*  Man,  that  wiste  ^^  not  of  the  Dragoun, 

'go  2  be  3  thence  *  gave  *  formerly,  once  upon  a 
time  « the  Genoese  ^  say  « ygt  s  fathom  "<>  land 
"  appears  '2  unless  '^  by  '*  called  '^  Diana  ">  again, 
back  17  nature  "Sgince  "9  against  20  fled  21  bore 
22  rock  23  despite  his  head  (  =  despite  all  he  could  do) 
2*  young    26  knew 


THE    VOIAGE    AND   TRAVAILE    OF    SIR    JOHN    MAUNDEVILE        7 


wente  out  of  a  Schipp,  and  wente  thorghe  the 
He,  til  that  he  come  to  the  Castelle,  and  cam 
in  to  the  Cave;  and  wente  so  longe,  til  that  he 
fond    a    Chambre,    and    there    he    saughe  '    a 
Damysele,    that    kembed  ^    hire    Hede,    and 
lokede  in  a  Myrour ;   and  sche  hadde  meche  ' 
Tresoure  abouten  hire:    and  he  trowed/    that 
sche  hadde  ben  a  comoun  Woman,  that  dwelled 
there    to    receyve    Men    to    Folye.     And    he 
abode,  tille  the  Damysele  saughe  the  Schadewe 
of  him  in  the  Myrour.     And  sche  turned  hire 
toward  him,  and  asked  hym,  what  he  wolde. 
And  he  seyde,  he  wolde  ben    hire  Limman  * 
or   Paramour.     And     sche    asked   him,    yif ' 
that  he  were  a  Knyghte.     And  he  seyde,  nay. 
And  than  sche  seyde,  that  he  myghte  not  ben 
hire    Lemman:^       But    sche    bad    him    gon 
ayen '     unto    his    Felowes,    and    make    him 
Knyghte,  and  come  ayen  upon  the  Morwe,  and 
sche  scholde  come  out  of  the  Cave  before  him ; 
and  thanne  come  and  kysse  hire  an  the  mowthe, 
and  have  no  Drede;    "for  I  schalle  do  the  rio 
maner  harm,  alle  be  it  that  thou  see  me  in 
Lyknesse  of  a  Dragoun.     For  thoughe   thou 
see  me  hidouse  and  horrible  to  loken  onne,  I 
do  *  the  to  wytene,"  that    it    is  made  be  En- 
chauntement.     For  withouten  doute,  I  am  non 
other  than  thou  seest  now,   a  Woman;    and 
therfore    drede    the    noughte.     And    yif    thou 
kysse  me,  thou  schalt  have  alle  this  Tresoure, 
and  be  my  Lord,  and  Lord  also  of  alle  that 
He."     And  he  departed  fro  hire  and  wente  to 
his  Felowes  to  Schippe,  and  leet'"  make  him 
Knyghte,  and  cam  ayen  upon  the  Morwe,  for 
to  kysse  this  Damysele.     And  whan  he  saughe 
hire  comen  "  out  of  the  Cave,  in  forme  of  a 
Dragoun,  so  hidouse  and  so  horrible,  he  hadde 
so  grete  drede,  that  he  fleyghe  '^  ayen  to  the 
Schippe;    and  sche  folewed  him.     And  whan 
sche   saughe,  that   he   turned   not   ayen,  sche 
began  to  crye,  as  a  thing  that  hadde    meche  ' 
Sorwe:    and  thanne  sche  turned  ayen,   in-to 
hire    Cave;     and    anon    the    Knyghte    dyede. 
And      siththen  ''     hidrewards,"    myghte      no 
Knyghte    se    hire,    but    that    he    dyede    anon. 
But   whan    a  Knyghte    comethe,   that    is    so 
hardy  to  kisse  hire,  he  schalle  not  dye;     but 
he    schalle    tume    the     Damysele     in-to   hire 
righte   Forme   and  kyndely  '^  Schapp,    and  he 
schal    be    Lord    of    alle    the    Contreyes   and 
lies  aboveseyd. 

'saw       2  combed  *  much        *  believed,  thought 

« lover           8  if  ^  back            « cause            » know 

10  let         1' come  '^  fled        »« since           "  till  now 
'5  natural 


From  CHAP.  XVII 

Also  yee  have  herd  me  seye  that  Jerusalem 
is  in  the  myddes  '  of  the  World ;   and  that  may 
men  preven  ^  and  schewen  there  be  a  Spere 
that  is  pighte '  in-to  the  Erthe,  upon  the  hour  of 
mydday,  whan  it  is  Equenoxium,  that  schew- 
ethe   no   schadwe   on    no   syde.     And   that   it 
scholde   ben   in   the   myddes ^    of  the  World, 
David  wytnessethe  it  in  the  Psautre,  where  he 
seythe,  Deus   operatus  est   saltitc[nt]  in  medio 
Terre.*    Thanne    thei    that    parten  ^    fro    the 
parties'  of  the  West  for  to  go  toward  Jeru- 
salem, als  many  jomeyes '  as  thei  gon  upward 
for  to  go  thidre,  in  als  many  jomeyes  may  thei 
gon    fro   Jerusalem,   unto    other   Confynes   of 
the  Superficialtie  of  the  Erthe  beyonde.     And 
whan  men  gon  beyonde  tho '  joumeyes  toward 
Ynde  and  to  the  fore>Ti  Yles,  alle  is  envyronynge 
the  roundnesse  of  the  Erthe  and  of  the  See, 
undre  oure  Contrees  on  this  half."       And  ther- 
fore hathe  it  befallen  many  tymes  of  o'"  thing 
that  I  have  herd  cownted  "  whan  I  was  yong: 
how  a  worthi  man    departed  somtyme    from 
oure  Contrees  for  to  go  serche  the  World.      And 
so  he  passed  Ynde  and  the  Yles  beyonde  Ynde, 
where  ben  mo  '^  than  5000  Yles;   and  so  longe 
he  wente  be  '^  See  and  Lond  and  so  enviround 
the  World  be  many  seysons,  that  he  fond  an 
Yle  where  he  herde  speke  his  owne  Langage, 
callynge  on  O.xen  in  the  Plowghe,  suche  Wordes 
as  men  speken  to  Bestes  in  his  owne  Contree ; 
whereof  he  hadde  gret  Mervayle,''  for  he  knewe 
not  how  it  myghte  be.     But  I  seye,  that  he 
had  gon  so  longe  be  Londe  and  be  See  that  he 
had  envyround   alle   the   Erthe,   that   he  was 
comen   ayen  '^  envirounynge,   that   is  to  seye, 
goynge  aboute,  unto  his  owne  Marches,'"  yif 
he  wolde  have  passed  forthe  til  he  had  founden 
his  Contree  and  his  owne  knouleche.''     But  he 
turned  ayen  from  thens,  from  whens  he  was 
come  fro;    and  so  he  loste  moche  peynefulle 
labour,   as  him-self  seyde   a  gret  while  aftre 
that  he  was  comen  hom.     For  it  befelle  aftre, 
that  he  wente  in  to  Norweye;   and  there  Tem- 
pest of  the  See  toke  him ;  and  he  arr>-ved  in  an 
Yle;    and  whan  he  was  in  that  Yle,  he  knew 
wel  that  it  was  the  Yle  where  he  had  herd 
speke  his  owne  Langage  before  and  the  callynge 
of  the  O.xen  at  the  Plowghe;    and  that  was 
possible  thinge.     But  how  it  semethe  to  s}Tnple 

'  middle  ^  prove  ^  stuck  *  God  has  wrought  sal- 
vation in  the  middle  of  the  earth.  « depart  •  parts 
7  journeys  (i.e.  days'  travel)  »  those  »  side  ■«  one 
n  recounted,  told  '*  more  "by  •*  wonder  '»  back 
16  boundaries,  borders    '^  acquaintances 


8 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 


men  unlerncd  that  men  nc  mowe  '  not  go  undre 
the  Erthe,  and  also  that  men  scholde  falle 
toward  the  Hevene  from  undre!  But  that 
may  not  be,  upon  lesse  than  wee  mowe  falle 
toward  Ilevene  fro  the  Erthe  where  wee  bcn.^ 
For  fro  what  partie  of  the  Erthe  that  men 
duelle,'  outher*  aboven  or  benethen,  it  semethe 
alweys  to  hem  ^  that  ducllcn  that  thei  gon  more 
righte  than  ony  other  folk.  And  righte  as  it 
semethe  to  us  that  thei  ben  undre  us,  righte  so 
it  semethe  hem  that  wee  ben  undre  hem.  For 
}'if  a  man  myghte  falle  fro  the  Erthe  unto  the 
Firmament,  be  grettere  resoun,  the  Erthe  and 
the  See,  that  ben  so  grete  and  so  hevy,  scholde 
fallen  to  the  Firmament:  but  that  may  not  be; 
and  therefore  seithe  oure  Lord  God,  Non 
timeas  me,  qui  suspcndi  Terra[m]  ex  nichilo?  * 
And  alle  be  it  that  it  be  possible  thing  that  men 
may  so  envyronne  alle  the  World,  natheles  ' 
of  a  looo  persones  on  *  ne  myghte  not  hap- 
pen to  returnen  in-to  his  Contree.  For  *  the 
gretnesse  of  the  Erthe  and  of  the  See,  men  may 
go  be  a  looo  and  a  looo  other  weyes,  that  no 
man  cowde  redye  ^^  him  perfitely  toward  the 
parties  that  he  cam  fro,  but-yif  "  it  were  be 
aventure  and  happ  or  be  the  grace  of  God.  For 
the  Erthe  is  fulle  large  and  fulle  gret,  and  holt  '^ 
in  roundnesse  and  aboute  envyroun,  be  aboven 
and  be  benethen,  20425  Myles,  aftre  the 
opynyoun  of  the  olde  wise  Astronomeres.  And 
here  Seyenges  I  repreve  ^^  noughte.  But  aftre 
my  lytylle  wytt,  it  semethe  me,  savynge  here  '* 
reverence,  that  it  is  more. 


From  CHAP.  XXVII 

In  the  Lond  of  Prestre  John  ben  many 
dyverse  thinges  and  many  precious  Stones,  so 
grete  and  so  large  that  men  maken  of  hem  * 
Vesselle;''  as  Plateres,  Dissches,  and  Cuppes. 
And  many  other  marveylles  ben  there;  that 
it  were  to  '*  combrous  and  to ''  long  to  putten 
it  in  scripture ''  of  Bokes. 

But  of  the  princypalle  Yles  and  of  his 
Estate  and  of  his  Lawe  I  schalle  telle  you 
som  partye.'*  This  Emperour  Prestre  John  is 
Cristene ;  and  a  gret  partie  of  his  Contree  also : 
but  yit  thei  have  not  alle  the  Articles  of  oure 
Feythe,  as  wee  have.     Thei  beleven  wel  in  the 

'  may  ^  ^^^e  ^  dwell,  inhabit  *  either  ^  \}xem 
*  Dost  thou  not  fear  me  who  have  suspended  the  earth 
upon  nothing?  ^nevertheless  *  one  *  because  of 
•"direct  "unless  '^  hoi^g  ^,QJltains  '^  reprove, 
criticise  ^*  their  >*  vessels  '^  too  1^  writing 
**part 


Fadre,  in  the  Sone,  and  in  the  Holy  Gost :  and 
thei  ben  fulle  devoute  and  righte  trewe  on  '  to 
another.  And  thei  sette  not  be  ^  no  Barettes,^ 
ne  be  Cawteles,^  ne  of  no  Disceytes.*  And  he 
hathe  undre  him  72  Provynces;  and  in  every 
Provynce  is  a  Kyng.  And  theise  Kynges  han  ' 
Kynges  undre  hem ;  and  alle  ben  tributaries  to 
Prestre  John.  And  he  hathe  in  his  Lordschipes 
many  grete  marveyles.  For  in  his  Contree  is 
the  See  that  men  clepen '  the  Gravely  ^  See, 
that  is  alle  Gravelle  and  Sond  *  with-outen  ony 
drope  of  Watre;  and  it  ebbethe  and  flowethe 
in  grete  Wawes '"  as  other  Sees  don;  and  it  is 
never  stille  ne  in  pes  '^  in  no  maner  '^  cesoun.'^ 
And  no  man  may  passe  that  See  be  Navye"  ne 
be  no  maner  of  craft :  '^  and  therfore  may  no  man 
knowe  what  Lond  is  beyond  that  See.  And 
alle-be-it  that  it  have  no  Watre,  yit  men 
fynden '"  there-in  and  on  the  Bankes  fulle  gode 
Fissche  of  other  maner  of  kynde  and  schappe 
thanne  men  fynden  in  ony  other  See;  and  thei 
ben  of  right  goode  tast  and  delycious  to  mannes 
mete. 

And  a  3  journeys  long  fro  that  See,  ben  gret 
Mountaynes;  out  of  the  whiche  gothe  '^  out  a 
gret  Flood,'*  that  comethe  out  of  Paradys;  and 
it  is  fulle  of  precious  Stones,  withouten  ony 
drope  of  Water;  and  it  rennethe  '^  thorghe  the 
Desert,  on  that^^'o'  syde,  so  that  it  makethe 
the  See  gravely;  and  it  berethe  "  in-to  that  See, 
and  there  it  endethe.  And  that  Flome  '*  ren- 
nethe also  3  dayes  in  the  Woke,^'  and  br}Tigethe 
with  him  grete  Stones  and  the  Roches  ^^  also 
therewith,  and  that  gret  plentee.  And  anon 
as  thei  ben  entred  in-to  the  gravely  See,  thei 
ben  seyn "  no  more,  but  lost  for  evere  more. 
And  in  tho  3  dayes  that  that  Ryvere  rennethe 
no  man  dar^^  entren  in-to  it:  but  in  the  other 
dayes  men  dar  entren  wel  ynow.^^  Also 
beyonde  that  Flome,' ^  more  upward  to  the 
Desertes,  is  a  gret  Pleyn  alle  gravelly  betwene 
the  Mountaynes;  and  in  that  Playn  every  day 
at  the  Sonne  risynge  begjTinen  to  growe  smale 
Trees;  and  thei  growen  til  mydday,  berynge 
Frute;  but  no  man  dar  taken  of  that 
Frute,  for  it  is  a  thing  of  Fayrye.^*  And 
aftre  mydday  thei  discrecen  ^^  and  entren 
ayen  ^*  in-to  the  Erthe;  so  that  at  the  go}Tige 
doun  of  the  Sonne  thei  apperen  no  more ;  and  so 
thei  don  every  day :  and  that  is  a  gret  marvaylle. 

*  one  *  set  not  by  (=  do  not  practice)  'frauds 
*  tricks  *  deceits  ^  have  ^  call  *  gravelly  *  sand 
1"  waves  "  peace  '^  kind  of  '*  season  '*  ship 
'*  device  '^  find  '^  goes,  flows  '*  river  '*runs 
2"  the  ^'  week  22  rocks  ^'  seen  ^*  dare  ^®  enough 
^  magic        27  decrease       ^^  again 


JOHN    WICLIF 
JOHN    WICLIF   (d.    1384)  THE   GOSPEL   OF   MATHEU 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MATHEW  (first  version) 

CHAP.  V 

Jhesus  forsothe,'  seynge  ^  cumpanyes,  wente 
up  in-to  an  hill;  and  when  he  hadde  sete,^  his 
disciplis  camen  nighe  to  hym.  And  he, 
openynge  his  mouthe,  taughte  to  hem,  sayinge, 
"Blessid  be  the  pore  in  spirit,  for  the  kingdam 
in  hevenes  is  heren/  Blessid  be  mylde  men,  for 
thei  shuln  *  welde  "  the  eerthe.  Blessid  be  thei 
that  moumen,  for  thei  shuln  ^  be  comfortid. 
Blessid  be  thei  that  hungrcn  and  thristen  right- 
wisnesse,'  for  thei  shuln  ben  fulfiUid.  Blessid 
be  mercyful  men,  for  thei  shuln  gete  mercye. 
Blessid  be  thei  that  ben  "  of  clene  herte,  for 
thei  shuln  see  God.  Blessid  be  pesible  men, 
for  thei  shuln  be  clepid  *  the  sonys  of  God. 
Blessid  be  thei  that  suffren  persecucioun  for 
rightwisnesse,'  for  the  kyngdam  of  hevenes  is 
herun.^  Yee  shulen  ^  be  blessid,  when  men 
shulen  curse  you,  and  shulen  pursue  you,  and 
shulen  say  al  yvel  "*  ayeins  "  you  leezing,'^  for 
me.  Joye  '^  yee  with-^Ti-forth,"  and  glade  yee 
with-out-forth,  for  youre  meede  '^  is  plente- 
vouse '^  in  hevenes;  forsothe  so  thei  han '^ 
pursued  and  '*  prophetis  that  weren  before 
you.  Yee  ben  *  salt  of  the  erthe;  that  yif '* 
the  salt  shal  vanyshe  awey,  wher}Tine  shal  it  be 
saltid?  To  no  thing  it  is  worth  over,^"  no '' 
bot  ^^  that  it  be  sent  out,  and  defoulid  of  men. 
Ye  ben*  light  of  the  world;  a  citee  putt  on  an 
hill  may  nat  be  hid;  nether  men  tendyn  ^^  a 
lanteme,  and  putten  it  undir  a  busshel,  but  on 
a  candilstike,  that  it  yeve  ^^  light  to  alle  that 
ben  in  the  hous.  So  shyyne  ^^  youre  light 
before  men,  that  thei  see  youre  good  werkis, 
and  glorifie  youre  Fadir  that  is  in  hevens. 
Nyle  ^*  ye  gesse,  or  deme,"  that  Y  came  to 
undo,  or  distruye,  the  lawe,  or  the  prophetis; 
I  came  not  to  undo  the  lawe,  but  to  fulfille. 
Forsothe  ^*  I  say  to  you  trewthe,  til  heven  and 
erthe  passe,  oon  ^^  i,  that  is  leste  ^^  lettre,  or  titil, 
shal  nat  passe  fro  the  lawe,  til  alle  thingis  be 
don.  Therfore  he  that  undoth,  or  breketh, 
oon  of  these  leste  ^^  maundementis,^'  and  techith 
thus  men,  shal  be  clepid  ^^  the  leste  in  the 
rewme  ^^  of  hevenes ;  forsothe,  this  ^^  that  doth, 
and  techith,  shal  be  clepid  grete  in  the  kjTig- 
dame  of  hevenes.  Forsothe  Y  say  to  you, 
no-but-yif  ^^  youre  rightwisnesse  shal  be  more 


'  indeed  ^  seeing  ^  sat  *  theirs  ^  shall  ^  rule 
^  righteousness  *  are  ®  called  '"  evil  ''  against 
'^  lying    '^  rejoice    '*  with-yn-forth  =  inwardly    '*  re- 


(SECOND    VERSION) 
CAP.    V 

And  Jhesus,  scynge  ^  the  puple,  wente  up  in- 
to an  hil ;  and  whanne  he  was  set,  hise  disciplis 
camen  to  hym.  And  he  ojjenyde  his  mouth, 
and  taughte  hem,  and  seide,  "  Blessed  ben  pore 
men  in  spirit,  for  the  kyngdom  of  hevenes  is 
heme.^  Blessid  ben  mylde  men,  for  thei 
schulen  ^  welde**  the  erthe.  Blessid  ben  thei 
that  mornen,  for  thei  schulen  be  coumfortid. 
Blessid  ben  thei  that  hungren  and  thristen 
rightwisnesse,  for  thei  schulen  be  fulfillid. 
Blessid  ben  merciful  men,  for  thei  schulen  gete 
merci.  Blessid  ben  thei  that  ben  of  clene  herte, 
for  thei  schulen  se  God.  Blessid  ben  pesible 
men,  for  thei  schulen  be  clepid  *  Goddis  chil- 
dren. Blessid  ben  thei  that  suffren  persecu- 
sioun  for  rightfulnesse,  for  the  kingdam  of 
hevenes  is  heme.*  Ye  schulen  be  blessid, 
whanne  men  schulen  curse  you,  and  schulen 
pursue  you,  and  shulen  seie  al  yvel '"  ayens  " 
you  liynge,  for  me.  Joie  '^  ye,  and  be  ye  glad 
for  youre  meede  '^  is  plentevouse  '"  in  hevenes; 
for  so  thei  han  '^  pursued  also  profetis  that 
weren  bifor  you.  Ye  ben  salt  of  the  erthe; 
that  if  the  salt  vanysche  awey,  whereynne  schal 
it  be  saltid?  To  no  thing  it  is  worth  overe,^" 
no  ^'  but  ^^  that  it  be  cast  out,  and  be  defoulid 
of  men.  Ye  ben  light  of  the  world;  a  citee 
set  on  an  hil  may  not  be  hid;  ne  me  teendith  " 
not  a  lanteme,  and  puttith  it  undur  a  busschel, 
but  on  a  candilstike,  that  it  yyve  light  to  alle 
that  ben  in  the  hous.  So  schyne  youre  light 
befor  men,  that  thei  se  youre  goode  werkis, 
and  glorifie  youre  Fadir  that  is  in  hevenes. 
Nil  ^^  ye  deme,"'  that  Y  cam  to  undo  the  lawe, 
or  the  profetis;  Y  cam  not  to  undo  the  lawe, 
but  to  fulfille.  Forsothe  Y  seie  to  you,  til 
hevene  and  erthe  passe,  o  ^^  lettir  or  o  ^'  titcl  shal 
not  passe  fro  the  lawe,  til  alle  thingis  be  doon. 
Therfor  he  that  brekith  oon  of  these  leeste '" 
maundementis,^'  and  techith  thus  men,  schal 
be  clepid  ^^  the  leste  in  the  rewme  ^^  of  hevenes; 
but  he  that  doith,  and  techith,  schal  be  clepid 
greet  in  the  kyngdom  of  hevenes.  And  Y  seie 
to  you,  that  but  your  rightfulnesse  be  more 
plentevouse  than  of  scribis  and  of  Farisees,  ye 

ward  "  plenteous  '■'  have  '*  also  '^  if  ^  besides 
^'  not  ^  but  2^  light  ^*  give  -*  Suhj.  of  command.  -^  do 
not,  literally,  wish  not  (Lat.  rwlite)  ^  think  ^  verily 
29  one  '"  least  ''  commandments  ^*  called  ^^  king- 
dom    ^*  he     ^*  unless 


10 


lOtlN     WU-lll' 


plcnlovouso  tli.'Ut  of  sovilns  iwxA  riiaiiMTS,  uv 
slutlou  not  cntiv  in  (o  kynj;»liin\  i^f  l>rvriu\^. 
Vjv  \\m\  *  hrulc  tluU  i(  is  Siiivl  to  oKic  nion. 
Tluni  slial  n;»t  sUm;  foj-sotNo  ho  thiU  sKvtli.  stial 
Ik^  j;vlty  of  vKmuo.''  Hvit  I  say  to  yon,  tluu 
owivilto  "  that  is  \vi\»tho  io  his  bivMhor,  vshal 
Iv  gyhy  of  clonic;  fofsotho  he  that  s^hal  sjvy  tv> 
his  UnMhor.  K;ul».».  that  is.  a  woixl  of  swrn, 
shal  Iv  gyhy  of  anmsoilo;'  sothly  ho  tliat  shal 
SKVV.  I'ool,  that  is,  a  woul  of  disiMsynnv.  shal  K- 
gvlti  of  tho  t\ir*  of  hollo.  Thorfoiv  yif  thvni 
ofrrist  thi  yift  ^  at  tho  autor,'  an»l  tho»v  shah 
bvthonko.'  that  tl\i  htvthor  hath  snm-what 
ayrins*  thtv,  loovr  tlvoix^  thi  yift  IhM\mx<  tho 
autor.  aiul  g\^  tu-st  for  to  Iv  tvixninsoihil.  or 
aamUil,  to  tiii  bn>thor.  and  thanno  thvni  ontn 
twvngx^  shah  tWTiv  thi  yiflo.  Bo  thon  anisont 
ynjjv^  to  thin  ad\oi"sario  svhmv.  tho  whijlo  thvui 
art  in  tho  wav  with  hyn\,  lost  ivravontnix>  thin 
ailvorsario  tako  th«v  tv^  tho  iloniosman.'^'  anil 
tho  ilvMuosman  tako  th«v  to  tho  n>ynystiv."  and 
thiMi  K'  soitto  in  to  prisvnn\,  Tivwoly  I  say  to 
thtr,  Thon  shalt  not  sjv<  thonnos.  til  thon  yoMo  " 
tho  last  forthini;.  Yo  han  honl  fi^-  it  was  s;ud 
to  oKlo  mon,  Tltou  shalt  nat  do  loohoryo.  I'or 
sotho  Y  say  to  yvni,  l\>r why  **  ovory  man  that 
stvth  a  wonnwan  for  to  wwito  hire,  iiow  ho 
hath  do  loohorio  l\v  hin^  in  his  horto.  That 
yif  thi  right  oiyt  solaiuidix^ '*  thiv.  jnillo  it  ont. 
and  cast  it  fi\>  thtv;  for  it  s^nvdith'*  to  tluv, 
that  iXM\**  of  thi  momhris  jvrisho,  than  al  thi 
lK>ily  jjf>  in-to  hollo.  And  yif  thi  right  hvMul 
sclavuuhv  thtv,  kitt  *'  it  awry,  anvl  oast  it  fi\> 
thtx^:  for  it  sjXHlith  to  tluv.  that  oon  v^f  thi 
mombris  porisho,  than  that  al  thi  boily  go  in-to 
hollo,  Forsot ho  it  is  sjviil,  W ho-<nori>  shal  loovo 
his  wyf.  Yovo'*  ho  to  hir  a  lilvl,  that  is,  a  htil 
Ivko,  of  t'oi-sjxkvnjl,  Sotholv  V  say  to  von.  that 
ONTry  man  that  shal  Uvvo  )»is  wyf,  ontakon '* 
eaviso of  fornicacioun,  ho  tnakith  hiw  do  Uvhorio 
and  ho  that  wodilith  tho  fvu^akon  wijf.  doth 
avv>v>trio.'**  Kfto-sivnys"  vtv  han  horvl.  that  it 
wassaivl  to  oldo  n\on,rhon  shalt  not  forswore, 
sotholy'^  to  tho  Lord  thou  shalt  ytvld"  thin 
cot  his,'*  Vorsotho  Y  say  to  VvHi,  to  nat  sworo 
on  al  manort^  noithor  by  hovono,  for  it  is  tho 
trvMio  ivf  Ciod;  nothor  by  tho  ortho,  for  it  is  tho 
Stole  of  his  ftvt;  neither  by  JeruSidom,  for  it  is 
tho  citiv  of  a  grtvt  kyng;  neither  thou  sl\alt 
swore  by  thin  hevtHl.'^  for  thou  tnaist  not  n\ako 
<H>n  hoer  whvt  or  blak ;  but  Iv  youre  worvl  yoa, 
yt\\;     Nay,  nay;    foi-sotho  that  that  is  more 


sohvilon  uoi  ont IX'  into  tho  kyngvlom  o{  hovonos. 
Yo  han  '  honl  that   it   was  ,soid  to  oKlo  n\on, 

VUou  ,<<ohall  uoi  .>iKr;  anvl  ho  that  slooth.  .>iohal 
Iv  gilti  tv>  dvHM\r'  Hut  V  .«;oio  Ivi  yv>»i,  that  roh 
man  that  is  wt\>oth  \o  his  l>ix>thir.  sohal  1h" 
gilti  \o  Aoo\\\;  anvl  ho  th.it  .>^oith  to  his  btx>lhor, 
I' y !  .«^ohal  U-  gilti  to  tho  i\>m\soil;*  Init  ho 
tliat  -soith.  \'oo\,  ^du\\  W  gilti  to  tho  lior  of  liollo. 
Thorfor  if  tl>ov\  otVrist  thi  yifto  *  at  tho  avitor.' 
and  ihor  thou  biihonkist.  tliat  thi  bix^lhir  hath 
.^in»\  what  ayens  *  tluv,  Uvve  tluMX>  thi  vifio 
bifor  tho  autor.  and  gv>  lu-st  to  Iv  ix^vumsolid 
to  thi  bixMhir.  and  tham\o  thon  sohall  oomo. 
anil  sohalt  olTix'  thi  yifto,  Ho  thou  (,xn\,^ontvnge 
to  thin  advorsario  .sv>ono.  while  thou  art  in  the 
woio  with  hynt.  lost  |HMavonturo  thin  advor- 
.•^ario  tako  tluv  to  tho  donu^sn^an,*"  and 
tho  ilonu\sn\an  tako  tluv  to  tho  mynysttx\" 
and  thou  Iv  sent  in  to  jMi.soun.  Tix-uli  V  soio 
to  thiv,  thou  shalt  not  _g\^  out  fi\»  tlu-nnns.  til 
thou  yolde  ''  tho  la.^^t  forthii\g,  \  o  han  honl 
that  it  was  soid  to  oldo  tnon.  riuni  .sohalt  Ao  no 
lotohorio.  Hut  Y  sole  to  you,  that  ovory  man 
that  ."itvth  a  womman  for  to  iweito  hir.  hath 
now  do  lotohorio  bi  hir  in  his  horto.  That  if 
thi  right  ive  .solavnidix^  '*  tluv.  iniUo  hvm  out. 
ai\d  oasto  tui  tluv;  for  it  sjvdith  '*  to  thiv.  that 
oon'*  of  thi  mon\bris  ivrisoho.  than  that  al  thi 
KhH  gv^  in -to  hollo.  .\nd  if  thi  right  bond 
.>;olaui\ihx*  tluv.  kitto  ''  hym  awoye.  and  oasto 
fix>  thiv;  for  it  sjvdith  to  tluv  that  iH>n  **  of 
thi  nuMubris  jvri.soho.  than  that  al  thi  bodi  gv> 
in  to  hollo.  .\nd  it  hath  Iv  soyd,  \Vho-e\ort> 
Kvvoth  his  wiif,  yyw  ho  to  hir  a  lilvl  of  for- 
sakyng.  Hv\t  Y  soio  to  uni.  that  every  man 
that  Kxnx'th  his  wiif.  outtakuii  cause  of  forny- 
caciom\.  n\akith  hir  to  do  lotohorio.  aiul  ho  that 
woddith  the  forsakvn\  wiif,  vloith  avowtrye. 
KftsvHM^o  ye  han  hoixl.  that  it  was  .><oid  to  oldo 
nuM\.  Thou  sohalt  not  foi-swoix\  but  thou  i^ohalt 
yeldo  thin  othis  to  the  l.otxl.  Hut  V  soio  to 
von.  that  ye  swvn^  not  for  ony  thing;  nothir  bi 
Kovene,  for  it  is  the  trv,M\o  of  (.nnl;  i\othor  bi  tho 
ertho.  for  it  is  tho  stole  v^f  his  fivt ;    nothor  bi 

|orus;dom,  for  it  is  tho  oitvv  of  a  grtvt  kyng; 
luMhor  thou  shalt  not  swon^  bi  thin  luwl.  for 
thou  n\aist  (u^t  make  tKM\  luvro  white  tu^  blaoko; 
but  Iv  youre  worvl.  yho.  yhe;  Nay.  nay;  and 
that  that  is  n\oix>  than  ti\o,<o.  is  of  yvol.  Ye 
han  honl  that  it  hath  Iv  soid.  lye  for  iye,  and 
totho  for  tothe.  Hut  Y  stMo  to  you.  that  yx* 
ayei\stonde  '*  not   an   y vol   n\an ;    biU   if  ony 


'  t\,»VX' 

council 
*  stgiiinst 


*  ivutijnxcut  *c\Yry  one  *thc 

4»r«>        *gi(t        'attar         *rt>membcr 
»*j\Klgv?      »»otTictr        »»p8i>'        >«that 


"  slivniter  **  profiteth  "  otxc  ''  out  **  jiivt  (suhi.  </ 
eicmmaMd^  **  excf^^  **'  adwhory  **  ii^tiu  '^  truly 
**ivvy      *»o!;Uhs       **hcj»d      *  resist 


JOHN  dp:  trevisa 


II 


Uxan  tJjis,  is  of  yvd.  Yee  han  herde  that  it  is 
baid,  KJye  '  for  eiye,'  UAh  for  U/th.  But  Y  Say 
to  you,  U)  nat  ayein-stonde''^  yvel;  but  yif  any 
fchal  smyte  thw:*  in  the  right  cheeke,  yeve  to  hym 
and  *  th«;  tother;  and  to  hym  that  wole  slryve 
with  thee  in  dome,"  and  talte  awey  thi  coote, 
leeve  thou  ixj  hym  and  "  thin  over-clothe ;  and 
who-<;vere  cx^nstrayneth  thee  a  thousand  pacis, 
go  thou  with  hyra  other  tweyne.  Forsothe 
yif '  to  hym  thaX  axith  of  thee,  and  tume  thou 
nat  awey  fro  hym  that  wol  Ujrwe  *  of  thee. 
Yee  han  herd  that  it  is  said.  Thou  shalt  love 
thin  neigh U^re,  and  hate  thin  enmy.  But  Y 
say  to  you,  love  yee  youre  enmyes,  do  yee  wel 
to  hem  '  that  haten  *  you,  and  preye  yee  for 
men  pursuynge,  and  falsly  chalengjTige  *  you; 
that  yee  \xt  the  sonys  of  youre  Fadir  that  is  in 
hevenes,  that  makith  his  sune  to  springe  up 
ujx>n  g^xxi  and  yvel  men,  and  rayneth  upon 
juste  men 'and  unjuste  men.  f"or  yif  ye  loven 
hem  that  loven  you,  what  meed  *'  shul "  yee 
have  ?  whether  and '  puplicans  don  nat  this 
thing?  And  yif  yee  greten,  or  saluten,  youre 
bretheren  fx>n!y,  what  more  over  ^  shul  yee 
don  ?  whether  and  "  paynymmys  "  don  nat 
this  thing?  Therfore  Ix;  yee  parfit,"  as  and' 
youre  hevenly  Fa^iir  is  j^arfit.  Take  yee  hede, 
lest  ye  don  your  rightwisnesse  before  men, 
that  yee  Ixi  seen  of  hem,  ellis  '"  ye  shule  nat  han 
meed  at  youre  Fadir  that  is  in  hevenes.  Ther- 
fore when  thou  dost  almesse,^*  nyle  "  thou  synge 
byfore  thee  in  a  trumj^e,  as  yjx>critis  don  in 
synagogis  and  streetis,  that  thei  ben  maad 
worshipful  of  men;  forsfjthe  Y  saye  to  you, 
thei  han  resceyved  her  "*  meede.  But  thee 
doynge  almesse,**  knowe  nat  the  left  hond  what 
thi  right  hond  doth,  that  thi  almes  be  in  hidlis,** 
and  thi  Fadir  that  seeth  in  hidlis,  shal  yelde  ^^  to 
thee." 


smj-le  thee  in  the  right  cheke,  schewe  to  him 
als^j  the  tfAhir;  and  to  hym  that  wole  str\-ve 
with  thee  in  doom,*  and  take  awey  thi  coote, 
leeve  thou  to  him  aWj  thi  mantil ;  and  who-ever 
ojnstreyneth  thee  a  thousynde  p^acis,  go  thou 
with  hym  othir  twejTie.  Yyve  '  thou  to  h>Tn 
that  axith  of  thee,  and  tume  not  awey  fro  h)Tii 
that  wole  Ixjrewe  *  of  thee.  Ye  han  herd  that 
it  wjLs  seid.  Thou  shalt  love  thi  neighlxjre,  and 
hate  thin  enemye.  But  Y  seie  to  you,  love  ye 
youre  enemyes,  do  ye  wel  to  hem  that  hatiden 
you,  and  preye  ye  for  hem  '  that  pursuen,  and 
sclaundren  you;  that  ye  be  the  sones  of  your 
Fadir  that  is  in  hevenes,  that  makith  his  sunne 
to  rise  upon  goode  and  yvth  men,  and  rej-neth 
on  just  men  and  unjuste.  For  if  ye  loven  hem  ' 
that  loven  you,  what  mede '"  schulen  ye  han? 
whether  pupplicans  doon  not  this?  And  if  ye 
greten  youre  britheren  oonli,  what  schulen  ye 
do  more?  ne  doon  not  hethene  men  this? 
Therfore  be  ye  pjarfit,  as  youre  hevenli  Fadir  is 
parfit." 

[It  will  be  observed  thai  the  Second  Version  agrees 
with  the  Authorized  Version  in  the  division 
into  chapters,  while  the  First  Version  con- 
tains a  few  verses  usually  assigned  to  Chapter 
VI.] 


*  resist 
^  them 


'also 


*  a  lawsuit         'give 

*  hate       •  acctising       *"  reward 


>  eye 
'  Vxjrrow 

"shall  

I*  alms     '^  do  not     **  their     *•  secret     **  pay 


'  them      » hate       *  acctismg      *"  reward 
1*  besides      **  heathen     **  perfect      ^'  else 


JOHN  DE  TREVISA  (1326-1412) 
HIGDEN'S   POLYCHRONICON 
BOOK  I.     CHAPTER  LIX 


As  it  is  i -knowe '  how  meny  manere  peple 
Ixieth  ^  in  this  ilond,^  there  beeth  also  so  many 
dyvers  Ion  gages  *  and  tonges;  notheles  ^ 
Walsche  men  and  Scottes,  that  beeth  nought 
i-medled  *  with  other  naciouns,  holdeth  wel 
nyh  hir  '  firste  longage  and   S[x;che;    but -yif  * 

•  known  *  are  *  island  *  languages  *  nevertheless 
•  mixed    ^  their    *  except 


the  Scottes  that  were  somtjine  confederat  and 
wonede  '  with  the  Pictes  drawe  '  somwhat  after 
hirspeche;  but  the  FlemmjTiges  that  woneth  ' 
in  the  weste  side  of  Wales  haveth  i-left  her* 
straunge  speche  and  speketh  Saxonliche  i-now.° 
Also  Englische  men,  they"  thei  hadde  from 
the  byg>Tinynge  thre  manere  speche,  northeme, 

'  dwelt  *  incline  '  dwell  *  their  *  enough  «  though 


12 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


sowtheme,  and  middel  spcche  in  the  myddel  of 
the  lond,  as  they  come  of  ihre  manere  peple  of 
Germania,  notheles  '  by  comyxtioun  and  mell- 
ynge '  firste  with  Danes  and  afterward  with 
Normans,  in  meny  the  contray  ^  longage  is 
apayred,'  and  som  useth  straunge  wlafferynge,^ 
chiteryngc,'  harrynge/  and  garrynge  *  gris- 
bayting."  This  apayrynge  of  the  burthe  of 
the  tunge  is  bycause  of  tweie  thinges;  oon  is 
for  children  in  scole  ayenst  the  usage  and  man- 
ere of  alle  othere  naciouns  beeth  compelled  for 
to  leve  '"  hire  "  owne  langage,  and  for  to  con- 
strue hir  "  lessouns  and  here  "  thynges  in 
Frensche,  and  so  they  haveth  '^  seth  '^  the 
Normans  come "  first  in-to  Engelond.  Also 
gentil-men  children  beeth  i-taught  to  speke 
Frensche  from  the  tyme  that  they  beeth 
i-rokked  in  here  cradel,  and  kunneth  '^  speke 
and  playe  with  a  childes  broche ;  '*  and  uplond- 
isshe  "  men  wil  likne  hym-self  to  gentil-men, 
and  fondeth'*  with  greet  besynesse  for  to  speke 
Frensce,  for  to  be  i-tolde  '*  of.  Trevisa?'^ 
This  manere  was  moche  i-used  to-for  ^'  [the] 
Firste  Deth  ^^  and  is  siththe "  sumdel  ^^ 
i-chaunged;  for  John  Comwaile,  a  maister 
of  grammer,  chaunged  the  lore  in  gramer 
scole  and  construccioun  of  ^*  Frensche  in-to 
Englische;  and  Richard  Pencriche  lemed  the 
manere  -^  techynge  of  hym  and  othere  men  of 
Pencrich;  so  that  now,  the  yere  of  oure  Lorde 
a  thowsand  thre  hundred  and  foure  score  and 
fyve,  and  of  the  secounde  kyng  Richard  after 
the  conquest  nyne,  in  alle  the  gramere  scoles 
of  Engelond,  children  leveth  Frensche  and 
construeth  and  lemeth  an  ^*  Englische,  and 
haveth  '^  therby  avauntage  in  oon  side  and  dis- 
avauntage  in  another  side ;  here  "  avauntage  is, 
that  they  lemeth  her  '^  gramer  in  lasse  ^'  tyme 
than  children  were  i-woned  ^*  to  doo;  dis- 
avauntage  is  that  now  children  of  gramer  scole 
conneth  ^'  na  more  Frensche  than  can  ^^  hir^' 
lift  ^'  heele,  and  that  is  harme  for  hem  ^^  and  ^^ 
they  schulle  passe  the  see  and  travaille  in 
straunge  landes  and  in  many  other  places. 
Also  gentil-men  haveth  now  moche  i-left " 
for  to  teche  here  "  children  Frensche.  I^}^  Hit 
semeth   a  greet  wonder  how   Englische,   that 

*  nevertheless  ^  mixing  '  country,  native  *  corrupted 
*  stammering  "  chattering  '  snarling  »  howling  »  gnash- 
ing of  teeth  ">  leave,  give  up  "  their  '^  have  i'  since 
"came  '*can  "  brooch  (ornament  in  general)  '^  coun- 
try »*  attempt  >»  accounted  '"' What  follows,  to  If.,  is 
Trevisa's  addition.  ^i  before  22  tj^e  First  Plague, 
1348-1349  23sonie^hat  24fj.onj  2«  j^^j^jj  ^f  20  j^ 
'''  less  28  accustomed  ^9  know  ^^  knows  ^i  left  22  them  ^s  if 
^  ceased    **  What  follows,  to  Trevisa,  is  from  Higden. 


is  the  burthe  tonge  of  Englisshe  men  and  her ' 
owne  langage  and  tonge,  is  so  dyverse  of  sown  ^ 
in  this  oon  ^  ilond,  and  the  langage  of  Nor- 
mandie  is  comlynge  ''  of  another  londe,  and 
hath  oon  ^  manere  ^  soun  ^  among  alle  men 
that  speketh  hit  aright  in  Engelond.  Trevisa.^ 
Nevertheles  there  is  as  many  dyvers  manere  ' 
Frensche  in  the  reem  '  of  Fraunce  as  is  dyvers 
manere  Englische  in  the  reem  of  Engelond. 
^.*  Also  of  the  forsaide  Saxon  tonge  that  is 
i-deled  '"  athre  "  and  is  abide  '^  scarsliche  '^ 
with  fewe  uplondisshe  '^  men  is  greet  wonder; 
for  men  of  the  est  with  men  of  the  west,  as  it 
were  undir  the  same  partie  '^  of  hevene,  acord- 
eth  more  in  sownynge  '"  of  speche  than  men  of 
the  north  with  men  of  the  south ;  therfore  it  is 
that  Mercii,  that  beeth  men  of  myddel  Engelond, 
as  it  were  parteners  of  the  endes,  understond- 
eth  bettre  the  side  langages,  northerne  and 
southeme,  than  northerne  and  southeme  un- 
derstondeth  either  other.  Willelmus  de  Pon- 
tificibus,  libra  tertio.^''  Al  the  longage ''of  the 
Northhumbres,  and  specialliche  at  York,  is  so 
scharp,  slitting,  and  frotynge  '*  and  unschape, 
that  we  southeme  men  may  that  longage 
unnethe  ^^  understonde.  I  trowe  ^'  that  that  is 
bycause  that  they  beeth  nyh  "  to  straunge  men 
and  naciouns  that  speketh  strongliche,^^  and 
also  bycause  that  the  kynges  of  Engelond 
woneth  ^^  alwey  f er  from  that  cuntrey ;  for  they 
beeth  more  i-torned  ^*  to  the  south  contray,  and 
yif  they  gooth  to  the  north  countray  they  gooth 
with  greet  help  and  strengthe.^*  ^."  The 
cause  why  they  beeth  more  in  the  south  contrey 
than  in  the  north,  is  for  ^*  hit  may  be  better  come 
londe,^*  more  peple,  more  noble  citees,  and  more 
profitable  havenes.^" 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (i34o?-i4oo) 

A  TREATISE   ON  THE  ASTROLABE" 

PROLOGUS 

Litell  Lowis  ''  my  sone,  I  have  perceived  wel 
by   certeyne   evidences   thyn   abilite   to   leme 

•  their  *  sound  '  one  *  comer,  immigrant  *  kind  of 
'  Tm'isa  adds  a  very  intelligent  observation.  ^  kinds  of 
^  realm  ■  What  follows  is  from  Higden.  *"  divided  "  in 
three  (dialects)  '^has  remained  '^scarcely  '*  country 
'*part  'bounding,  pronouncing  ^''The  historian,  William 
of  Malmeshury,  is  Higden's  authority  for  what  follows 
'*  language  **  chafing,  harsh  2" scarcely  21  believe  ^^  nigh 
^^  harshly,  or  (perhaps)  strangely  2^  live  2»  turned  ^  i.e. 
with  a  large  army  27  Higden  adds  a  remark  of  his  own 
to  his  quotation.  28because  29  land  ^^  havens,  harbors  ''an 
astronomical  instrument ;  consult  the  dictionary  '2  Lewis 


TRANSLATION    OF    BOETHIUS 


13 


sciencez  touchinge  noumbres  and  proporciouns; 
and  as  wel  considere  I  thy  bisy  '  preyere  ^  in 
special  to  lerne  the  Tretis  of  the  Astrolabie. 
Than,^  for  as  mechel ''  as  a  philosofre  seith, 
"he  wrappeth  him  in  his  frend,  that  condescend- 
eth  to  the  rightful  preyers  of  his  frend,"  therfor 
have  I  yeven  ^  thee  a  suffisaunt  Astrolabie  as  for 
oure  orizonte,"  compowned  '  after  the  latitude 
of  Oxenford;  upon  which,  by  mediacion  "  of 
this  litel  tretis,  I  purpose  to  teche  thee  a  cer- 
tein  nombre  of  conclusions  '  apertening  '°  to 
the  same  instrument.  I  seye  a  certein  of  con- 
clusiouns,  for  three  causes.  The  furste  cause 
is  this:  truste  wel  that  alle  the  conclusiouns 
that  han  "  ben  founde,  or  elles  '^  possibly 
mighten  be  founde  in  so  noble  an  instrument 
as  an  Astrolabie,  ben  '^  unknowe  perfitly  to  any 
mortal  man  in  this  regioun,  as  I  suppose. 
Another  cause  is  this:  that  sothly,'*  in  any 
tretis  of  the  Astrolabie  that  I  have  seyn,^^  there 
ben  "  some  conclusions  that  wole  '*  nat  in  alle 
thinges  performen  hir  "  bihestes;'*  and  some 
of  hem  ben  '^  to  '^  harde  to  thy  tendre  age  of  ten 
yeer  to  conseyve.^"  This  tretis,  divided  in  fyve 
parties/'  wole'"  I  shewe  thee  under  ful  lighte  -^ 
rewles^^  and  naked  wordes  in  English;  for 
Latin  ne  canstow  '^  yit  but  smal,  my  lyte  ^* 
sone.  But  natheles,'*  suffyse  to  thee  thise 
trewe  conclusiouns  in  English,  as  wel  as 
suffyseth  to  thise  noble  clerkes  Grekes  thise 
same  conclusiouns  in  Greek,  and  to  Arabiens 
in  Arabik,  and  to  Jewes  in  Ebrew,  and  to  the 
Latin  folk  in  Latin;  whiche  Latin  folk  han" 
hem  "  furst  out  of  othre  diverse  langages,  and 
writen  in  hir "  owne  tonge,  that  is  to  sein,-^ 
in  Latin.  And  God  wot,'*  that  in  alle  thise 
langages,  and  in  many  mo,^"  han"  thise  con- 
clusiouns ben  ^'  suffisantly  lemed  and  taught, 
and  yit  by  diverse  rewles,"  right  as  diverse 
pathes  leden  diverse  folk  the  righte  wey  to 
Rome.  Now  wol  I  prey  meekly  every  discret 
persone  that  redeth  or  hereth  this  litel  tretis, 
to  have  my  rewde  ^^  endyting  ^^  for  excused, 
and  my  superfluite  of  wordes,  for  two  causes. 
The  firste  cause  is,  for-that "  curious  ^*  en- 
dyting ^^  and  hard  sentence  ^*  is  ful  hevy " 
atones  '*  for  swich  ^*  a  child  to  lerne.     And 

'  eager  ^  prayer,  request  ^  then  *  much  *  given 
*  horizon  ^  composed  *  means  ^  problems  and 
their  solutions  '"pertaining  "have  '-else  '^  are 
**  truly  '6  seen  '^  will  '^  their  ■*  promises  ^^  too  ^^  un- 
derstand 2'  parts  22  easy  ^'  rules  ^^  knowest  thou 
28  little  26  nevertheless  "  ^  them  28  ^ay  29  knows 
^°  more  ^'  been  ^2  j-^^jg  33  composition  8*  because 
*"  elaborate  ^^  meaning,  sense  ^^  difficult  ^*  at 
once     ^^  such 


the  seconde  cause  is  this,  that  sothly '  me- 
semeth  ^  betre  to  wryten  unto  a  child  twyes  ^ 
a  good  sentence,  than  he  forgete  it  ones.'' 
And,  Lowis,  yif  *  so  be  that  I  shewe  thee  in  my 
lighte "  English  as  trewe  conclusiouns  touching 
this  matere,  and  naught  '  only  as  trewe  but 
as  many  and  as  subtil  conclusiouns  as  ben  ** 
shewed  in  Latin  in  any  commune  tretis  of  the 
Astrolabie,  con  me  the  more  thank;'  and 
preye  God  save  the  king,  that  is  lord  of  this 
langage,  and  alle  that  him  feyth  bereth  '"  and 
obeyeth,  everech  "  in  his  degree,  the  more  '^  and 
the  lasse.  ^  But  considere  wel,  that  I  ne  usurpe 
nat  to  have  founde  this  werk  of  my  labour  or  of 
myn  engin.'^  I  nam  '^  but  a  lewd  '"  compila- 
tour  "  of  the  labour  of  olde  Astrologiens,  and 
have  hit  translated  in  myn  English  only  for  thy 
doctrine;  and  with  this  swerd  '*  shal  I  sleen  '" 
envye. 


BOETHIUS  :     DE  CONSOLATIONE 
PHILOSOPHIAE 

BOOK  III 

Prose  IX 

"It  suffyseth  that  I  have  shewed  hider-to  the 
forme  of  false  welefulnesse,^"  so  that,  yif  ^  thou 
loke  now  cleerly,  the  order  of  myn  entencioun 
requireth  from  hennes-forth  -'  to  shewen  thee 
the  verray  "  welefulne.sse." 

"For-sothe,"  '  quod  I,  "I  see  wel  now  that 
sufifisaunce  -^  may  nat  comen  by  richesses,  ne 
power  by  reames,-^  ne  reverence  by  dignitees, 
ne  gentilesse  -*  byglorie,  ne  joye  by  delices."  -* 

"And  hast  thou  wel  knowen  the  causes," 
quod  she,  "why  it  is?" 

"Certes,"  me-semeth,"  quod  I,  "that  I  see 
hem  right  as  though  it  were  thorugh  a  litel 
clifte;^*  but  me  were  levere  ^°  knowen  hem  ^^ 
more  openly  of   thee." 

"Certes,"  quod  she,  "the  resoun  is  al  rcdy. 
For  thilke  ^'  thing  that  simply  is  o  ^^  thing, 
with-outen  any  devisioun,  the  errour  and  folye 
of  mankinde  departeth  and  devydeth  it,  and 
misledeth   it   and   transporteth   from  verray " 

'  truly  2  it  seems  to  me  '  twice  *  once  *  if  *  easy 
^  not  *  are  ^  con  thank  lucaiis  thank,  be  grateful 
'"bear  "everyone  '2  gj-p^ter  '^  less  '*  ingenuity 
'°  am  not  '^  ignorant  '^compiler  ■*  sword  '*slay 
2"  happiness  21  henceforth  22  true  ^  sufficiency 
2*  kingdoms  26  good  breeding  28  pleasures  27  qq^. 
tainly  28  cleft,  crack  29  iJefer,  preferable  ^^  them 
^'  that     ^2  one 


14 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 


and  parfit  good  to  goodes  that  ben  ^  false  and 
unparfit."  But  sey  me  this.  Wenest  ^  thou 
that  he,  that  hath  nedc  of  power,  that  him  ^  ne 
lakketh  no-thing?" 

"Nay,"  quod  I. 

"Certes,"  quod  she,  "thou  seyst  a-right. 
For  yif  *  so  be  that  ther  is  a  thing,  that  in  any 
partye  ®  be  febler  of  power,  certes,  as  in  that, 
it  mot  '  nedes  ben  nedy  of  foreine  *  help." 

"Right  so  is  it,"  quod  I. 

"Suffisaunce  and  power  ben  thanne  of  o  ° 
kinde?"'" 

"So  semeth  it,"  quod  I. 

"And  demest^  thou,"  quod  she,  "that  a 
thing  that  is  of  this  manere,  that  is  to  seyn," 
suffisaunt  and  mighty,  oughte  ben  ^^  despysed, 
or  elles  that  it  be  right  digne  '^  of  reverence 
aboven  alle  thinges?" 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "it  nis  no  doute,  that  it  is 
right  worthy  to  ben  reverenced." 

"Lat'**  us,"  quod  she,  "adden  thanne  rever- 
ence to  suffisaunce  and  to  power,  so  that  we 
demen  ^^  that  thise  three  thinges  ben  al  o  ^ 
thing." 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "lat  us  adden  it,  yif  we 
wolen  ^^  graunten  the  sothe."  '' 

"What  demest'  thou  thanne?"  quod  she; 
"is  that  a  derk  thing  and  nat  noble,  that  is 
suffisaunt,  reverent,  and  mighty,  or  elles  that 
it  is  right  noble  and  right  cleer  by  celebritee 
of  renoun?  Consider  thanne,"  quod  she,  "as 
we  han  '*  graunted  her-bifoni,^'  that  he  that 
ne  hath  nede  of  no-thing,  and  is  most  mighty 
and  most  digne"  of  honour,  yif  him  nedeth  any 
cleemesse  of  renoun,  which  cleernesse  he  mighte 
nat  graunten  of  him-self,  so  that,  for  lakke 
of  thilke^"  cleernesse,  he  mighte  seme  the 
febeler  on  any  syde  or  the  more  out-cast?" 
Close:-'  This  is  to  seyn,  nay;  for  who-so 
thai  is  suffisaunt,  mighty,  and  reverent,  cleer- 
nesse of  renoun  folweth  of  the  for  sey  de'^'^  thinges; 
he  hath  it  al  redy  of  his  suffisaunce. 

Boece.  "I  may  nat,"  quod  I,  "denye  it;  but 
I  mot  '  graunte,  as  it  is,  that  this  thing  be  right 
celebrable  by  cleemesse  of  renoun  and  no- 
blesse." 

"Thanne  folweth  it,"  quod  she,  "that  we 
adden  cleemesse  of  renoun  to  the  three  for- 
seyde  thinges,  so  that  ther  ne  be  amonges  hem 
no  difference?" 

"This  is  a  consequence,"  quod  I. 

■  are  *  imperfect  ^  thinkest  *  to  him  ^  if  *  part 
^  must  *  foreign,  external         ^  one  i"  nature 

*'  say  *2  to  be  "  worthy  '^  let  '*  consider  '^  will 
"truth  'Shave  '»  heretofore  2"  that  ^^  an  explanation 
22  aforesaid 


"This  thing  thanne,"  quod  she,  "that  ne  hath 
nede  of  no  foreine  '  thing,  and  that  may  don 
alle  thinges  by  hise  strengthes,  and  that  is 
noble  and  honourable,  nis  nat  that  a  mery  ^ 
thing  and  a  joyful?" 

"But  whennes,"  ^  quod  I,  "that  any  sorwe  * 
mighte  comen  to  this  thing  that  is  swiche,^ 
certes,  I  may  nat  thinke." 

"Thanne  moten  ®  we  graunte,"  quod  she, 
"that  this  thing  be  ful  of  gladnesse,  yif  ^  the 
forseyde  ^  thinges  ben  sothe ;  *  and  certes,  also 
mote  *  we  graunten  that  suffisaunce,  power, 
noblesse,  reverence,  and  gladnesse  ben  only 
dj'verse  by  names,  but  hir  '"  substaunce  hath 
no  diversitee." 

"It  mot  ®  needly  "  been  so,"  quod  I. 

"Thilke  '-  thing  thanne,"  '^  quod  she,  "that 
is  oon  "  and  simple  in  his  '^  nature,  the  wikked- 
nesse  of  men  departeth  it  and  devydeth  it; 
and  whan  they  enforcen  hem  ^^  to  geten '' 
partye  '*  of  a  thing  that  ne  hath  no  part,  they 
ne  geten  hem  neither  thilke  '■  partye  that  nis 
non,'*  ne  the  thing  al  hooP°  that  they  ne  desire 
nat." 

"In  which  manere?"  quod  I. 

"Thilke  man,"  quod  she,  "that  secheth  ^' 
richesses  to  fleen  povertee,  he  ne  travaileth  " 
him  nat  for  to  gete  "  power;  for  he  hath 
levere  ^^  ben  derk  and  vyl ;  and  eek  ^*  with- 
draweth  from  him-self  many  nature!  delyts, 
for  he  nolde  ^^  lese  ^°  the  moneye  that  he  hath 
assembled.  But  certes,  in  this  manere  he  ne 
geteth  him  nat  suffisaunce  that  power  for- 
leteth,"  and  that  molestie  ^*  prikketh,  and  that 
filthe  maketh  out-cast,  and  that  derkenesse 
hydeth.  And  certes,  he  that  desireth  only 
power,  he  wasteth  and  scatereth  richesse,  and 
despyseth  delyts,  and  eek  ^^  honour  that  is 
withoute  power,  ne  he  ne  preyseth  ^*  glorie 
no-thing.^"  Certes,  thus  seest  thou  wel,  that 
man  ye  thinges  faylen  to  him ;  for  he  hath  som- 
tyme  defaute  of  many  necessitees,  and  many 
anguisshes  byten  ''  him ;  and  whan  he  ne  may 
nat  don  '-  tho  ^^  defautes  a-wey,  he  forleteth  " 
to  ben  mighty,  and  that  is  the  thing  that  he 
most  desireth.  And  right  thus  may  I  maken 
semblable  ^*  resouns  ^^  of  honours,  and  of 
glorie,  and  of  delyts.  For  so  as  every  of  thise 
forseyde  *  thinges  is  the  same  that  thise  other 

'  external  ^  pleasant  ^  whence  *  sorrow  *  such 
*  must  ^  if  *  aforesaid  ^  true  i®  their  ^^  necessarily 
12  that  "then  '« one  'Mts  i^  them  ^^  get  »» part 
'^  none  ^o  whole  21  seeks  22  hibors  23  jjefer,  rather 
2*  also  26  would  not  28  jggg  27  forsakes  28  annoyance 
25  praises,  esteems  ^^  not  at  all  ^'  bite  ^2  put 
23  those       ^*  similar        ^^  arguments 


TRANSLATION    OF   BOETHIUS 


1=; 


thinges  ben,  that  is  to  seyn,  al  oon  thing,  who-so 
that  ever  seketh  to  geten  that  '  oon  of  thise, 
and  nat  that '  other,  he  ne  geteth  nat  that '  he 
desireth." 

Boece.  "What  seyst  thou  thanne,  yif  that  a 
man  coveiteth  to  geten  alle  thise  thinges  to- 
gider?" 

Philosophie.  "Certes,"  quod  she,  "I  wolde 
seye,  that  he  wolde  geten  him  sovereyn  ^  bhs- 
fulnesse;  but  that  shal  he  nat  finde  in  tho 
thinges  that  I  have  shewed,  that  ne  mowen  * 
nat  yeven  ^  that  ^  they  beheten."  ^ 

"Certes,  no,"  quod  I. 

"Thanne,"  quod  she,  "ne  sholden  men  nat 
by  no  wey  seken  '  blisfulnesse  in  swiche  thinges 
as  men  wene  *  that  they  ne  mowen  *  yeven  ^  but 
o  "  thing  senglely '"  of  alle  that  men  seken." 

"I  graunte  wel,"  quod  I;  "ne"  no  sother  '^ 
thing  ne  may  ben  sayd." 

"Now  hast  thou  thanne,"  quod  she,  "the 
forme  and  the  causes  of  false  welefulnesse. 
Now  tome  '^  and  flitte  '■*  the  eyen  of  thy 
thought ;  for  ther  shalt  thou  sen  ^^  anon '"  thilke 
verray"  blisfulnesse  that  I  have  bihight^^ 
thee." 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "it  is  deer  and  open, 
thogh  it  were  to  a  blinde  man ;  and  that  shew- 
edest  thou  me  ful  wel  a  litel  her-biforn,  whan 
thou  enforcedest  thee  to  shewe  me  the  causes 
of  the  false  blisfulnesse.  For  but-yif '°  I  be 
bigyled,  thanne  is  thilke  ^"  the  verray  blisful- 
nesse parfit,-^  that  parfitly  maketh  a  man 
suffisaunt,  mighty,  honourable,  noble,  and  ful 
of  gladnesse.  And,  for  thou  shalt  wel  knowe 
that  I  have  wel  understonden  thise  thinges 
with-in  my  herte,  I  knowe  wel  that  thilke  blis- 
fulnesse, that  may  verrayly  yeven  *  oon  of  the 
forseyde  thinges,  sin  ^-  they  ben  al  oon,  I 
knowe,  douteles,  that  thilke  thing  is  the  fulle 
blisfulnesse." 

Philosophie.  "O  my  norie,"  ^^  quod  she, 
"by  this  opinioun  I  seye  '^  that  thou  art  blisful, 
yif  thou  putte  this  ther-to  that  I  shal  seyn."  ^'^ 

"What  is  that?"  quod  I. 

"Trowest^^  thou  that  ther  be  any  thing  in 
thise  erthely  mortal  toumbling  thinges  that 
may  bringen  this  estat?" 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "I  trowe  it  naught;  ^^  and 
thou  hast  shewed  me  wel  that  over"  thilke 
good  ther  nis  no-thing  more  to  ben  desired." 


'  the  ^  what         ^  supreme 

*  promise     '  seek     *  think      ^  one 
'2  truer        ''  turn        '*  flit,  move 


*  may        *  give 
'°  singly       •'  nor 

..  „^.  ^„...  ^^.,  ...^ 'see       **  at  once 

"  true  '8  promised  '^  unless  ^°  that,  that  same 
-'  perfect  ^^  since  *^  nursling  ^*  say  ^^  believest 
^  not     ^''  beyond 


"Thise  thinges  thanne,"  quod  she,  "that  is 
to  sey,  erthely  suffisaunce  and  power  and 
swiche  '  thinges,  cither  they  semen  -  lykenesses 
of  verray  ^  good,  or  ellcs  it  scmcth  that  they 
yeve  to  mortal  folk  a  maner  of  goodes  that  ne 
ben  nat  parfit;  but  thilke  good  that  is  verray 
and  parfit,'  that  may  they  nat  yeven." 

"I  acorde  me  wel,"  quod  I. 

"Thanne,"  quod  she,  "for  as  mochel  *  as 
thou  hast  knowen  which  is  thilke  verray  blisful- 
nesse, and  eek  *  whiche  '  thilke  thinges  ben 
that  lyen  *  falsly  blisfulnesse,  that  is  to  seyn, 
that  by  deceite  semen  ^  verray  goodes,  now 
behoveth  thee  to  knowe  whennes  *  and  where 
thou  mowe  '"  seke  thilke  verray  blisfulnesse." 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "that  desire  I  greetly, 
and  have  abiden  "  longe  tyme  to  herknen  it." 

"But  for  as  moche,"  quod  she,  "as  it  lyketh'^ 
to  my  disciple  Plato,  in  his  book  of  'in  Timeo,' 
that  in  right  litel  thinges  men  sholden  bisechen^-' 
the  help  of  God,  what  jugest  thou  that  be  now 
to  done,'^  so  that  we  may  deserve  to  finde  the 
sete  '^  of  thilke  verray  good?" 

"Certes,"  quod  I,  "I  deme  '^  that  we  shollen 
clepen  ^'  the  Fader  of  alle  goodes;  for  with- 
outen  him  nis  ther  no-thing  founden  a-right." 

"Thou  seyst  a-right,"  quod  she;  and  bigan 
anon  to  singen  right  thus :  — 

METRE  IX 

"O  thou  Fader,  creator  of  hevene  and  of 
erthes,  that  governest  this  world  by  perdur- 
able '*  resoun,  that  comaundest  the  tymes  to 
gon  '^  from  ^^  sin  -'  that  age  ^^  hadde  beginninge ; 
thou  that  dwellest  thy-self  ay  stedefast  and 
stable,  and  yevest  ^^  alle  othre  thinges  to  ben 
moeved ;  ^*  ne  foreine  ^^  causes  necesseden  ^° 
thee  never  to  compoune''  werk  of  floteringe -' 
matere,  but  only  the  forme  of  soverein-'  good 
y-set  with-in  thee  with-oute  envye,  that  moevede 
thee  freely.  Thou  that  art  alder-fayrest,^"  beringe^' 
the  faire  world  in  thy  thought,  formedest  ^^  this 
world  to  the  lykenesse  semblable  of  that  faire 
world  in  thy  thought.  Thou  drawest  al  thing 
of  thy  soverein^'ensaumpler,^^  and  comaundest 
that  this  world,  parfitliche  ^^  y-maked,^*  have 

'  such  2  socm  3  true  *  perfect  *  much  ®  also 
7  of  what  sort  ®  lie,    impersonate  "  whence 

■"  mayst  "  abided,  waited  '^  pleases  i^  beseech 
i*do        15  ggat    (-iwelling-place  i^ju^ge        i' call 

upon,  pray  to  '«  everlasting  i*  go  ^o  forward 
2>  since  ^2  finite  time  ^3  givest  ^*  moved  ^  external 
28  compelled  ^^  compose  -*  fluid  ^^  supreme  '°  fairest 
of  all  3'  bearing  ^^  djdst  form  ^^  model  **  perfectly 
^^  made,  formed 


i6 


REGINALD    PECOCK 


freely  and  absolut  his  parfit  parties.'  Thou 
bindest  the  elements  by  noumbres  propor- 
cionables,  that  the  colde  thinges  mowen  ^ 
acorden  with  the  bote  thinges,  and  the  dr}-e 
thinges  with  the  moiste  thinges;  that  the  fyr, 
that  is  purest,  ne  flee  ^  nat  over  hye,  ne  that 
the  hevinesse  ne  drawe  nat  adoun  over  lowe 
the  erthes  that  ben  plounged  in  the  wateres. 
Thou  knittest  to-gider  the  mene  *  sowle  of 
treble  kinde,  moevinge  ^  alle  thinges,  and 
devydest  it  by  membrcs  acordinge;  and  whan 
it  is  thus  devyded,  it  hath  asembled  a  moe- 
vinge ^  in-to  two  roundes;  *  it  goth  to  tome  ^ 
ayein  *  to  him-self,  and  envirouneth  a  ful  deep 
thought,  and  tometh  *  the  hevene  by  sem- 
blable  '"  image.  Thou  by  evene-lyke  "  causes 
enhansest  the  sowles  and  the  lasse '-  Ip'es,  and, 
ablinge  '^  hem  heye  '^  by  lighte  cartes,'^  thou 
sowest  '*  hem  in-to  hevene  and  in-to  erthe;  and 
whan  they  ben  converted "  to  thee  by  thy 
benigne  lawe,  thou  makest  hem  retome  ayein  '* 
to  thee  by  ayein-ledinge  ''  fyr. 

"O  Fader,  yive  ^^  thou  to  the  thought  to 
styen  ^'  up  in-to  thy  streite  ^^  sete,-^  and  graunte 
him  to  enviroune  the  welle  of  good;  and,  the 
lighte  y-founde,  graunte  him  to  fichen  ^^  the 
clere  sightes  of  his  corage  '^  in  thee.  And 
scaler  thou  and  to-breke  -*  thou  the  weightes 
and  the  cloudes  of  erthely  hevinesse,  and 
shyne  thou  by  thy  brightnesse.  For  thou  art 
cleemesse;  thou  art  peysible  "  reste  to  debo- 
naire  ^^  folk ;  thou  thy-self  art  biginninge, 
berer,  leder,  path,  and  terme ;  ^°  to  loke  on 
thee,  that  is  our  ende."  ^^ 


REGINALD    PECOCK  (i395?-i46o?) 

THE    REPRESSOR    OF    OVER    MUCH 
BLAMING   OF  THE   CLERGY 

P.^RT  I.     CH.\P.  XIII 

A  greet  cause  whi  thei  of  the  lay  parti  which 
ban  ^'  usid  the  hool  ^-  Bible  or  oonli  the  Newe 
Testament  in  her  modris  ^^  langage  han  ^' 
holde  ^'  the  seid  ^*  opinioun  was  this,  that  the 

*  parts  2  may  »  fly  *  mean,  middle  «  mov- 
ing »  orbs  '  turn  »  back  »  turns  'o  similar 
»'  like  12  lesser  w  abling,  raising  "  high  >=  vehi- 
cles (for  the  souls)  "  plantest  >^  turned  i*  ^gain 
i»  reductive,  leading  back  20  gj^g,  grant  21  mount 
22  narrow  23  seat  24  g^  25  ^gart  26  break  to  pieces 
27  peaceful  28  right-thoughted  2«  gnd  ^o  purpose 
3'  have     32  whole     ^^  mothers'     ^*  held     "^  gaid 


reeding  in  the  Bible,  namelich  '  in  the  his- 
torial  parties  of  the  Oold  Testament  and  of  the 
Newe,  is  miche  ^  delectable  and  sweete,  and 
drawith  the  reders  into  a  devocioun  and  a  love 
to  God  and  fro  love  and  deinte  ^  of  the  world; 
as  y  *  have  had  her-of  experience  upon  suche 
reders  and  upon  her  ^  now-seid  "  disposicioun. 
And  thanne  bi-cause  that  the  seid  reeding  was 
to  hem  so  graceful,  and  so  delectable,  and  into 
the  seid  *  eende  so  profitable,  it  fil  into  her  ^ 
conceit  '  forto  trowe  *  ful  soone,  enformjTig 
and  tising  ^  ther-to  unsufficient[l]i  leemed 
clerkis,  that  God  had  mad  or  purveied  the 
Bible  to  mennis  bihove '°  after  '^  as  it  were  or 
bi  the  utterist  '^  degre  of  his  power  and  kun- 
n)Tig  "  for  to  so  ordej-ne,  and  therfore  al  the 
hoole  "  Bible  (or,  as  summen  trowiden,'^  the 
Newe  Testament)  schulde  conte>Tie  al  that  is 
to  be  doon  in  the  lawe  and  service  to  God  bi 
Cristen  men,  withoute  nede  to  have  ther-with 
eny  doctrine."  Yhe,''  and  if  y  *  schal  seie '* 
what  hath  be  ''  seid  to  myn  owne  heering, 
sotheli  ^°  it  hath  be  seid  to  me  thus,  "that 
nevere  man  errid  bi  reding  or  studijng  in  the 
Bible,  neither  eny  man  myghte  erre  bi  reeding 
in  the  Bible,  and  that  for  such  cause  as  is  now 
seid:"  notwithstonding  that  ther  is  no  book 
writen  in  the  world  bi  which  a  man  schal  rather 
take  an  occasioun  forto  erre,  and  that  for  ful 
gode  and  open  trewe  causis,  whiche  ben  spoken 
and  expressid  in  the  ij.  parti  -'  of  the  book 
clepid  ^^  The  Just  Apprising  o/Holi  Scripture}^ 
But  certis  thei  tooken  her  ^  mark  amys:  for 
thei  puttiden  ^^al  her  mot>'\'e^^in  her  affeccioun 
or  wil  forto  so  trowe ;  *  and  not  in  her  ^  intel- 
leccioun  or  resoun;  and  in  lijk  maner  doon 
wommen,  for  thei  reulen  hem  silf  as  it  were  in 
alle  her  govemauncis  aftir  her  affeccioun  and 
not  aftir  resoun,  or  more  aftir  affeccioun  than 
after  doom  ^^  of  resoun;  bicause  that  affeccioun 
in  hem  is  ful  strong  and  resoun  in  hem  is  litle, 
as  for  the  more  parti  of  wommen. 

And  therfore  even  right  as  a  man  jugid 
amys  and  were  foule  begilid  and  took  his 
mark  amys,  if  he  schulde  trowe  that  in  hony 
were  al  the  cheer,  al  the  comfort,  al  the  thrift 
which  is  in  al  other  mete,  bi-cause  that  hony  is 
swettist  to  him  of  alle  othere  metis;  so  he  is 
begilid  and  takith  his  mark  amys,  if  he  therfore 

'  especially  2  much,  very  ^  delight  *  I  ^  their 
"  said  7  imagination  *  believe  ^  enticing 

'"behoof  ''according  '2  uttermost  '^  ability 
'^  whole  '« believed  '6  teaching  "^  yea  ^8  say 
10  been  20  truly  21  part  22  called  23  a  book  by 
Pecock 


'  truly 
put      25  motive       26  ^jgcision 


THE    REPRESSOR    OF    OVER    MUCH    BLAMING    OF    THE    CLERGY      17 


trowe  thai  in  Iloli  Scripture  is  al  tlie  doctrine 
necessarie  to  man  for  to  serve  God  and  forlo 
kepe  his  lawe;  bi  cause  that  Holi  Scripture 
is  so  miche  '  delectable,  and  for  ^  that  bi  thilk  ^ 
delectacioun  he  bringith  yn  myche  cheer  and 
coumfort  and  strengthith  the  wil  forto  the  more 
do  and  suffre  for  God.  And  so  me  thinkith 
to  suche  men  good  counseil  were  forto  seie  to 
hem,  that  thei  be  waar  of  childrenys  perel,^ 
which  is  that  bi-cause  children  loven  sweete 
meetis  and  drinkis  ful  miche,  therfore  whanne 
thei  comen  to  feestis  thei  feeden  hem  with 
sweete  stonding-potagis  ^  and  with  sweete 
bake-metis,^  and  leven '  othere  substancial 
and  necessarie  metis;  trowing  *  that  bi  so 
miche  tho  *  sweete  meetis  ben  the  more  holsum, 
how  miche  more  thei  ben  swetter  than  othere 
metis:  and  therfore  at  the  laste  thei  geten  to 
hem  therbi  bothe  losse  of  dewe  nurisching  and 
also  sumtyme  vilonie.'"  Certis  in  Ujk  maner  y 
have  wiste  suche  men,  that  han  '^  so  over 
miche  '^  yeven  hem  "  to  reding  in  the  Bible 
aloone,  have  gete  to  hem  losse  "  of  sufficient 
and  profitable  leernj-ng  which  in  other  wheris  '* 
thei  mighten  have  gete,'"  and  also  vilonie  forto 
avowe  and  warante  that  thei  couthen  "  the 
trewe  sentence  '^  and  trewe  understonding  of 
the  Bible,  whanne  and  where  thei  not  couthen  "* 
so  understonde,  neither  couthen  '*  mentene  ^° 

*  much,  very  ^  because  ^  that  same  *  peril, 
danger  *  A  dish  made  variously  of  boiled  apples, 
sweet  wine,  honey  or  sugar  and  currants,  almonds, 
etc.  Recipes  are  given  in  Two  Fifteenth  Century 
Cook-books,   pp.   15  and  29.  *  pics  and  pasties 

^neglect  *  thinking  *  those  *°  injury  ^' have 
•2  much  '^  devoted  themselves  '*  loss  '^  whcres,  i.e. 
places  '*got  i^knew  '^  meaning    '*  could  20  maintain 


what  thei  ther  ynnc  undersiodcn,  and  also 
forto  avowe  and  warante  that  in  the  Bible 
were  miche  more  and  profitabiler  and  of  other 
soort  kunnyng  '  than  can  ther-yn  be  founde. 
And  therfore  to  alle  suche  men  mai  be  seid 
what  is  seid  Proverbs  XXV.''  c.^  in  sentence 
thus:  TJioH  hast  founde  hony,  ete  therof  what 
is  ynougli  and  no  more;  lest  thou  ovirfillid 
caste  it  up  out  ayen,^  and  thanne  is  it  to  thee 
vilonie:  and  what  is  wrilen  aftir  in  the  same 
chapiter  there  in  sentence  thus:  Forto  ete 
miche  of  hony  is  not  good  to  the  cter.  So  that 
whanne-evere  thou  takist  upon  thee  forto 
understonde  ferther  in  the  Bible  than  thi  wit  * 
may  or  can  thcrto  suffice  withoute  help  of  a 
substancial  clerk,  thanne  etist  thou  of  hony 
more  than  ynough,  and  doost  ayens^  the 
bidding  of  Seint  Poul,  Romans  xij®.  c.  scone 
after  the  bigynnyng.*  And  whanne  thou 
attendist  forto  leerne  Holi  Scripture,  and 
attendist  not  ther-with  forto  have  eny  other 
leernyng  of  philsophie  or  of  divynite,  bi  thin 
owne  studie  in  bookis  ther-of  maad  '  or  bi 
teching  and  informacioun  of  sum  sad  clerk  ** 
yovun  *'  to  thee,  thanne  thou  etist  hony  aloon 
and  feedist  thee  with  hony  oonli.  And  this 
feding  schal  turne  into  thin  '°  unhoolsumnes," 
right  as  if  thou  schuldist  ete  in  bodili  maner 
noon  other  mete  than  hony,  it  schulde  not  be 
to  thee  hoolsum. 


'  knowledge  ^  Chap.  25  ^  again  *  intelligence 
5  against  ^  Romans  1 2  :  3-6  ^  made  *  trustworth  j 
scholar  ^  given   '"  thine  i"  ill  health 


THE  END  OF  THE   MIDDLE  AGES 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  (i4oo?-i47o) 

LE   MORTE   DARTHUR 
BOOK  XXI.     CAPITULUM  IIIJ 

Than   were   they   condesended  ^   that   kyng 
Arthure  and  Syr  Mordred  shold  mete  betwyxte 
bothe   theyr  hoostes,   and   everyche   of  them 
shold  brynge  fourtene  persones ;  and  they  came 
wyth   thys   word    unto   Arthure.     Than    sayd 
he,  "I  am  glad  that  thys  is  done."     And  so  he 
wente   in   to   the    felde.     And   whan    Arthure 
shold  departe,  he  warned  al  hys  boost  that, 
and^  they  see  ony  swerde  drawen,  "Look  ye 
come  on  fyersly,^  and  slee  that  traytour  Syr 
Mordred,    for   I   in   noo   wyse   truste    hym." 
In  lyke  wyse  Syr  Mordred  warned  his  boost 
that,  "And^  ye  see  ony  swerde  drawen,  look 
that  ye  come  on  fyersly,^  and  soo  slee  *  alle  that 
ever  before  you  stondeth,  for  in  no  wyse  I  wyl 
not  truste  for  thys  treatyse ;  '^  for  I  knowe  wel 
my  fader  wyl  be  avenged  on  me."     And  soo 
they  mette  as  theyr  poyntemente  *  was,  and 
so  they  were  agreyd  and  accorded  thorouly; 
and  wyn  was  fette'  and  they  dranke.     Ryght 
soo   came   an   adder  oute   of   a   lytel   hethe  ^ 
busshe,  and  hyt  stonge  a  knyght  on  the  foot; 
and  whan   the  knyght  felte  hym''  stongen,  he 
looked  doun  and  sawe  the  adder,  and  than  he 
drewe  his  swerde  to  slee  the  adder,  and  thought 
of  none  other  harme.     And  whan  the  boost  on 
bothe  partyes  '"  saw  that  swerde  drawen,  than 
they  blewe  beamous,"  trumpettes,  and  homes, 
and  shouted  grymly.'      And  so  bothe  hoostes 
dressyd  '^  hem  '^  to-gyders.'*     And  kyng  Arthur 
took  his  hors  and  sayd,  "Alias!   thys  unhappy 
day,"    and  so   rode   to   his   partye;     and   Syr 
Mordred  in  like  wyse.     And  never  was  there 
seen  a  more  doolfuUer  bataylle  in  no  Crysten 


*  agreed  ^  if  ^  fiercely  *  slay  '  treaty  ^  appoint- 
ment ^  fetched  ^  heather  ^  himself  ^°  sides  ''  trum- 
pets or  horns  '^  arranged,  arrayed  i^  themselves 
^*  together 


londe ;  for  there  was  but  russhyng  and  rydjTig, 
fewnyng '  and  strykyng,  and  many  a  gr)Tnme 
worde  was  there  spoken  eyder  ^  to  other,  and 
many  a  dedely  stroke.  But  ever  kyng  Arthur 
rode  thorugh-oute  the  bataylle  of  Syr  Mordred 
many  t>Tnes,  and  dyd  ful  nobly  as  a  noble 
kyng  shold,  and  at  al  t>Tnes  he  faynted  never, 
and  Syr  Mordred  that  day  put  hym  in  devoyr  ^ 
and  in  grete  perylle. 

And  thus  they  faughte  alle  the  longe  day,  and 

never  stynted'   tyl    the  noble  knyghtes  were 

layed  to  the  colde  erthe ;   and  ever  they  faught 

stylle  tyl  it  was  nere  nyghte,  and  by  that  tyme 

was  there  an  hondred  thousand  layed  deed* 

upon  the  down.      Thenne  was  Arthure  wode  « 

wrothe  oute  of  mesure,  whan  he  sawe  his  peple 

so  sla>Ti  from  hym.     Thenne  the  kyng  loked 

aboute  hym,  and  thenne  was  he  ware,'  of   al 

hvs  boost  and  of  al  his  good  knyghtes  were 

lehe  no  moo  on  \ywe  *  but  two  knyghtes,  that 

one  was  Syr  Lucan  de  Butlere,  and  his  broder 

Syr  Bedwere ;  and  they  were  ful  sore  wounded. 

"Jhesu,  mercy,"  sayd  the  kyng,  "where  are 

al  my  noble  knyghtes  becomen?     Alas!    that 

ever  I  shold  see  thys  dolefull  day,  for  now," 

sayd  Arthur,  "I  am  come  to  myn  ende.     But 

wolde  to  God  that  I  wyste  »  where  were   that 

traytour  Syr  Mordred  that  hath  caused  alle 

thys   meschyef."     Thenne   was   kyng   Arthure 

ware   where   Syr  Mordred   lenyd '"   upon   his 

swerde   emonge   a   grete   hepe   of  deed   men. 

"  Now  gwe  me  my  spere,"  sayd  Arthur  unto 

Syr  Lucan,   "for  yonder  I  have  espyed  the 

traytour  that   alle   thys  woo  hath   wrought." 

"Syr,  late''  hj-m  be,"  sayd  S>t  Lucan,  "for 

he  is  unhappy;   and  yf  ye  passe  thys  unhappy 

day,  ye  shalle  be  ryght  wel  revengyd  upon  hym. 

Good    lord,    remembre    ye    of    your    nyghtes 

dreme,  and  what  the  spyryte  of  Syr  Gauwayn 

tolde   you   this   nyght,   yet   God   of  his   grete 

goodnes  hath  preserved  you  hyderto;    therfore 

for  Goddes  sake,  my  lord,  leve  of  '^  by  thys,'' 

for  blessyd  by  '^  God,  ye  have  wonne  the  felde ; 

1  foining,  thrusting       ^  either        ^  duty       *  ceased 
^  dead         *  crazy  '  aware  *  alive  *  knew 

">  leaned     "  let      >=  leave  off      '^  at  this  point      "  be 


LE    MORTE    DARTHUR 


19 


for  here  we  ben  thre  on  lyve/  and  wyth  Syr 
Mordred  is  none  on  lyve.  And  yf  ye  leve  of  ^ 
now,  thys  wycked  day  of  desleynye  is  paste." 
"Tyde  me  deth,  betyde  me  lyf,"  sayth  the  kyng, 
"now  I  see  hym  yonder  allone,  he  shal  never 
escape  myn  handes;  for  at  a  better  avaylle  ^ 
shal  I  never  have  hym."  "God  spede  you 
wel,"  sayd  Syr  Bedwere.  Thenne  the  kyng 
gate  hys  spere  in  bothe  his  handes,  and  ranne 
toward  Syr  Mordred  cryeng,  "Tratour,  now 
is  thy  deth  day  come."  And  whan  Syr  Mor- 
dred herde  Syr  Arthur,  he  ranne  untyl  ■*  hym 
with  his  swerde  drawen  in  his  hande.  And 
there  kyng  Arthur  smote  Syr  Mordred  under 
the  shelde  wyth  a  foyne  ''  of  his  spere  thorugh- 
oute  the  body  more  than  a  f adorn.*  And  whan 
Syr  Mordred  felte  that  he  had  hys  dethes 
wounde,  he  thryst  ^  hym  self  wyth  the  myght 
that  he  had  up  to  the  bur'  of  kynge  Arthurs 
spere.  And  right  so  he  smote  his  fader  Arthur 
wyth  his  swerde  holden  in  bothe  his  handes,  on 
the  syde  of  the  heed,  that  the  swerde  persyd  * 
the  helmet  and  the  brayne  panne,®  and  ther- 
wythall  Syr  Mordred  fyl '"  starke  deed  to  the 
erthe.  And  the  nobyl  Arthur  fyl  in  a  swoune 
to  the  erthe,  and  there  he  swouned  ofte  tymes. 
And  Syr  Lucan  de  Butlere  and  Syr  Bedwere 
oftymes  heve  "  hym  up;  and  soo  waykely '^ 
they  ledde  hym  betwyxte  them  bothe  to  a  lytel 
chapel  not  ferre  '^  from  the  see  syde.  And 
whan  the  kyng  was  there,  he  thought  hym 
wel  eased. 

Thenne  herde  they  people  crye  in  the  felde. 
"Now  goo  thou,  Syr  Lucan,"  sayd  the  kyng, 
"and  do  '''  me  to  wyte  '^  what  bytokenes  that 
noyse  in  the  felde."  So  Syr  Lucan  departed, 
for  he  was  grevously  wounded  in  many  places. 
And  so  as  he  yede,"*  he  sawe  and  herkened  by 
the  mone  lyght,  how  that  pyllars  and  robbers 
were  comen  in  to  the  felde  to  pylle  and  rol)be 
many  a  ful  noble  knyghte  of  brochys  and 
bedys,  of  many  a  good  rynge,  and  of  many  a 
ryche  jewel;  and  who  that  were  not  deed  al 
oute,"  there  they  slewe  theym  for  theyr  barneys'* 
and  theyr  rychesse.  Whan  Syr  Lucan  under- 
stode  thys  werke,  he  came  to  the  kyng  assone 
as  he  myght,  and  tolde  hym  al  what  he  had 
herde  and  seen.  "Therfore,  be  my  rede,"  '®  sayd 
Syr  Lucan,  "it  is  beste  that  we  brynge  you  to 
somme  towne."  "I  wolde  it  were  soo,"  sayd 
the  kyng. 

*  alive  2  o£f  ^  opportunity  *  unto  ^  thrust 
6  fathom  ^  handle  s  pierced  » skull  "*  fell 
'•raised  '^weakly,  weak  '^  far  **  cause  '^know 
"went       "  entirely       '^  armor    1°  by  my  advice 


CAPITULUM  V 

"But  I  may  not  stonde,  myn  hede  werches ' 
soo.  A,  Syr  Launcelot,"  sayd  kyng  Arthur, 
"thys  day  have  I  sore  myst  the.  Alas!  that 
ever  I  was  ayenst  ^  the,  for  now  have  I  my 
dethe,  wherof  Syr  Gauwayn  me  warned  in  my 
dreme."  Than  Syr  Lucan  took  up  the  kyng 
the  one  parte,  and  Syr  Bedwere  the  other  parte, 
and  in  the  lyftyng  the  kyng  sowned,^  and  Syr 
Lucan  fyl  in  a  sowne  '  wyth  the  lyfte,  that  the 
parte  of  his  guttes  fyl  oute  of  his  bodye.  And 
therwyth  the  noble  knyghtes  herte  braste.^ 
And  whan  the  kyng  awake,  he  behelde  Syr 
Lucan  how  he  laye  foomyng  at  the  mowth,  and 
parte  of  his  guttes  laye  at  his  feet.  "Alas!" 
sayd  the  kyng,  "thys  is  to  me  a  ful  hevy  syght 
to  see  thys  noble  duke  so  deye  for  my  sake,  for 
he  wold  have  hoi  pen  me  that  had  more  nede 
of  helpe  than  I.  Alas !  he  wold  not  com- 
playne  hym,  hys  herte  was  so  sette  to  helpe 
me.  Now  Jhesu  have  mercy  upon  hys  soule." 
Than  Syr  Bedwere  wepte  for  the  deth  of  his 
brother.  "Leve  thys  mornyng  and  wepyng," 
sayd  the  kyng,  "for  al  this  wyl  not  avaylle  me; 
for  wyte  "  thou  wel,  and  '  I  myght  lyve  my  self, 
the  deth  of  Syr  Lucan  wolde  greve  me  ever 
more,  but  my  tyme  hyeth  **  fast,"  sayd  the 
kyng.  "Therfore,"  sayd  Arthur  unto  Syr 
Bedwere,  "take  thou  Excalybur,  my  good 
swerde,  and  goo  with  it  to  yonder  water  syde, 
and  whan  thou  comest  there,  I  charge  the* 
throwe  my  swerde  in  that  water,  and  come 
ageyn  and  telle  me  what  thou  there  seest." 
"My  lord,"  sayd  Bedwere,  "your  commaunde- 
ment  shal  be  doon,  and  lyghtly  brynge  you 
worde  ageyn." 

So  Syr  Bedwere  departed,  and  by  the  waye 
he  behelde  that  noble  swerde,  that  the  pomel 
and  the  hafte  was  al  of  precyous  stones;  and 
thenne  he  sayd  to  hym  self,  "Yf  I  throwe  this 
ryche  swerde  in  the  water,  therof  shal  never 
come  good,  but  harme  and  losse."  And 
thenne  Syr  Bedwere  hydde  Excalybur  under 
a  tree.  And  so  as  sone  as  he  myght  he  came 
ageyn  unto  the  kyng,  and  sayd  he  had  ben  at 
the  water,  and  had  throwen  the  swerde  in  to 
the  water.  "What  sawe  thou  there?"  sayd 
the  kyng.  "Syr,"  he  sayd,  "I  sawe  no  thygne 
but  wawes"*  and  wyndes."  "That  isuntrewly 
sayd  of  the,"  "  sayd  the  kynge.  "Therfore 
goo  thou  lyghtelye  "  ageyn,  and  do  my  com- 

>  aches  ^  against  ^  swooned  *  swoon  ^  burst 
^  know  ''if  8  hastens  ^  thee  '"waves 

''  quickly 


20 


SIR   THOMAS    MALORY 


maundemente;  as  thou  arte  to  me  leef*  and 
dere,  spare  not  but  throwe  it  in."  Than  Syr 
Bedwere  retorned  ageyn,  and  took  the  swerde 
in  hys  hande,  and  than  hym  thought  synne  and 
shame  to  throwe  awaye  that  nobyl  swerde; 
and  so  efte  '  he  hydde  the  swerde,  and  retorned 
ageyn  and  tolde  to  the  kyng  that  he  had  ben 
at  the  water,  and  done  his  commaundemente. 
"What  sawe  thou  there?"  sayd  the  kyng. 
"Syr,"  he  sayd,  "I  sawe  no  thynge  but  the 
waters  wappe  ^  and  wawes  wanne."  ■*  "A, 
tra}1;our,  untrewe,"  sayd  kyng  Arthur,  "now 
hast  thou  betrayed  me  twyse.  Who  wold  have 
wente  *  that  thou  that  hast  been  to  me  so  leef  ' 
and  dere,  and  thou  arte  named  a  noble  knyghte, 
and  wold  betraye  me  for  the  richesse  of  the 
swerde?  But  now  goo  ageyn  lyghtly,  for  thy 
longe  taryeng  putteth  me  in  grete  jeopardye 
of  my  lyf,  for  I  have  taken  colde ;  and  but-yf  * 
thou  do  now  as  I  byd  the,  yf  ever  I  may  see 
the  I  shal  slee  '  the  '  myn  owne  handes,  for 
thou  woldest  for  my  ryche  swerde  see  me 
dede."  °  Thenne  Syr  Bedwere  departed,  and 
wente  to  the  swerde,  and  lyghtly  took  hit  up, 
and  wente  to  the  water  syde,  and  there  he 
bounde  the  gyrdyl  aboute  the  hyltes,  and 
thenne  he  threwe  the  swerde  as  farre  in  to  the 
water  as  he  myght.  And  there  cam  an  arme 
and  an  hande  above  the  water  and  mette  it, 
and  caught  it,  and  so  shoke  it  thryse  and 
braundysshed;  and  than  vanysshed  awaye 
the  hande  wyth  the  swerde  in  the  water.  So 
Syr  Bedwere  came  ageyn  to  the  kyng  and  tolde 
hym  what  he  sawe. 

"Alas!"  sayd  the  kyng,  "helpe  me  hens,'" 
for  I  drede  ''  me  I  have  taryed  over  longe." 
Than  Syr  Bedwere  toke  the  kyng  upon  his 
backe,  and  so  wente  wyth  hym  to  that  water 
syde,  and  whan  they  were  at  the  water  syde, 
evyn  fast  '^  by  the  banke  hoved  ''  a  lytyl  barge 
wyth  many  fayr  ladyes  in  hit,  and  emonge  hem 
al  was  a  queue,  and  al  they  had  blacke  hoodes, 
and  al  they  wepte  and  shryked  ^*  whan  they  sawe 
kyng  Arthur.  "Now  put  me  in  to  the  barge," 
sayd  the  kyng;  and  so  he  dyd  softelye.  And 
there  receyved  hym  thre  queues  wyih  grete 
mornyng,  and  soo  they  sette  hem  doun,  and  in 
one  of  their  lappes  kyng  Arthur  layed  hys 
heed,  and  than  that  quene  sayd,  "A,  dere 
broder,  why  have  ye  taryed  so  longe  from  me? 
Alas!  this  wounde  on  your  heed  hath  caught 
overmoche  colde."     And  soo  than  they  rowed 


'  beloved  ^  again  '  lap,  beat  *  grow  dark 
*  thought  "unless  ^  slay  ^  thee  "dead  '"  hp,i(,j. 
11  fear     12  close      13  hovered,  floated      i"*  shrieked 


from  the  londe,  and  Syr  Bedwere  behelde  all 
tho  '  ladyes  goo  from  hym.-  Than  Syr  Bed- 
were  cryed,  "A,  my  lord  Arthur,  what  shal 
become  of  me,  now  ye  goo  from  me  and  leve 
me  here  allone  emonge  myn  enemyes?" 
"Comfort  thy  self,"  sayd  the  kyng,  "and  doo 
as  wel  as  thou  mayst,  for  in  me  is  no  truste 
for  to  truste  in.  For  I  wyl  in  to  the  vale  of 
Avylyon,  to  hele  me  of  my  grevous  wounde. 
And  yf  thou  here  never  more  of  me,  praye  for 
my  soule."  But  ever  the  queues  and  ladyes 
wepte  and  shryched,'  that  hit  was  pyte'*  to 
here.  And  assone  as  Syr  Bedwere  had  loste 
the  syght  of  the  baarge,  he  wepte  and  waylled, 
and  so  took  the  foreste ;  ^  and  so  he  wente  al 
that  nyght,  and  in  the  mornyng  he  was  ware  * 
betwyxte  two  holtes  hore  '  of  a  chapel  and 
an  ermytage.* 

CAPITULUM   VJ 

Than  was  Syr  Bedwere  glad,  and  thyder  he 
wente;  and  whan  he  came  in  to  the  chapel, 
he  sawe  where  laye  an  heremyte  grovelyng  on  al 
foure,  there  fast  by  a  tombe  was  newe  graven. 
Whan  the  eremyte  sawe  Syr  Bedwere,  he  knewe 
hym  wel,  for  he  was  but  lytel  tofore  bysshop 
of  Caunterburye  that  Syr'Mordred  flemed." 
"Syr,"  sayd  Syr  Bedwere,  "what  man  is  there 
entred  that  ye  praye  so  fast  fore?"'"  "Fayr 
sone,"  sayd  the  heremyte,  "I  wote "  not 
verayly  but  by  my  demyyng."  But  thys  nyght, 
at  mydnyght,  here  came  a  nombre  of  ladyes 
and  broughte  hyder  a  deed  cors,'^  and  prayed 
me  to  berye  hym,  and  here  they  offeryd  an 
hondred  tapers,  and  they  gaf  me  an  hondred 
besauntes."  "  "Alas,"  sayd  Syr  Bedwere, 
"that  was  my  lord  kyng  Arthur  that  here 
lyeth  buryed  in  thys  chapel."  Than  Syr 
Bedwere  swowned,  and  whan  he  awoke  he 
prayed  the  heremyte  he  myght  abyde  wyth 
hym  stylle  '^  there,  to  lyve  wyth  fastyng  and 
prayers:  "For  from  hens'*  wyl  I  never  goo," 
sayd  Syr  Bedwere,  "by  my  wylle,  but  al  the 
dayes  of  my  lyf  here  to  praye  for  my  lord 
Arthur."  "Ye  are  welcome  to  me,"  sayd  the 
heremyte,  "for  I  knowe  you  better  than  ye 
wene"  that  I  doo.  Ye  are  the  bolde  Bedwere, 
and  the  ful  noble  duke  Syr  Lucan  de  Butlere 
was  your  broder."  Thenne  Syr  Bedwere 
tolde  the  heremyte  alle  as  ye  have  herde  to 

1  those  2  j.e.  Bedwere  '  shrieked  *  pity  *  forest 
^  he  perceived  ^  hoary  forests  *  hermitage  *  put  to 
flight  '"  for  11  know  i^  supposition  i^  corpse  ^*  gold 
coins       1^  always       i®  hence       i^  think 


WILLIAM    CAXTON 


21 


fore.  So  there  bode  '  Syr  Bedwere  with  the 
hermyte  that  was  tofore  bysshop  of  Caunter- 
bur}'e,  and  there  Syr  Bedwere  put  upon  hym 
poure  ^  clothes,  and  servyd  the  hermyte  ful 
lowly  in  fastyng  and  in  prayers. 

Thus  of  Arthur  I  fynde  never  more  wryton 
in  boook.es  that  ben  auctorysed,^  nor  more  of 
the  veray  certente  ^  of  his  deth  herde  I  never 
redde,  but  thus  was  he  ledde  aweye  in  a  shyppe 
wherin  were  thre  quenes:  that  one  was  kyng 
Arthurs  syster  quene  Morgan  le  Fay,  the  other 
was  the  quene  of  North  Galys,  the  thyrd  was 
the  quene  of  the  Waste  Londes.  Also  there 
was  Nynyve  the  chyef  Lady  of  the  Lake,  that 
had  wedded  Pelleas  the  good  knyght,  and  this 
lady  had  doon  moche  for  kyng  Arthur,  for  she 
wold  never  suffre  Syr  Pelleas  to  be  in  noo  place 
where  he  shold  be  in  daunger  of  his  lyf,  and 
so  he  lyved  to  the  uttermest  of  his  dayes  w}'th 
hyr  in  grete  reste.  More  of  the  deth  of  kyng 
Arthur  coude  I  never  fynde,  but  that  ladyes 
brought  hym  to  his  buryellys,'  and  suche  one 
was  buryed  there  that  the  hermyte  bare  wjt- 
nesse,  that  somtyme  was  bysshop  of  Caunter- 
burye,  but  yet  the  heremyte  knewe  not  in  cer- 
tayn  that  he  was  verayly  the  body  of  kyng 
Arthur,  for  thys  tale  Syr  Bedwere,  knyght  of 
the  Table  Rounde,  made  it  to  be  wryton. 

WILLIAM   CAXTON   (i422?-i49i) 

PREFACE  TO  THE  BOOKE  OF  ENEYDOS 

After  dyverse  werkes  made,  translated,  and 
achieved,  havyng  noo  *  werke  in  hande,  I 
sittyng  in  my  studye,  where-as  '  laye  many 
dyverse  paunflettis  '  and  bookys,  happened  that 
to  my  hande  cam  a  lytyl  booke  in  Frenshe, 
whiche  late  *  was  translated  oute  of  Latyn  by 
some  noble  clerke  of  Fraunce;  whiche  booke 
is  named  Eneydos,  made  in  Latyn  by  that  no- 
ble poete  and  grete  clerke  Vyrgyle.  Whiche 
booke  I  sawe  over  and  redde  therin  how,  after 
the  generall  destruccyon  of  the  grete  Troye, 
Eneas  departed,  berynge  his  olde  fader  An- 
chises  upon  his  sholdres,  his  lityl  son  Yolus 
on  '°  his  honde,"  his  wyfe  wyth  moche  other 
people  folowynge;  and  how  he  shypped  and 
departed ;  wyth  all  thystorye  '-  of  his  adventures 
that  he  had  or'^  he  cam  to  the  achievement  of 
his  conquest  of  Ytalye,  as  all  a-longe  shall  be 
shewed  in  this  present  iDoke.     In  whiche  booke 


abode     2  poor    3  authorized     *  certainty    *  tomb 
^  where     «  pamphlets     » lately     '°  in     "  hand 
le   history       i^  before 


I  had  grete  playsyr  by-cause  of  the  fayr  and 
honest  termes  and  wordes  in  Frenshe;  whyche 
I  never  sawe  to-fore  lyke,  ne  none  so  playsaunt 
ne  so  wel  ordred.  Whiche  booke,  as  me 
semed,  sholde  be  moche  '  requysyte  ^  to  noble 
men  to  see,  as  wel  for  the  eloquence  as  the 
hystoryes;  how  wel  that,  many  honderd 
yerys  passed,  was  the  sayd  booke  of  Eneydos 
wyth  other  werkes  made  and  lerned  dayly  in 
scolis,'  specyally  in  Ytalye  and  other  places; 
whiche  historye  the  sayd  Vyrgyle  made  in 
metre.  And  whan  I  had  advysed  me  in  this 
sayd  boke,  I  delybered  ^  and  concluded  to 
translate  it  in  to  Englysshe,  and  forthwyth 
toke  a  penne  and  ynke  and  wrote  a  leef'or 
tweyne,  whyche  I  oversawe  agayn  to  corecte 
it;  and  whan  I  sawe  the  fayr  and  straunge 
termes  therin,  I  doubted  ^  that  it  sholde  not 
please  some  gentylmen  whiche  late  blamed  me, 
sayeng  that  in  my  translacyons  I  had  over 
curyous  *  termes,  which  coude  not  be  under- 
stande  '  of  comyn  peple,  and  desired  me  to  use 
olde  and  homely  termes  in  my  translacyons. 
And  fayn  wolde  I  satysfye  every  man;  and, 
so  to  doo,  toke  an  olde  boke  and  redde  therin ; 
and  certaynly  the  Englysshe  was  so  rude  and 
brood  ^  that  I  coude  not  wele  understande  it ; 
and  also  my  lorde  abbot  of  Westmynster  ded 
so  shewe  to  me  late  certayn  evydences '  wryton 
in  olde  Englysshe  for  to  reduce  it  in  to  our 
Englysshe  now  used,  and  certaynly  it  was 
wreton  in  suche  wyse  that  it  was  more  lyke  to 
Dutche  than  Englysshe ;  I  coude  not  reduce  ne 
brynge  it  to  be  understonden.  And  certaynly 
our  langage  now  used  varyeth  ferre  '"  from  that 
whiche  was  used  and  spoken  whan  I  was  borne. 
For  we  Englysshe  men  ben  borne  under  the 
domynacyon  of  the  mone,  whiche  is  never 
stedfaste  but  ever  waverynge,  wexynge  one 
season  and  waneth  and  dyscreaseth  "  another 
season.  And  that  comyn  '-  Englysshe  that  is 
spoken  in  one  shyre  var}'eth  from  a-nother,  in 
so  moche  that  in  my  dayes  happened  that 
certayn  marchauntes  were  in  a  ship  in  Tamyse 
for  to  have  sayled  over  the  see  into  Zelande, 
and,  for  lacke  of  wjude,  thei  taryed  atte  '^ 
Forlond,  and  wente  to  lande  for  to  refreshe 
them.  And  one  of  theym  named  Sheffelde, 
a  mercer,  cam  in  to  an  hows  and  axed  for  mete 
and  specyally  he  axyd  after  eggys,  and  the 
goode  wyf  answerde  that  she  could  speke  no 
Frenshe.     And  the  marchaunt  was  angry,  for 

1  very  ^  requisite,  desirable  '  schools  *  de- 
liberated ^  feared  ^  curious,  ornate  ^  understood 
*  broad  ^  legal  documents  '"  far  "  decreases 
12  common     ^^  at  the 


22 


SIR    TOHX    BOURCniER,    LORD    BERXERS 


he  also  coude  speke  no  Frenshe,  but  wolde 
have  hadde  egges;  and  she  understode  hym 
not.  And  thenne  at  laste  a-nother  sayd  that 
he  wolde  have  eyren.'  Then  the  good  wyf 
sayd  that  she  understod  hym  wel.  Loo,-  what 
sholde  a  man  in  thyse  dayes  now  wr\-te,  egges, 
or  e>Ten  ?  Certa}-nly  it  is  hard  to  playse  every 
man,  by-cause  of  d\-\ersite  and  chaunge  of 
langage;  for  in  these  dayes  ever\'  man  that  is 
in  ony  reputacyon  in  his  countre  wyll  utter 
his  commynycacyon  and  maters  in  suche  maners 
and  termes  that  fewe  men  shall  understonde 
the\Tn.  And  som  honest  and  grete  clerkes  have 
ben  vryth  me  and  desired  me  to  wr^te  the  moste 
cun,-ous '  termes  that  I  coude  f\iide.  And  thus, 
betwene  plaTO,  rude,  and  curyous,  I  stande 
abasshed.  But  in  my  judgemente  the  comyn 
termes  that  be  dayly  used  ben  lyghter  to  be 
understonde  than  the  olde  and  aimcyent 
Englysshe.  And,  foras-moche  as  this  present 
booke  is  not  for  a  rude  uplondyssh*  man  to 
laboure  therein  ne  rede  it,  but  onely  for  a  clerke 
and  a  noble  gentylman  that  feleth  and  under- 
stondeth  in  faytes  ^  of  armes,  in  love,  and  in 
noble  chyvalr}-e,  therfor  in  a  meane  b\"twene 
bothe  I  have  reduced  and  translated  this  sayd 
booke  in  our  Englysshe,  not  over  rude  ne 
cur}-ous,  but  in  suche  termes  as  shall  be  under- 
standen,  by  Goddys  grace  accord\Tige  to  my 
copye.  And  yf  ony  man  wyll  entermete  *  in 
red}-ng  of  hit  and  fyndeth  suche  termes  that 
he  can  not  understande,  late  hym  goo  rede 
and  leme  V>Tgyll  or  the  Pystles  of  Ovyde,  and 
ther  he  shall  see  and  understonde  lyglitly  '  all, 
if  he  have  a  good  redar  and  enformer.  For  this 
booke  is  not  for  every  rude  and  unconnynge  * 
man  to  see,  but  to  clerkys  and  ver\-  °  gentyl- 
men,  that  understande  gentylnes  and  scyence. 
Thenne  I  praye  all  therai  that  shall  rede  in 
this  lytyl  treatys  to  holde  me  for  excused  for 
the  translatynge  of  hit,  for  I  knowleche  my- 
selfe  ignorant  of  con\Tige '"  to  enpryse  '*  on  me 
so  hie '-  and  noble  a  werke.  But  I  praye 
mayster  John  Skelton,  late  created  poete 
laureate  in  the  un)-A-ersite  of  Oxenford,  to 
oversee  and  correcte  this  sayd  booke  and 
taddresse  '^  and  expowne  where-as  '^  shalle  be 
founde  faulte  to  thex-m  that  shall  requyre  it, 
for  h}Tn  I  knowe  for  suffycycnt  to  expowne  and 
englysshe  every  dyflfyculte  that  is  therin,  for 
he  hath  late  translated  the  Epystlys  of  Tulle 
and  the  boke  of  Dyodorus  Syculus  and  diverse 

>  eggs  -\o  3  ornate,  artificial  *  country  *  deeds 
«  participate  ^  easily  8  ignorant  ^true,  real'  i"  ability 
»  take     "2  ijjgjj     13  to  arrange     "  wherever 


other  werkes  oute  of  Lat™  in  to  Englysshe. 
not  in  rude  and  olde  langage,  but  in  p.>lysshcd 
and  ornate  termes,  craftely,'  as  he  that  hath 
redde  \'yrgyle,  Ovyde,  Tullye,  and  all  the  other 
noble  poetes  and  oratours  to  me  unknowen; 
and  also  he  hath  redde  the  IX  muses  and 
understande  theyr  mttsicalle  scyences  and  to 
whom  of  the}Tn  eche  scyence  is  appropred,-  I 
suppose  he  hath  dronken  of  Elycons  well. 
Then  I  praye  hnn  and  suche  other  to  corn?cte, 
adde  or  myn\-sshe,^  v\-here-as  he  or  they  shall 
fxTide  faulte,  for  I  have  but  folowed  my  copye 
in  Frenshe  as  nygh  as  me  is  possyble.  And  yf 
ony  worde  be  sayd  therin  well,  I  am  glad ;  and 
yf  otherwyse,  I  submytte  my  sayde  boke  to 
the\T  correctyon.  Whiche  boke  I  presente 
unto  the  hye  bom  my  tocom\-nge  *  naturell 
and  soveraNTi  lord  Arthur,  by  the  grace  of  God 
Prynce  of  Walys,  Due  of  Cornewayll,  and  Erie 
of  Chester,  fyrst  bygoten  sone  and  heyer  * 
unto  our  most  dradde  *  naturall  and  soverayn 
lorde  and  most  Crysten  Kynge,  Henry  the  \TL 
by  the  grace  of  God  K\nige  of  Englonde  and  of 
Fraunce  and  lorde  of  Irelonde,  byseching  his 
noble  grace  to  receyve  it  in  thanke  of  me,  his 
moste  humble  subget  and  ser\aunt;  and  I 
shall  praye  unto  almvghty  God  for  his  pros- 
perous encreasyng  in  vertue,  w\"sedom,  and 
humanyte,  that  he  may  be  egal  ^  w\th  the  most 
renommed  *  of  alle  his  noble  progenytours, 
and  so  to  l\-\-e  in  this  present  lyf  that  after  this 
transitorve  lyfe  he  and  we  alle  may  come  to 
cverlastvnge  Ivf  in  heaven.     Amen  1 


SIR    JOHN   BOURCHIER,   LORD 
BERXERS    (1467-1533) 

THE    CROXVCLE    OF   SYR    JOHN 
FROISSART 

CAP.  CCCLXXXIII 

How  the  commons  of  Englande  entrcd  into  Lon- 
don, and  of  the  great  y veil  >^  that  they  dyde,  and  of 
the  dethe  of  the  b_\-sshoppe  of  Caunterbury  and  d\- 
vers  other. 

In  the  mornyng  on  Corpus  Christy  day 
kynge  Rycharde  herde  masse  in  the  towre  of 
London,  and  all  his  lordes,  and  than  he  toke 
his  barge,  with  therle  '"  of  Salisbury,  therle  of 
Warwyke,   the  erle   of   Suffolkc,   and   certara 


*  skillfully  -  assigned 
*  heir  *  dread  ^  equal 
>"  the  earl 


3  diminish        ■•  future 
8  renowned         '  e\il 


THE    CRONYCLE    OF    SYR    JOHN    FROISSART 


23 


knightes,  and  so  rowed  downe  alonge  Thames 
to  Redereth/  where  as  was  discended  downe 
the  hyll  a  x.M.'^  men  to  se  the  kyng  and  to  speke 
with  him.  And  whan  they  sawe  the  kynges 
barge  comyng,  they  beganne  to  showt,  and 
made  suche  a  cr}'e,  as  though  all  the  devylles 
of  hell  had  ben  amonge  them.  And  they  had 
brought  with  them  sir  Johan  Moton,  to  the 
entent  that  if  the  kynge  had  nat  come,  they 
wolde  have  stryken  hym  all  to  peces,  and  so 
they  had  promysed  hym.  And  whan  the  kynge 
and  his  lordes  sawe  the  demeanour  of  the 
people,  the  best  assured  of  them  were  in  drede. 
And  so  the  kynge  was  counsayled  by  his  bar- 
ownes  nat  to  take  any  landynge  there,  but  so 
rowed  up  and  downe  the  ryver.  And  the  kyng 
demaunded  of  them  what  they  wolde,  and  sayd, 
howe  he  was  come  thyder  to  speke  with  them ; 
and  they  said  all  with  one  voyce,  "We  wolde 
that  ye  shulde  come  a  lande,  and  than  we  shall 
shewe  you  what  we  lacke."  Than  the  erle 
of  Salisbury  aunswered  for  the  kyng  and  sayd, 
"  Sirs,  ye  be  nat  in  suche  order  nor  array  that 
the  kynge  ought  to  speke  with  you;"  and  so 
with  those  wordes,  no  more  sayd.  And  than 
the  kyng  was  counsayled  to  retume  agayne  to 
the  towre  of  London,  and  so  he  dyde.  And 
whan  these  people  sawe  that,  they  were  en- 
flamed  with  yre,  and  retourned  to  the  hyll  where 
the  great  bande  was,  and  ther  shewed  them 
what  answere  they  had,  and  howe  the  kynge 
was  retourned  to  the  towre  of  London.  Than 
they  crj-ed  all  with  one  voyce,  "Let  us  go  to 
London;"  and  so  they  toke  their  way  thyder. 
And  in  their  go\Tig  they  beate  downe  abbeyes 
and  houses  of  advocates,  and  of  men  of  the 
courte,  and  so  came  into  the  subbarbes  of 
London,  whiche  were  great  and  fayre,  and  ther 
bete  downe  d}wers  fayre  houses.  And  specially 
they  brake  up  the  kynges  prisones,  as  the 
Marshalse  and  other,  and  del\wered  out  all 
the  prisoners  that  were  within,  and  there  they 
dyde  moche  hurt;  and  at  the  bridge  fote  they 
thret  ^  them  of  London,  bycause  the  gates  of 
the  bridge  were  closed,  sayenge,  howe  they 
wolde  brenne  ^  all  the  subarbes,  and  so  conquere 
London  by  force,  and  to  slee  ^  and  brenne  all 
the  commons  of  the  cytie.  There  were  many 
within  the  cytie  of  their  accorde,*  and  so  they 
drewe  toguyder,  and  sayde,  "Why  do  we  nat 
let  these  good  people  entre  into  the  cyte? 
They  are  our  felowes,  and  that  that  they  do  is 
for  us."     So  therwith  the  gates  were  opyned, 


and  than  these  people  entred  into  the  cytie, 
and  went  into  houses,  and  satte  downe  to  eate 
and  drinke:  they  desyred  nothynge  but  it  was 
incontynent '  brought  to  them,  for  every  manne 
was  redy  to  make  them  good  chere,  and  to 
g)we  them  meate  and  drinke  to  apease  them. 
Than  the  capitajus,  as  John  Ball,  Jacke 
Strawe,  and  Watte  Tyler  wente  throughout 
London,  and  a  twentie  thousande  with  them, 
and  so  came  to  the  Savoy,  in  the  way  to  West- 
mynster,  whiche  was  a  goodlye  house,  and  it 
parteyned  -  to  the  duke  of  Lancastre.  And 
whan  they  entred,  they  slewe  the  kepars  therof, 
and  robbed  and  pylled  ^  the  house,  and  whan 
they  had  so  done,  than  they  sette  fyre  on  it,  and 
clene  distroyed  and  brent ''  it.  And  whan  they 
had  done  that  outrage,  they  left  ^  nat  therwith, 
but  went  streight  to  the  fayre  hospytalle  of  the 
Rodes,  called  saynt  Johans,  and  there  they 
brent  house,  hospytall,  mynster  and  all. 
Than  they  went  fro  strete  to  strete,  and  slewe 
all  the  Flemmynges  that  they  coulde  fynde, 
in  churche  or  in  any  other  place ;  ther  was  none 
resp}ted  fro  dethe.  And  they  brake  up  d\•^•ers 
houses  of  the  Lombardes  and  robbed  theym, 
and  toke  their  goodes  at  their  pleasur,  for  there 
was  none  that  durst  saye  them  nay.  And  they 
slewe  in  the  cytie  a  riche  marchaunt,  called 
Richarde  Lyon,  to  whome  before  that  tyme 
Watte  Tyler  had  done  servyce  in  Fraunce ;  and 
on  a  tyme  this  Rycharde  Lyon  had  beaten  hym 
whyle  he  was  his  varlet;  the  whiche  Watte 
Tyler  than  remembred,  and  so  came  to  his 
house  and  strake  of ''"his  heed,  and  caused  it 
to  be  borne  on  a  spere  poynt  before  him  all 
about  the  c}^^  Thus  these  ungracAOUs  people 
demeaned  themselfe,  lyke  people  enraged  and 
wode, '  and  so  that  day  they  dyde "  moche 
sorowe  in  London. 

And  so  agaynst  *  night  they  wente  to  lodge  at 
sa}Tit  Katherins,  before  the  towre  of  London, 
sayenge  howe  they  wolde  never  depart  thens 
tyil  they  hadde  the  kynge  at  their  pleasure,  and 
tyll  he  had  accorded  to  them  all  that  they 
wolde  aske,  acomptes  '°  of  the  chauncellour  of 
Englande,  to  knowe  where  all  the  good  was 
become  that  he  had  levyed  through  the  realme; 
and  without  he  made  a  good  acompte  to  them 
therof,  it  shulde  nat  be  for  his  profyte.  And  so 
whan  they  had  done  all  these  yvds  to  the 
straungers  all  the  day,  at  night  they  lodged 
before  the  towre. 

Ye  may  well  knowe  and  beleve  that  it  was 


'  Rotherhithe         ^  ^gn  thousand  ^threatened 

burn        ^  slay         '' assent,  way  of  thinking 


■  immediately      '  belonged      ^  pillaged        *  burnt 
*  ceased   ^ofl    ^  crazy   *  caused   *  towards   '"accounts 


24 


SIR    JOHN    BOURCHIER,    LORD   BERNERS 


great  pytie,  for  the  daunger  that  the  kyng  and 
suche  as  were  with  him  were  in.  For  some 
tyme  these  unhap{)y  people  showted  and  cryed 
so  loude,  as  thoughe  all  the  devylles  of  hell 
had  bene  among  them.  In  this  evennynge  the 
kynge  was  counsayled  by  his  bretherne  and 
lordes,  and  by  sir  Nycholas  Walworthe,  mayre 
of  London,  and  dyvers  other  notable  and  riche 
burgesses,  that  in  the  night  tyme  they  shulde 
issue  out  of  the  towre  and  entre  into  the  cyte, 
and  so  to  slee  '  all  these  unhappy  people  whyle 
they  were  at  their  rest  and  aslepe;  for  it  was 
thouglit  that  many  of  them  were  dronken, 
wherby  they  shulde  be  slayne  lyke  flees ;  ^ 
also  of  twentie  of  them  ther  was  scant  one  in 
harnes.''  And  surely  the  good  men  of  London 
might  well  have  done  this  at  their  ease,  for  they 
had  in  their  houses  secretely  their  frendes  and 
ser\' auntes  redy  in  harnesse ;  and  also  sir  Robert 
Canolle  was  in  his  lodgyng,  kepyng  his  treasure, 
with  a  sixscore  redy  at  his  commaundement ; 
in  likewise  was  sir  Perducas  Dalbret,  who  was 
as  than  in  London ;  insomoche  that  ther  myght 
well  [be]  assembled  togyder  an  eyght  thousande 
men,  redy  in  harnesse.  Howebeit,  ther  was 
nothyng  done,  for  the  resydue  of  the  commons 
of  the  cytie  were  sore  douted,*  leest  they  shulde 
rj'se  also,  and  the  commons  before  were  a 
threscore  thousande  or  mo.^  Than  °  the  erle  of 
Salisbur}'  and  the  wyse  men  about  the  kynge 
sayd,  "Sir,  if  ye  can  apese  '  them  with  fayr- 
nesse,*  it  were  best  and  moost  profytable,  and 
to  graunt  theym  every  thynge  that  they  desyre ; 
for  if  we  shulde  begyn  a  thynge  the  whiche  we 
coulde  nat  acheve,  we  shulde  never  recover  it 
agayne,  but  we  and  oure  heyres  ever  to  be  dis- 
heyrited."  So  this  counsaile  was  taken,  and  the 
mayre  countermaunded,  and  so  commaunded 
that  he  shulde  nat  styrre;  and  he  dyde  as  he 
was  commaunded,  as  reason  was.  And  in  the 
cylie  with  the  mayre  there  were  xii.  aldermen, 
wherof  n)'ne  of  them  helde  with  the  kynge,  and 
the  other  thre  toke  parte  with  these  ungraycous 
people,  as  it  was  after  well  knowen,  the  whiche 
they  full  derely  bought. 

And  on  the  Friday  in  the  momynge,  the 
people  beyng  at  sajTit  Katheryns,  nere  to  the 
towre,  began  to  apparell  themselfe,  and  to  crye 
and  shoute,  and  sayd,  without  the  kyng  wolde 
come  out  and  speke  with  them,  they  wolde 
assayle  the  towre  and  take  it  by  force,  and 
slee*  all  them   that  were  within.     Than   the 


kyng  douted  *  these  wordes,  and  so  was  coun- 
sailed  that  he  shulde  issue  out  to  speke  with 
them ;  and  than  ^  the  knyge  sende  ^  to  them, 
that  they  shulde  all  drawe  to  a  fayre  playne 
place,  called  Myle-ende,  wher-as  ■*  the  people 
of  the  cytie  dyde  sport  them  in  the  somer  sea- 
son, and  there  the  kyng  to  graunt  them  that  ^ 
they  desyred.  And  there  it  was  cryed  in  the 
kynges  name,  that  whosoever  wolde  speke  with 
the  kyng,  let  hym  go  to  the  sayd  place,  and 
ther  he  shulde  nat  fayle  to  fynde  the  king. 
Than  the  people  began  to  departe,  specially 
the  commons  of  the  vyllages,  and  went  to  the 
same  place,  but  all  went  nat  thyder,  for  they 
were  nat  all  of  one  condycion :  *  for  ther  were 
some  that  desyred  nothynge  but  richesse  and 
the  utter  distruction  of  the  noble  men,  and  to 
have  London  robbed  and  pylled.  That  was 
the  princypall  mater  of  their  begynnynge,  the 
whiche  they  well  shewed;  for  assoone  as  the 
towre  gate  opyned,  and  that  the  kynge  was 
yssued  out  with  his  two  bretherne,  and  the  erle 
of  Salisbury,  the  erle  of  Warwike,  the  erle  of 
Oxenforthe,  sir  Robert  of  Namure,  the  lorde 
of  Bretaygne,  the  lorde  Gomegynes,  and 
dyvers  other,  than  ^  Watte  Tyler,  Jacke  Strawe, 
and  Johan  Ball,  and  more  than  foure  hundred 
entred  into  the  towre,  and  brake  up  chambre 
after  chambre,  and  at  last  founde  the  arche- 
bysshoppe  of  Caunterbury,  called  SjTnon,  a 
valyant  man  and  a  wyse,  and  chefe  chaun- 
celler  of  Englande;  and  a  lytell  before  he 
hadde  sayde  masse  before  the  kynge.  These 
glottons  toke  hym  and  strake  of  '  his  heed, 
and  also  they  beheded  the  lorde  of  saynt  Jo- 
hans,  and  a  Frere  Mynour,  maister  in  medicyn 
parteyning  *  to  the  duke  of  Lancastre:  they 
slewe  hym  in  dispyte  of  his  maister,  and  a 
sergeant  at  armes,  called  John  Laige.  And 
these  four  heedes  were  set  on  foure  long 
speares,  and  they  made  them  to  be  borne  before 
them  through  the  stretes  of  London,  and  at 
last  set  them  a  highe  *  on  London  bridge,  as 
though  they  had  ben  traytours  to  the  kyng  and 
to  the  realme.  Also  these  glottons  entred  into 
the  princes '"  chambre  and  brake  her  bed, 
wherby  she  was  so  sore  afrayed  that  she 
sowned,"  and  ther  she  was  taken  up  and  borne 
to  the  water  syde,  and  put  into  a  barge  and 
covered,  and  so  conveyed  to  a  place  called  the 
quenes  Warderobe.  And  there  she  was  all  that 
daye  and  night,  lyke  a  woman  halfe  deed,  tyll 


*  slay       ^  flies 
^  more      ^  then 
ment 


8  harness,  armor       *  frightened  i  feared    2  then    »  sent    *  where    ^  what   »  state  of 

appease,  quiet       « pleasant  treat-       mind      ^  off      » belonging       8  on   high      ^°  Princess 

Joan,  the  king's  mother        "  swooned 


THE    CRONYCLE    OF    SYR    JOHN    FROISSART 


25 


she  was  conforted  with  '  the  kyng  her  sonne, 
as  ye  shall  here  after. 


CAP.  CCCLXXXIIII 

How  the  nobles  of  England  were  in  great  parylP 
to  have  ben  dystroyed,  and  howe  these  rebels  were 
punisshed  and  sende*  home  to  theyr  owne  houses. 

Whan  the  kyng  came  to  the  sayd  place  of 
Myle-ende  without  London,  he  put  out  of  his 
company  his  two  bretheme,  the  erle  of  Kent 
and  sir  Johan  Holande,  and  the  lorde  of 
Gomegynes,  for  they  durst  nat  apere  before 
the  people.  And  whan  the  kynge  and  his 
other  lordes  were  ther,  he  founde  there  a  thre- 
score  thousande  men,  of  dy\-ers  vyllages,  and 
of  sondrie  countreis  *  in  Englande.  So  the 
kynge  entred  in  amonge  them,  and  sayd  to 
them  swetely,  "A!  ye  good  people,  I  am  your 
kyng;  what  lacke  ye?  what  wyll  ye  say?" 
Than  suche  as  understode  him  sayd,  "We  wyll 
that  ye  make  us  free  for  ever,  our  selfe,  our 
heyres,  and  our  landes,  and  that  we  be  called 
no  more  bonde,  nor  so  reputed."  "Sirs," 
sayd  the  king,  "I  am  well  agreed  therto;  with- 
drawe  you  home  into  your  owne  houses,  and 
into  suche  villages  as  ye  came  fro,  and  leave 
behynde  you  of  every  vyllage  ii.  or  thre,  and  I 
shall  cause  writynges  to  be  made,  and  scale 
theym  with  my  scale,  the  whiche  they  shall 
have  with  them,  conteyning  every  thynge  that 
ye  demaunde;  and  to  thentent  that  ye  shal 
be  the  better  assured,  I  shall  cause  my  baners 
to  be  delyvered  into  every  bayliwyke,  shyre,  and 
countreis."  These  wordes  apeased  well  the 
common  people,  suche  as  were  symple  and 
good  playne  men,  that  were  come  thyder  and 
wyste  ^  nat  why:  they  sayd,  "It  was  well  said; 
We  desyre  no  better."  Thus  these  people 
beganne  to  be  apeased,  and  began  to  withdrawe 
them  into  the  cyte  of  London.  And  the  kyng 
also  said  a  worde,  the  whiche  greatlye  contented 
them.  He  sayde,  "Sirs,  amonge  you  good 
men  of  Kent,  ye  shall  have  one  of  my  banners 
with  you,  and  ye  of  Essexe  another;  and  ye 
of  Sussexe,  of  Bedforde,  of  Cambridge,  of 
Germeney,  of  StafTorde,  and  of  Lyn,  eche  of 
you  one;  and  also  I  pardon  every  thinge  that 
ye  have  done  hyderto,  so  that  ye  folowe  my 
baners  and  retoume  home  to  your  houses." 
They  all  answered  how  they  wolde  so  do :  thus 
these  people  departed  and  went  into  London. 
Than  the  kynge  ordayned  mo  than  x.xx. 
clerkes   the   same   Fridaye,    to   write   with   all 

*  by     2  danger     ^  .sent     *  districts      ^  knew 


dilygence  letters  patentes,  and  saylcd '  with  the 
kjnges  scale,  and  delyvered  them  to  these 
people.  And  whan  they  had  receyved  the 
writynge,  they  departed  and  retourned  into 
their  owne  countreis;  .but  the  great  venym  ^ 
remayned  styll  behynde.  For  Watte  Tyler, 
Jackc  Strawe,  and  John  Ball  sayd,  for  all  that 
these  people  were  thus  apesed,  yet  they  wolde 
nat  departe  so,  and  they  had  of  their  acorde  ^ 
mo  than  x.xx.  thousande:  so  they  abode  styll, 
and  made  no  prese  ^  to  have  the  kynges  writyng 
nor  scale;  for  all  their  ententes  was  to  putle 
the  cytie  to  trouble,  in  suche  wyse  as  to  slee 
all  the  riche  and  honest  persons,  and  to  robbe 
and  pylle  ^  their  houses.  They  of  London 
were  in  great  feare  of  this,  wherfore  they  kepte  ' 
their  houses  previly  '  with  their  frendes,  and 
suche  servauntes  as  they  had,  every  man 
accord^-nge  to  his  puyssaunce.  And  whane 
these  sayde  people  were  this  Fridaye  thus 
somewhat  apeased,  and  that  they  shulde 
departe  assoone  as  they  hadde  their  writynges, 
everye  manne  home  into  his  owne  countrey, 
than  kynge  Rycharde  came  into  the  Royall, 
where  the  queue  his  mother  was,  right  sore 
afrayed;  so  he  conforted  her  as  well  as  he 
coulde,  and  taryed  there  with  her  all  that 
night. 

The  Saturday  the  kynge  departed  fro  the 
Warderobe  in  the  Royall,  and  went  to  West- 
mynster  and  harde  ^  masse  in  the  churche  there, 
and  all  his  lordes  with  hym;  and  besyde  the 
churche  there  was  a  lytic  chapell,  with  an  image 
of  Our  Lady,  whiche  dyd  great  myracles,  and 
in  whom  the  kynges  of  Englande  had  ever  great 
truste  and  confydence.  The  kynge  made  his 
orisons  before  this  image,  and  dyde  there  his 
offryng;  and  than  he  lepte  on  his  horse  and 
all  his  lordes,  and  so  the  kynge  rode  towarde 
London;  and  whan  he  had  ryden  a  lytle  way 
on  the  lyft  hande,  there  was  a  way  to  passe 
without  London. 

The  same  propre  momynge  Watte  Tyler, 
Jacke  Strawe,  and  John  Ball  had  assembled  their 
company  to  comon  '  together,  in  a  place  called 
Smythfelde,  where-as  '"  every  Fr}'day  there  is  a 
markette  of  horses.  And  there  were  together 
all  of  afHnite  mo  than  xx.  thousande,  and  yet 
there  were  many  styll  in  the  towne,  drynkynge 
and  makynge  mery  in  the  tavernes,  and  payed 
nothyng,  for  they  were  happy  that  made  them 

*  sealed         ^  poison         '  assent,  way  of  thinking 

*  press,  urgent  effort   *  pillage   •  defended    "  privately 

*  heard    *  commune    '"  where 


26 


SIR    JOHN    BOURCHIER,    LORD    BERNERS 


beste  chere.  And  these  people  in  Smythfelde 
had  with  theym  the  kynges  baners,  the  whiche 
were  delyvered  theym  the  daye  before.  And  all 
these  glottons  were  in  mynde  to  overrenne '  and 
to  robbe  London  the  same  daye,  for  theyr 
capitaynes  sayde  howe  they  had  done  nothynge 
as  yet;  "These  lyberties  that  the  kynge  hath 
gyven  us,  is  to  us  but  a  small  profitte ;  therfore 
lette  us  be  all  of  one  accorde,  and  lette  us  over- 
renne this  riche  and  puyssaunt  citie  or  ■  they 
of  Essex,  of  Sussex,  of  Cambrydge,  of  Bed- 
forde,  of  Arundell,  of  Warwyke,  of  Reedynge, 
of  Oxenforde,  of  Guylforde,  of  Linne,  of 
Stafforde,  of  Germeney,  of  Lyncolne,  of  Yorke, 
and  of  Duram,  do  come  hyther;  for  all  these 
wyll  come  hyther,  Wallyor  and  Lyster  wyll 
bringe  them  hyther;  and  if  we  be  fyrst  lordes 
of  London,  and  have  the  possession  of  the 
ryches  that  is  therin,  we  shall  nat  repent  us; 
for  if  we  leave  it,  they  that  come  after  wyll 
have  it  fro  us."  To  thys  counsayle  they  all 
agreed:  and  therwith  the  kynge  came  the  same 
waye  unware  of  thejon,  for  he  had  thought  to 
have  passed  that  waye  withoute  London,  and 
with  hym  a  xl.  horse;  and  whan  he  came 
before  the  abbaye  of  saj-nt  Bartilmeus,  and 
behelde  all  these  people,  than  ^  the  kynge  rested 
and  sayde,  howe  he  wolde  go  no  farther,  tyll 
he  knewe  what  these  people  ayled,  sayenge,  if 
they  were  in  any  trouble,  howe  he  wold  re- 
pease  *  them  agayne.  The  lordes  that  were 
with  hjTTi  taried  also,  as  reason  was  whan  they 
sawe  the  kynge  tarye.  And  whan  Watte 
Tyler  sawe  the  kynge  tary,  he  sayd  to  his 
people,"  Syrs,  yonder  is  the  kynge,  I  wyll  go  and 
speke  with  hym;  styrre  nat  fro  hens  without  I 
make  you  a  signe,  and  whan  I  make  you  that 
sygne,  come  on,  and  slee  all  theym,  excepte 
the  kynge.  But  do  the  kynge  no  hurte ;  he  is 
yonge,  we  shall  do  with  hym  as  we  lyst,  and 
shall  leade  hym  with  us  all  about  Englande, 
and  so  shall  we  be  lordes  of  all  the  royalme  * 
without  doubt."  And  there  was  a  dowblette 
maker  of  London,  called  John  Tycle,  and  he 
hadde  brought  to  these  glotons  a  Ix.  doublettes, 
the  whiche  they  ware ;  *  than  he  demaunded  of 
these  capitaynes  who  shulde  paye  hvm  for  his 
doublettes;  he  demaunded  xxx.  marke.  Watte 
Tyler  answered  hym  and  sayd,  "Frende,  ap- 
pease yourselfe,  thou  shake  be  well  payed  or 
this  day  be  ended;  kepe  the  nere  me,  I  shall 
be  thy  credytour."  '  And  therwith  he  spurred 
his  horse  and  departed  fro  his  company,  and 


came  to  the  kynge,  so  nere  hym  that  his  horse 
heed  touched  the  crope  '  of  the  kynges  horse. 
And  the  first  worde  that  he  sayd  was  this: 
"Syr  kynge,  seest  thou  all  yonder  people?" 
"Ye,  truly,"  sayd  the  kynge:  "wherfore  sayest 
thou?"  "Bycause,"  sayd  he,  "they  be  all  at 
my  commaundement,  and  have  sworne  to  me 
fayth  and  trouth  to  do  all  that  I  wyll  have 
theym."  "In  a  good  tyme,"  sayd  the  k^Mig,  "I 
wyll  well  it  be  so."  Than  Watte  Tyler  sayde, 
as  he  that  nothynge  demaunded  but  ryot, 
"What  belevest  thou,  kjTige,  that  these  people, 
and  as  many  mo  as  be  in  London  at  my  com- 
maundement, that  they  wyll  departe  frome  the 
thus,  without  havynge  thy  letters?"  "No," 
sayde  the  kyng,  "ye  shall  have  theym,  they  be 
ordeyned  for  you,  and  shal  be  delp'ered  every 
one  eche  after  other;  wherfore,  good  felowes, 
wilhdrawe  fayre  and  easely  to  your  people,  and 
cause  them  to  departe  out  of  London,  for  it  is 
our  entent  that  eche  of  you  by  villages  and 
towneshippes  shall  have  letters  patentes,  as  I 
have  promysed  you."  With  those  wordes 
Watte  Tyler  caste  his  eyen  -  on  a  squyer  that 
was  there  with  the  k}'nge,  bearynge  the  kjTiges 
swerde;  and  Wat  Tyler  hated  greatlye  the 
same  squyer,  for  the  same  squier  had  displeased 
hym  before  for  wordes  bytwene  theym. 
"What,"  sayde  Tyler,  "arte  thou  there? 
gyve  me  thy  dagger!"  "Nay,"  sayde  the 
squier,  "that  wyll  I  nat  do;  wherfore  shulde 
I  gyve  it  thee?"  The  kynge  behelde  the 
squyer,  and  sayd,  "G)'^'e  it  hym,  lette  hym 
have  it."  And  so  the  squyer  toke '  it  hym 
sore  agaynst  his  wyll.  And  whan  this  Watte 
Tyler  had  it,  he  began  to  play  therwith,  and 
toumed  it  in  his  hande,  and  sayde  agayne 
to  the  squyer,  "Gyve  me  also  that  swerde." 
"  Naye,"  sayde  the  squyer,  "  it  is  the  kynges 
swerde;  thou  arte  nat  worthy  to  have  it,  for 
thou  arte  but  a  knave;  and  if  there  were  no 
moo  here  but  thou  and  I,  thou  durste  nat  speke 
those  wordes  for  as  moche  golde  in  quantite 
as  all  yonder  abbaye."  "By  my  faythe,"  sayd 
Wat  Tyler,  "I  shall  never  eate  meate  tyll  I  have 
thy  heed."  And  with  those  wordes  the  majTe 
of  London  came  to  the  kjnge  with  a  xii.  horses, 
well  armed  under  theyr  cootes,''  and  so  he  brake 
the  prease,^  and  sawe  and  harde  "  howe  Watte 
Tyler  demeaned  '  hymselfe,  and  sayde  to  hym, 
"Ha!  thou  knave,  howe  arte  thou  so  hardy  in 
the  kynges  presence  to  speke  suche  wordes? 
It  is  to  moche  for  the  so  to  do."     Than  the 


•  overrun  2  before  ^  then  ^  quiet  =  kingdom  «  wore 
^  This  seems  to  be  a  mistake  /or  debtor. 


'  croup,  rump    ^  eyes    ^  delivered    *  coats 
throng    8  heard    ^  conducted 


'  press, 


THE    CRONYCLE    OF    SYR    JOHN    FROISSART 


27 


kynge  began  to  chafe,  and  sayd  to  the  mayre, 
"Sette  handes  on  hym."  And  while  the  kynge 
sayde  so,  Tyler  sayd  to  the  mayre,  "A  Goddes- 
name,^  what  have  I  sayde  to  displease  the?" 
"Yes,  truely,"  quod  the  mayre,  "thou  false 
stynkynge  knave,  shalt  thou  speke  thus  in  the 
presence  of  the  kynge  my  natural!  lorde?  I 
commytte  ^  never  to  lyve  without  thou  shalte 
derely  abye  it."  And  with  those  wordes  the 
mayre  drewe  oute  his  swerde  and  strake  Tyler 
so  great  a  stroke  on  the  heed,  that  he  fell  downe 
at  the  feete  of  his  horse;  and  as  soone  as  he 
was  fallen,  they  environed  hym  all  aboute, 
wherby  he  was  nat  sene  of  his  company.  Than 
a  squyer  of  the  kynges  alyghted,  called  John 
Standysshe,  and  he  drewe  out  his  sworde  and 
put  it  into  Watte  Tylers  belye,  and  so  he  dyed. 
Than  the  ungracious  people  there  assembled, 
perceyvynge  theyr  capytayne  slayne,  beganne 
to  mourmure  amonge  themselfe  and  sayde, 
"A!  our  capitayne  is  slayne;  lette  us  go  and 
slee  them  alll"  And  therwith  they  araynged 
themselfe  on  the  place  in  maner  of  batayle, 
and  theyr  bowes  before  theym.  Thus  the 
kynge  beganne  a  great  outrage ;  ^  howebeit, 
all  turned  to  the  beste,  for  as  soone  as  Tyler 
was  on  the  erthe,  the  kynge  departed  from  all 
his  company,  and  all  alone  he  rode  to  these 
people,  and  sayde  to  his  owne  men,  "Syrs, 
none  of  you  folowe  me,  let  me  alone."  And 
so  whan  he  came  before  these  ungracious  people, 
who  put  themselfe  in  ordinaunce  ■*  to  revenge 
theyr  capitayne,  than  the  kynge  sayde  to  theym, 
"Syrs,  what  ayleth  you,  ye  shall  have  no 
capitayne  but  me:  I  am  your  kynge,  be  all  in 
rest  and  peace."  And  so  the  moost  parte  of 
the  people  that  harde  ^  the  kynge  speke,  and 
sawe  hym  amonge  them,  were  shamefast,* 
and  beganne  to  waxe  peasable,  and  to 
departe;  but  some,  suche  as  were  mali- 
cious and  evyll,  wolde  nat  departe,  but 
made  semblant  as  though  they  wolde  do 
somwhat.  Than  the  kynge  returned  to  his 
owne  company  and  demaunded  of  theym 
what  was  best  to  be  done.  Than  he  was 
counsailed  to  drawe  into  the  feld,  for  to  fiye 
awaye  was  no  boote.'  Than  sayd  the  mayre, 
"  It  is  good  that  we  do  so,  for  I  thynke  surely 
we  shall  have  shortely  some  comforte  of  them 
of  London,  and  of  suche  good  men  as  be  of 
our  parte,  who  are  pourveyed,*  and  have  theyr 
frendes  and  men  redy  armed  in  theyr  houses." 
And  in  this  meane  tyme  voyce  and  bruyte  ' 


ranne  through  London,  howe  these  unhappy 
people  were  lykely  to  sle  '  the  kynge  and  the 
maire  in  Smythfelde;  through  the  whiche 
noyse,  all  maner  of  good  men  of  the  kynges 
part  ye  issued  out  of  theyr  houses  and  lodgynges, 
well  armed,  and  so  came  all  to  Smythfelde,  and 
to  the  felde  where  the  kynge  was;  and  they 
were  anone  ^  to  the  nombre  of  vii.  or  viii. 
thousande  men  well  armed.  And  fyrsle  thyther 
came  sir  Robert  Canoll,  and  sir  Perducas 
Dalbret,  well  accompanyed,  and  d^-vers  of  the 
aldermen  of  London,  and  with  theym  a  vi. 
hundred  men  in  barneys;  and  a  pusant  man 
of  the  citie,  who  was  the  kynges  draper,  called 
Nicholas  Membre,  and  he  brought  with  hym 
a  great  company.  And  ever  as  they  came,  they 
raynged  them  afoote  in  ordre  of  bataylle;  and 
on  the  other  parte  these  unhappy  people  were 
redy  raynged,  makynge  semblaunce  to  gyve 
batayle;  and  they  had  with  theym  dyvers  of 
the  kynges  baners.  There  the  kynge  made  iii. 
knyghtes;  the  one  the  mayre  of  London  sir 
Nycholas  Walworthe,  syr  Johan  Standysshe, 
and  syr  Nycholas  Braule.  Than  the  lordes 
sayde  amonge  theymselfe,  "What  shall  we  do? 
We  se  here  our  ennemyes,  who  wolde  gladly 
slee  us,  if  they  myght  have  the  better  hande  of 
us."  Sir  Robert  Canoll  counsayled  to  go  and 
fight  with  them,  and  slee  them  all;  yet  the 
kyng  wolde  nat  consent  therto,  but  sayd,  "Nay, 
I  wyll  nat  so;  I  wyll  sende  to  theym,  com- 
maundynge  them  to  sende  me  agayne  my 
baners,  and  therby  we  shall  se  what  they  wyll 
do :  howbeit,  outher  ^  by  fayrnesse  ■*  or  other- 
wise, I  wyll  have  them."  "That  is  well  sayd, 
sir,"  quod  therle  of  Salysbury.  Than  these 
newe  knightes  were  sent  to  them,  and  these 
knightes  made  token  to  them  nat  to  shote  at 
them;  and  whan  they  came  so  nere  them  that 
their  speche  might  be  herde,  they  sayd,  "Sirs, 
the  kyng  commaundeth  you  to  sende  to  him 
agayne  his  baners,  and  we  thynke  he  wyll  have 
mercy  of  you."  And  incontinent  they  delyv- 
ered  agayne  the  baners,  and  sent  them  to  the 
kyng:  also  they  were  commaunded,  on  payne 
of  their  heedes,  that  all  suche  as  had  letters 
of  the  king  to  bring  them  forthe,  and  to  sende 
them  agayne  to  the  kynge.  And  so  many  of 
them  delyvered  their  letters,  but  nat  all.  Than 
the  kyng  made  them  to  be  all  to-torne  ^  in  their 
presence:  and  as  soone  as  the  kynges  baners 
were  delyvered  agayne,  these  unhappy  people 
kept  none  array,  but  the  moost  parte  of  them 


'  in  God's  name     ^  pledge    ^  disturbance     *  array 
^  heard    ^  ashamed    '  remedy    *  provided    ^  rumor 


'  slay     ^  immediately 
*  torn  to  pieces 


^  either      *  pleasant  means 


28 


SIR    JOHN    BOURCHIER,    LORD    BERNERS 


dyde  caste  downe  their  bowes,  and  so  brake 
their  array,  and  retoumed  into  London.  Sir 
Robert  Canoll  was  sore  dyspleased  in  that  he 
myght  nat  go  to  slee  them  all;  but  the  kyng 
wolde  nat  consent  therto,  but  sayd  he  wolde 
be  revenged  of  them  well  ynough,  and  so  he 
was  after. 

Thus  these  folysshe  people  departed,  some 
one  way  and  some  another;  and  the  kyng  and 
his  lordes  and  all  his  company  ryght  ordynately 
entred  into  London  with  great  joye.  And  the 
firste  journey  that  the  kynge  made,  he  wente 
to  the  lady  princesse  his  mother,  who  was  in  a 
castell  in  the  Royall,  called  the  quenes  ward- 
robe; and  there  she  hadde  taryed  two  dayes 
and  two  nightes  right  sore  abasshed,  as  she 
had  good  reasone.  And  whan  she  sawe  the 
kyng  her  sonne  she  was  greatly  rejoysed,  and 
sayde,  "A!  fayre  sonne,  what  payne  and  great 
sorowe  that  I  have  suffred  for  you  this  day!" 
Than  the  kynge  answered  and  sayd,  "  Certaynly, 
madame,  I  knowe  it  well ;  but  nowe  rejoyse  your- 
selfe  and  thanke  God,  for  nowe  it  is  tyme.  I  have 
this  day  recovered  myne  herytage  and  the 
realme  of  Englande,  the  whiche  I  hadde  nere 
lost."  Thus  the  kyng  taryed  that  day  with  his 
mother,  and  every  lorde  went  peaseably  to  their 


owne  lodgynges.  Than  there  was  a  crye  made 
in  every  strete  in  the  kynges  name,  that  all 
maner  of  men,  nat  beyng  of  the  cytie  of  Lon- 
don, and  have  nat  dwelt  there  the  space  of  one 
yere,  to  de parte;  and  if  any  suche  be  founde 
there  the  Sonday  by  the  sonne  risyng,  that 
they  shuld  be  taken  as  traytours  to  the  kyng, 
and  to  lose  their  heedes.  This  crye  thus  made, 
there  was  none  that  durste  breke  it;  and  so 
all  maner  of  people  departed,  and  sparcled  ^ 
abrode  every  man  to  their  owne  places.  Johan 
Balle  and  Jaques  Strawe  were  founde  in  an  olde 
house  hydden,  thinkyng  to  have  stoUen  away, 
but  they  coulde  nat,  for  they  were  accused  by 
their  owne  men.  Of  the  takyng  of  them  the 
kyng  and  his  lordes  were  gladde,  and  thanne 
strake  of  their  heedes,  and  Watte  Tylers  also, 
and  they  were  set  on  London  bridge;  and  the 
valyaunt  mennes  heedes  taken  downe  that  they 
had  sette  on  the  Thursday  before.  These 
tidynges  anone  spredde  abrode,  so  that  the 
people  of  the  strange  countreis,^  whiche  were 
comyng  towardes  London,  retoumed  backe 
agayne  to  their  owne  houses,  and  durst  come 
no  farther. 

*  scattered     ^  distant  districts 


THE   TRANSITION   TO    MODERN   TIMES 


SIR   THOMAS    MORE  (1478-1535) 

A    DIALOGUE   OF  SYR  THOMAS   MORE, 
KNYGHTE 

THE  THIRDE  BOKE.    THE  i6.  CHAPITER 

The  messenger  rehearseth  some  causes  which  he 
hath  herd  laid  '  by  some  of  the  clergie :  wherfore  the 
Scripture  should  not  be  suffrcd  in  Englishe.  And 
the  author  sheweth  his  mind,  that  it  wer  convenient 
to  have  the  Byble  in  Englishe. 

"Syr,"  quod  your  frende,  "yet  for  al  this, 
can  I  see  no  cause  why  the  cleargie  shoulde  kcpe 
the  Byble  out  of  ley  mennes  handes,  that  can  ^ 
no  more  but  theyr  mother  tong."  "I  had 
went,"  ^  quod  I,  "  that  I  had  proved  you  playnely 
that  they  kepe  it  not  from  them.  For  I  have 
shewed  you  that  they  kepe  none  from  them, 
but  such  translacion  as  be  either  not  yet  ap- 
proved for  good,  or  such  as  be  alredi  reproved 
for  naught,  as  Wikliffes  was  and  Tindals. 
For  as  for  other  olde  ones,*  that  wer  before 
Wickliffes  dales,  remain  lawful,  arid  be  in 
some  folkes  handes  had  and  read."  "Ye 
saye  well,"  quod  he.  "But  yet  as  weomen  saye, 
'somewhat  it  was  alway  that  the  cat  winked 
whan  her  eye  was  oute.'  Surelye  so  is  it  not 
for  nought  that  the  English  Byble  is  in  so  few 
mens  handes,  whan  so  many  woulde  so  fayne 
have  it."  "That  is  very  trouth,"  quod  I; 
"for  I  thinke  that  though  the  favourers  of  a 
secte  of  heretikes  be  so  fervent  in  the  setting 
furth  of  their  secte,  that  they  let  ^  not  to  lay 
their  money  together  and  make  a  purse  among 
them,  for  the  printyng  of  an  evill  made,  or  evil 
translated  booke:  wliich  though  it  happe  to 
be  forboden  °  and  burned,  yet  some  be  sold 
ere  they  be  spyed,  and  eche  of  them  lese  '  but 
theyr  part:  yet  I  thinke  ther  will  no  printer 
lightly  *  be  so  hote  '  to  put  anye  Byble  in  prynte 
at  hys  own  charge,  whereof  the  losse  shoulde 
lye  hole  in  his  owne  necke,  and  than  '"  hang 

'  alleged  ^  know  ^  weened,  thought  *  This  word 
is  the  subject  of  remain,  as  ivdl  as  a  part  of  the  phrase 
in  which  it  stands;  the  construction  is  curious  hut 
common.  ^  hesitate  «  forbidden  ^  lose  *  easily  *  hot, 
ready    i"  then 


upon  a  doutful  Iryal,  whether  the  first  copy  of 
hys  translacion,  was  made  before  W'ickliffcs 
dayes  or  since.  For  if  it  were  made  synce,  it 
must  be  approved  before  the  prynting. 

"And  surelye  howe  it  hathe  happed  that  in 
all  this  whyle  God  hath  eyther  not  suffered,  or 
not  provided  that  any  good  verteous  man  hath 
hadde  the  mynde  in  faithful  wise  to  translate 
it,  and  therupon  ether  the  clergie  or,  at  the 
least  wise,  some  one  bishop  to  approve  it,  thys 
can  I  nothing  tell.  But  howesoever  it  be,  I 
have  hearde  and  heare  so  muche  spoken  in  the 
matter,  and  so  muche  doute  made  therin,  that 
peradventure  it  would  let  and  withdrawe  any 
one  bishop  from  the  admitting  therof,  without 
the  assent  of  the  remenant.  And  whereas 
many  thinges  be  laid  against  it:  yet  is  ther  in 
my  mind  not  one  thynge  that  more  putteth 
good  men  of  the  clergie  in  doubte  to  suffer  it, 
than  thys:  that  they  see  sometime  much  of  the 
worse  sort  more  fervent  in  the  calling  for  it, 
than  them  whom  we  find  farre  better.  Which 
maketh  them  to  feare  lest  such  men  desyre  it 
for  no  good,  and  lest  if  it  wer  hadde  in  ever)' 
mannes  hand,  there  would  great  peril  arise, 
and  that  sedicious  people  should  doe  more 
harme  therwith  than  good  and  honest  folke 
should  take  fruite  thereby.  Whiche  feare  I 
promise  you  nothyng  feareth  me,  but  that 
whosoever  woulde  of  theyr  malice  or  folye  take 
harme  of  that  thing  that  is  of  it  selfe  ordeyned 
to  doe  al  men  good,  I  would  never  for  the 
avoyding  of  their  harme,  take  from  other  the 
profit,  which  they  might  take,  and  nothing 
deserve  to  lese.'  For  elles  ^  if  the  abuse  of  a 
good  thing  should  cause  the  taking  away  therof 
from  other  that  would  use  it  well,  Christ  should 
hymself  never  have  been  borne,  nor  brought 
hys  fayth  into  the  world,  nor  God  should  never 
have  made  it  neither,  if  he  should,  for  the  losse 
of  those  that  would  be  damned  wretches,  have 
kept  away  the  occasion  of  reward  from  them 
that  would  with  heipe  of  his  grace  endevor 
them  to  deserve  it." 

"I  am  sure,"  quod  your  frcnd,  "ye  doubte 
not  but  tliat  I  am  full  and  hole  of  youre  mynde 


'  lose 


'  else 


29 


30 


SIR    THOMAS    MORE 


in  this  matter,  that  the  Byble  shoulde  be  in 
oure  Englishe  tong.  But  yet  that  the  cicrgie 
is  of  the  contrary,  and  would  not  have  it  so, 
that  appeareth  well,  in  that  they  suffer  it  not 
to  be  so.  And  over '  that,  I  heare  in  everye 
place  almost  where  I  find  any  learned  man  of 
them,  their  mindes  all  set  theron  to  kepe  the 
Scripture  from  us.  And  they  seke  out  for  that 
parte  every  rotten  reason  that  they  can  find, 
and  set  them  furth  solemnely  to  the  shew, 
though  fyve  of  those  reasons  bee  not  woorth  a 
figge.  For  they  begynne  as  farre  as  our  first 
father  Adam,  and  shew  us  that  his  wyfe  and  he 
fell  out  of  paradise  with  desyre  of  knowledge 
and  cunning.  Nowe  if  thys  woulde  serve,  it 
must  from  the  knowledge  and  studie  of  Scrip- 
ture drj've  every  man,  priest  and  other,  lest  it 
drive  all  out  of  paradise.  Than  saye  they  that 
God  taught  his  disciples  many  thynges  apart, 
because  the  people  should  not  heare  it.  And 
therefore  they  woulde  the  people  should  not 
now  be  suffered  to  reade  all.  Yet  they  say 
further  that  it  is  hard  to  translate  the  Scripture 
out  of  one  tong  into  an  other,  and  specially  they 
say  into  ours,  which  they  call  a  tong  vulgare 
and  barbarous.  But  of  all  thing  specially  they 
say  that  Scripture  is  the  foode  of  the  soule. 
And  that  the  comen  people  be  as  infantes  that 
must  be  fedde  but  with  milke  and  pappe.  And 
if  we  have  anye  stronger  meate,  it  must  be 
chammed  ^  afore  by  the  nurse,  and  so  putte 
into  the  babes  mouthe.  But  me  think  though 
they  make  us  al  infantes,  they  shall  fynde  many 
a  shrewde  brayn  among  us,  that  can  perceive 
chalke  fro  chese  well  ynough,  and  if  they  woulde 
once  take  ^  us  our  meate  in  our  own  hand,  we 
be  not  so  evil-tothed  ■*  but  that  within  a  while 
they  shall  see  us  cham  it  our  self  as  well  as  they. 
For  let  them  call  us  yong  babes  and  ^  they  wil, 
yet,  by  God,  they  shal  for  al  that  well  fynde  in 
some  of  us  that  an  olde  knave  is  no  chylde." 

"Surely,"  quod  I,  "suche  thinges  as  ye 
speake,  is  the  thyng  that,  as  I  somewhat  sayd 
before,  putteth  good  folke  in  feare  to  suffer 
the  Scripture  in  our  Englishe  tong.  Not  for 
the  reading  and  receiving:  but  for  the  busy 
chamming  "  therof,  and  for  much  medling  with 
such  partes  thereof,  as  least  will  agree  with 
their  capacities.  For  undoutedlye  as  ye  spake 
of  our  mother  Eve:  inordinate  appetite  of 
knowledge  is  a  meane  to  drive  any  man  out  of 
paradise.  And  inordinate  is  the  appetite, 
whan  men  unlemed,  though  they  reade  it  in 

'  besides        ^  masticated      ^  deliver      *  ill-toothed 
^  if     "  chewing 


theyr  language,  will  be  busy  to  enserche  and 
dyspute  the  great  secret  mysteries  of  Scripture, 
whiche  thoughe  they  heare,  they  be  not  hable  '■ 
to  pe reeve. 

"Thys  thing  is  playnely  forbode  ^  us  that  be 
not  appopited  nor  instructed  therto.  And 
therfore  holi  saint  Gregory  Naziazenus,  that 
great  solemne  doctour,  sore  toucheth  and  re- 
proveth  al  such  bolde,  busy  medlers  in  the 
Scripture,  and  sheweth  that  it  is  in  Exodie  by 
Moyses  ascending  up  upon  the  hill  where  he 
spake  with  God,  and  the  people  tarying  be- 
neath, signified  that  the  people  bee  forboden  ^ 
to  presume  to  medle  with  the  hygh  mysteries 
of  Holy  Scripture,  but  ought  to  be  contente  to 
tary  beneath,  and  medle  none  higher  than  is 
meete  for  them,  but,  receivyng  fro  the  height 
of  the  hill  by  Moyses  that  that  is  delivered  them, 
that  is  to  witte,  the  lawes  and  preceptes  that 
they  must  kepe,  and  the  poyntes  they  must 
beleve,  loke  well  therupon,  and  often,  and 
medle  wel  therwith:  not  to  dispute  it,  but  to 
fulfille  it.  And  as  for  the  high  secrete  mys- 
teries of  God,  and  hard  textes  of  hys  Holye 
Scripture:  let  us  knowe  that  we  be  so  unable 
to  ascende  up  so  high  on  that  hill,  that  it  shall 
become  us  to  saye  to  the  preachers  appoynted 
therto  as  the  people  sayd  unto  Moises :  '  Heare 
you  God,  and  let  us  heare  you.'  And  surely 
the  blessed  holy  doctour  saynt  Hierome 
greatelye  complayneth  and  rebuketh  that 
lewde  homely  maner,  that  the  common  ley 
peple,  men  and  weomen,  wer  in  his  dales  so 
bold  in  the  medling,  disputing,  and  expowning 
of  Holi  Scripture.  And  sheweth  playnlye  that 
they  shall  have  evill  prefe  ^  therein,  that  will 
reken  themself  to  understand  it  by  them  selfe 
without  a  reader.  For  it  is  a  thing  that  re- 
quireth  good  help,  and  long  time,  and  an  whole 
mynde  geven  greatelye  thereto.  And  surelye, 
syth,*  as  the  holye  Apostle  Saynt  Poule  in 
divers  of  hys  epistles  sayth,  God  hath  by  his 
Holy  Spirite  so  institute  and  ordeyned  his 
churche,  that  he  will  have  some  readers,  and 
some  hearers,  some  teachers,  and  some  learn- 
ers, we  do  plainly  pervert  and  toume  up  so 
down  the  right  order  of  Christes  church,  whan 
the  one  part  medleth  with  the  others  office. 

"Plato  the  great  phylosopher  specially  for- 
biddeth  suche  as  be  not  admitted  therunto,  nor 
men  mete  therefore,  to  medle  much  and  em- 
busie  themself  in  reasoning  and  dysputyng 
upon  the  temporall  lawes  of  the  citie,  which 
would  not  be  reasoned  upon  but  by  folke  mete 

'  able    -  forbidden     ^  experience     ''  since 


A    DIALOGUE    OF    SYR   THOMAS    MORE,    KNYGHTE 


31 


therforc  and  in  place  convenient.  For  elles 
they  that  cannot  very  wel  attain  to  perceive 
them,  begin  to  mislike,  disprayse,  and  con- 
temne  them.  Wliereof  so  foloweth  the  breche 
of  the  lawcs,  and  dysorder  of  the  people.  For 
tyll  a  lawe  bee  chaunged  by  authoritie,  it  rather 
ought  to  be  observed  than  contemned.  Or 
elles  the  exaumple  of  one  lawe  boldly  broken 
and  sette  at  naughte,  waxeth  a  precident  for 
the  remenaunte  to  be  used  lyke.  And  com- 
monlye,  the  best  lawes  shall  woorste  lyke  ' 
muche  of  the  common  people,  which  moste 
longe  (if  they  myght  be  heard  and  folowed) 
to  live  al  at  libertie  under  none  at  all.  Nowe 
if  Plato,  so  wyse  a  man,  so  thought  good  in 
temporall  lawes,  thynges  of  mennes  makyng, 
howe  muche  is  it  lesse  meete  for  everye  manne 
boldelye  to  meddle  with  the  exposicion  of 
Holye  Scrypture,  so  devysed  and  endyted  by 
the  hyghe  wisedome  of  God,  that  it  farre  ex- 
cedeth  in  many  places  the  capacitie  and  per- 
ceiving of  man.  It  was  also  provided  by  the 
Emperour  in  the  law  civile,  that  the  common 
people  shoulde  never  be  so  bolde  to  kepe 
dispicions^  upon  the  fa>lh  or  Holy  Scripture, 
nor  that  anye  such  thing  shoulde  be  used  among 
them  or  before  them.  And  therefore,  as  I  said 
before,  the  special  feare  in  this  matter  is,  lest 
we  would  be  to  busy  in  chammyng  ^  of  the 
Scripture  our  self,  whiche  ye  saye  we  were 
hable  ■*  ynoughe  to  dooe.  Whiche  undoubt- 
edlye,  the  wysest,  and  the  best  learned,  and  he 
that  therein  hathe  by  manye  yeres  bestowed 
hys  whole  minde,  is  yet  unable  to  dooe.  And 
than  ^  farre  more  unliable  muste  he  nedes  be, 
that  boldly  will  upon  the  fyrst  reading,  because 
he  knoweth  the  wordes,  take  upon  him  ther- 
fore  to  teche  other  men  the  sentence '  with 
peril  of  his  own  soule  and  other  mennes  too, 
by  the  bringyng  men  into  mad  wayes,  sectes, 
and  heresies,  suche  as  heretikes  have  of  olde 
brought  up  and  the  church  hath  condemned. 
And  thus  in  these  matters  if  the  commen  peple 
might  be  bold  to  cham  it  as  ye  say,  and  to  dis- 
pute it,  than^  should  ye  have,  the  more  blind 
the  more  bold:  the  more  ignoraunt  the  more 
busie:  the  lesse  witte  the  more  inquisitife: 
the  more  foole  the  more  talkatife  of  great  doutes 
and  hygh  questions  of  Holy  Scripture  and  of 
Goddes  great  and  secret  misteries,  and  this 
not  sobrely  of  any  good  affection,  but  pre- 
sumpteouslye  and  unreverentlye  at  meate  and 
at  meale.     And  there,  whan    the    wyne  wer 


in  and  the  witte  out,  woulde  they  take  upon 
them  with  foolish  wordes  and  blasphemie  to 
handle  Holic  Scripture  in  more  homely  maner 
than  a  song  of  Robin  Hode.  And  some  would, 
as  I  said,  solemnely  take  upon  them  like  as 
thei  vi^er  ordinary  readers  to  interprete  the 
text  at  their  plesure,  and  therwith  fall  themself 
and  draw  doun  other  with  them  into  sedicious 
sectes  and  heresies,  whereby  the  Scripture  of  God 
should  lese '  his  honour  and  reverence,  and  Ije  by 
such  unreverente  and  unsytting^  demeanour, 
among  muche  people,  quite  and  cleane  abused,^ 
unto  the  contrary  of  that  holye  purpose  that  God 
ordayned  it  for.  Where  as,  if  we  woulde  no 
further  meddle  therewith,  but  well  and  de- 
voutclye  reade  it:  and  in  that  that  is  playne 
and  evident  as  Gods  commaundementes  and 
his  holy  counsayls  endevour  our  self  to  folow 
with  helpe  of  his  grace  asked  therunto,  and  in 
his  greate  and  merveilous  miracles  consider  his 
God-head:  and  in  his  lowly  birth,  his  godly 
life,  and  his  bitter  passion,  exercise  our  selfe 
in  suche  meditacions,  prayer,  and  vertues,  as 
the  matter  shall  minister  us  occasion,  know- 
ledgeing  *  our  owne  ignoraunce  where  we  fynd 
a  dout,  and  therin  leaning  to  the  faythe  of  the 
churche,  wrestle  with  no  such  text  as  might 
bring  us  in  a  doubte  and  werestye  ^  of  anye  of 
those  articles  wherein  every  good  christen  man 
is  clere:  by  thys  maner  of  reading  can  no  man 
nor  woman  take  hurt  in  Holy  Scripture. 

"Nowe  than,  the  thinges  on  the  other  syde 
that  unlearned  people  can  never  by  themself 
attayne,  as  in  the  Psalmes  and  the  Prophetes 
and  divers  partes  of  the  Gospell,  where  the 
wordes  bee  some  time  spoken  as  in  the  parsone  " 
of  the  Prophete  himselfe,  sometyme  as  in  the 
parsone  of  God,  sometime  of  some  other,  as 
angels,  devils,  or  men,  and  sometime  of  our 
Savior  Christ,  not  alway  of  one  fashion,  but 
sometime  as  God,  sometime  as  man,  somtime 
as  head  of  this  mistical  body  his  church  mili- 
tant here  in  earth,  sometime  as  head  of  his 
churche  triumphant  in  heaven,  somtime  as  in 
the  persone  of  his  sensuall  parties  of  his  own 
body,  otherwhile  in  the  person  of  some  par- 
ticular part  of  his  body  mystical,  and  these 
thinges  with  many  other  oftentimes  inter- 
changed and  sodeinly  sundrye  thinges  of  divers 
matters  diverslye  mingled  together,  al  these 
thinges  which  is  not  possible  for  unlearned  men 
to  attayn  unto,  it  wer  more  than  madnes  for 
them  to  medle  withal,  but  leave  al  these  thinges 


'  please 
meaning 


disputes       ^  chewing       *  able       ^  then 


1  lose    -  unbecoming    '  misused    ^  acknowledging 
uncertainty    ^  person 


32 


SIR   THOMAS    MORE 


to  them  whose  hole  study  is  beset '  therupon, 
and  to  the  preachers  appointed  therunto, 
vvhiche  may  shew  them  such  thinges  in  time 
and  place  convenient  with  reverence  and  au- 
thoritie,  the  sermon  so  tempered,  as  may  bee 
mete  and  convenient  alwaye  for  the  present 
audience.  Wherunto  it  appereth  that  oure 
Saviour  himself,  and  his  apostles  after  him, 
had  ever  speciall  respect:  and  therfore,  as  I 
say  forsoth,  I  can  in  no  wise  agree  with  you 
that  it  wer  mete  for  men  unlearned  to  be  busy 
with  the  chamming  of  holy  scripture,  but  to 
have  it  chammed  unto  them.  For  that  is  the 
preachers  part  and  theirs  that  after  longe 
studye  are  admytted  to  reade  and  expown  it. 
And  to  this  entent  waye  ^  al  the  wordes,  as  farre 
as  I  perceve,  of  al  holy  doctours  that  any  thing 
have  writen  in  this  matter. 

"But  never  ment  they,  as  I  suppose,  the 
forbydding  of  the  Byble  to  be  readde  in  any 
vulgare  tong.  Nor  I  never  yet  heard  any 
reason  layd,  why  it  were  not  convenient  to 
have  the  Byble  translated  into  the  Englishe 
tong,  but  al  those  reasons,  semed  they  never 
so  gay  and  glorious  at  the  first  sight :  yet,  when 
they  were  well  examined,  they  myght  in  effect, 
for  ought  that  I  can  see,  as  wel  be  layde  against 
the  holy  writers  that  wrote  the  Scripture  in  the 
Hebrue  tongue,  and  against  the  blessed  evan- 
gelistes  that  wrote  the  Scripture  in  Greke,  and 
against  all  those  in  likewise  that  translated  it 
oute  of  every  of  those  tonges  into  Latine,  as  to 
their  charge  that  would  well  and  faithfully 
translate  it  oute  of  Latine  into  our  Englishe 
tong.  For  as  for  that  our  tong  is  called  bar- 
barous, is  but  a  fantasye.  For  so  is,  as  every 
lerned  man  knoweth,  every  straunge  language 
to  other.  And  if  they  would  call  it  barayn  of 
wordes,  there  is  no  double  but  it  is  plenteous 
enough  to  expresse  our  myndes  in  anye  thing 
wherof  one  man  hath  used  to  spekewith  another. 
Nowe  as  touchynge  the  difficultie  which  a 
translatour  fyndeth  in  expressing  well  and 
lively  the  sentence  of  his  author,  whiche  is 
hard  alwaye  to  doe  so  surely  but  that  he  shall 
sometime  minyshe '  eyther  of  the  sentence  * 
or  of  the  grace  that  it  bereth  in  the  formar 
tong :  that  poynt  hath  lyen  ^  in  their  lyght  that 
have  translated  the  Scrypture  alreadye  eyther 
out  of  Greke  into  Latine,  or  out  of  Hebrue 
into  any  of  them  both,  as,  by  many  translacions 
which  we  rede  already,  to  them  that  be  learned 
appereth. 


"Now  as  touching  the  harme  that  may 
growe  by  suche  blynde  bayardes  as  will,  whan 
they  reade  the  Byble  in  Englishe,  be  more 
busy  than  will  become  them :  They  that  touche 
that  poynt  harpe  upon  the  right  string,  and 
touche  truely  the  great  harme  that  wer  likely 
to  growe  to  some  folke:  howe  be  it  not  by  the 
occasion  yet  of  the  English  translacion,  but 
by  the  occasion  of  theyr  own  lewdnes  and  foly, 
whiche  yet  were  not  in  my  mynde  a  sufiiciente 
cause  to  exclude  the  translacion,  and  to  put 
other  folke  from  the  benefite  therof :  but  rather 
to  make  provision  agaynste  such  abuse,  and  let 
a  good  thing  goe  furth.  No  wise  manne  wer 
there  that  woulde  put  al  weapons  away  be- 
cause manquellers  '  misuse  them. 

"Nor  this  letted^  not,  as  I  sayd,  the  Scrip- 
ture to  be  first  writen  in  a  vulgare  tong.  For 
Scripture,  as  I  said  before,  was  not  writen  but 
in  a  vulgare  tonge,  suche  as  the  whole  people 
understode,  nor  in  no  secrete  cyphers  but  such 
common  letters  as  almost  every  man  could  rede. 
For  neither  was  the  Hebrue  nor  the  Greke  tong, 
nor  the  Laten,  neither  any  other  speche  than 
such  as  all  the  peple  spake.  And  therfore  if 
we  shold  lay  ^  that  it  wer  evil  done  to  translate 
the  Scripture  into  our  tong,  because  it  is  vul- 
gare and  comen  to  every  Englishe  man,  than  * 
had  it  been  as  eviil  done  to  translate  it  into 
Greke  or  into  Latin,  or  to  wryte  the  New 
Testament  first  in  Greke,  or  the  Old  Testa- 
ment in  Hebrew,  because  both  those  tonges 
wer  as  verye  vulgare  as  ours.  And  yet  should 
there  by  this  reason  also,  not  onely  the  Scripture 
be  kepte  out  of  oure  tong,  but,  over  ^  that, 
shoulde  the  reading  therof  be  forboden,  both 
al  such  ley  people  and  all  suche  priestes  too,  as 
can  no  more  than  theyr  graramer,  and  verye 
scantly  that.  All  which  companye  though 
they  can  understande  the  wordes,  be  yet  as 
farre  from  the  perceiving  of  the  sentence  in 
harde  and  doubtefull  textes,  as  were  our 
weomen  if  the  Scripture  were  translated  to  oure 
own  language.  How  be  it,  of  trouth,  seldome 
hath  it  been  seen  that  any  secte  of  heretikes 
hath  begonne  of  suche  unlearned  folke  as 
nothynge  coulde  *  elles  ^  but  the  language 
wherein  they  read  the  Scripture:  but  there 
hathe  alway  comonly  these  sectes  sprongen  of 
the  pryde  of  such  folke  as  had,  with  the  know- 
ledge of  that  tong,  some  high  persuasion  in 
themselfe  of  their  owne  lerning  beside.  To 
whose  authoritie  some  other  folke  have  soone 


"lain 


applied      2  weigh,  tend      ^  diminish      *  meaning 

n 


'  murderers         ^  hindered 
*  besides         '^  knew         "■  else 


^  declare  *  then 


A  DIALOGUE  OF  SYR  THOMAS  MORE,   KNYGHTE 


33 


after,  parte  of  malice,  parte  of  symplenesse, 
and  muche  parte  of  pleasure  and  delighte  in 
new  fanglenesse  fallen  in,  and  encreased  the 
faccion.  But  the  head  hath  ever  comonly  been 
eyther  some  prowde  learned  man,  or,  at  the 
least,  beside  the  language,  some  proude  smat- 
erer  in  learning.  So  that,  if  we  should,  for 
feare  of  heretikes  that  might  hap  to  growe 
thereby,  kepe  the  Scripture  out  of  any  tong,  or 
out  of  unlerned  mens  handes,  we  should  for 
like  feare  be  fayne  to  kepe  it  out  of  al  tonges, 
and  out  of  lerned  mens  handes  to,'  and  wot 
not  whom  we  mighte  trust  therwith.  Wher- 
fore  ther  is,  as  me  thinketh,  no  remedie  but, 
if  any  good  thing  shall  goe  foreward,  some- 
what must  nedes  be  adventured.  And  some 
folke  will  not  fayle  to  be  naughte.  Agaynst 
which  thinges  provision  must  bee  made,  that 
as  muche  good  maye  growe,  and  as  litle  harme 
come  as  canne  bee  devysed,  and  not  to  kepe 
the  whole  commoditie  ^  from  any  hole  people, 
because  of  harme  that  by  their  owne  foly  and 
faulte  may  come  to  some  part,  as  thoughe  a 
lewde  ^  surgion  woulde  cutte  of  ^  the  legge  by 
the  knee  to  kepe  the  toe  from  the  goute,  or  cut 
of  a  mans  head  by  the  shoulders  to  kepe  him 
from  the  toothe  ache. 

"There  is  no  treatice  of  Scripture  so  hard 
but  that  a  good  vertuous  man  or  woman  eyther 
shal  somewhat  find  therin  that  shall  delyte  and 
encreace  their  devocion,  besydes  this  that 
everye  preachinge  shall  be  the  more  pleasant 
and  fruitfull  unto  them,  whan  they  have  in 
their  mind  the  place  oi  Scrypture  that  they  shall 
there  heare  expowned.  For  though  it  bee,  as 
it  is  in  dede,  great  wisedome  for  a  preacher  to 
use  discrecion  in  hys  preachyng  and  to  have  a 
respecte  unto  the  qualities  and  capacities  of 
his  audience,  yet  letteth  ^  that  nothinge,  but 
that  the  whole  audience  maye  without  harme 
have  read  and  have  readye  the  Scrypture  in 
mynde,  that  he  shall  in  hys  preachyng  declare 
and  expowne.  For  no  doute  is  there,  but  that 
God  and  his  Holye  Spirite  hath  so  prudentlye 
tempered  theyr  speche  thorowe  the  whole  corps 
of  Scripture  that  every  man  may  take  good 
therby,  and  no  man  harme  but  he  that  wil  in 
the  study  therof  leane  proudly  to  the  foly  of 
hys  own  wit. 

"  For  albeit  that  Chryst  did  speake  to  the 
people  in  parables,  and  expowned  them 
secretly  to  hys  especiall  disciples,  and  some- 
time forbare  to  tell  some  thynges  to  them 
also,  because  they  were  not  as  yet  hable  to 

^  too     2  benefit     '  ignorant     *  off     ^  hinders 


beare  them:  and  the  apostles  in  lykewyse 
didde  sometyme  spare  to  speake  to  some 
people  the  thinges  that  they  dydde  not  let ' 
playnly  to  speake  to  some  other,  yet  letteth  ^ 
all  thys  nothing  the  translacion  of  the  Scrip- 
ture into  our  own  tong  no  more  than  in  the 
Latine.  Nor  it  is  no  cause  to  kepe  the  corps  ^ 
of  Scripture  out  of  the  handes  of  anye  Christen 
people  so  many  yeres  fastly  confyrmed  in  fayth, 
because  Christ  and  hys  apostles  used  suche 
provision  in  their  utterance  of  so  strange  and 
unherd  misteries,  either  unto  Jewes,  Paynims,* 
or  newly  christened  folk,  except  we  would  say 
that  all  the  exposicions  which  Chryst  made 
himself  upon  hys  owne  parables  unto  hys 
secret  servauntes  and  disciples  withdrawen 
from  the  people,  shoulde  nowe  at  thys  day  be 
kept  in  lykewyse  from  the  comons,  and  no 
man  suffred  to  reade  or  heare  them,  but  those 
that  in  hys  churche  represent  the  state  and  office 
of  hys  apostles,  whiche  ther  will,  I  wote  well, 
no  wyse  manne  say,  consideryng  that  those 
thinges  which  were  than  comonly  most  kept 
from  the  people,  be  now  most  necessary  for  the 
people  to  knowe.  As  it  well  appeareth  by  al 
such  things  in  effect  as  our  Saviour  at  that 
tyme  taught  his  apostles  a  part.  Wherof  I 
would  not,  for  my  mynde,  witholde  the  profite 
that  one  good  devoute  unlerned  ley  man  might 
take  by  the  reading,  not  for  the  harme  that  an 
hundred  heretikes  would  fall  in  by  theyr  own 
wilful  abusion,  no  more  than  oure  Saviour 
letted,^  for  the  weale  of  suche  as  woulde  bee 
with  hys  grace  of  hys  little  chosen  flock,  to 
come  into  thys  world  and  be  lapis  offensionis 
ct  pctra  scandaU,  the  stone  of  stumbling  and 
the  stone  of  falling  and  ruine,  to  all  the  wilful 
wretches  in  the  world  beside. 

"  Finally  me  thynketh  that  the  constitucion 
provincial  of  whiche  we  spake  right  now,  hath 
determined  thys  question  alreadye.  For  whan 
the  cleargie  therein  agreed  that  the  Englyshe 
Bybles  should  remayne  whiche  were  translated 
afore  Wickliffes  dayes,  they  consequentlye 
dydde  agree  that  to  have  the  Byble  in  Englishe 
was  none  hurte.  And  in  that  they  forbade 
any  new  translacion  to  be  read  till  it  wer 
approved  by  the  bishoppes:  it  appeareth  well 
therby  that  theyr  intent  was  that  the  byshop 
should  approve  it  if  he  found  it  faultlesse,  and 
also  of  reason  amend  it  where  it  wer  faultye, 
but-if  ^  the  manne  wer  an  heretike  that  made 
it,  or  the  faultes  such  and  so  many,  as  it  were 


'  hesitate  ^  hinders    ^  body    *  pagans     *  hesitated 
"  unless 


34 


WILLIAM   TYNDALE 


more  eth  *  to  make  it  all  newe  than  mend  it. 
As  it  happed  forbothe  poyntesin  the  translacion 
of  Tyndall. 

"  Now  if  it  so  be  that  it  woulde  happely  be 
thought  not  a  thyng  metely  to  be  adventured 
to  set  all  on  a  flushe  at  ones,^  and  dashe  rashelye 
out  Holye  Scrypture  in  everye  lewde  felowes 
teeth:  yet,  thynkcth  me,  ther  might  such  a 
moderacion  be  taken  therein,  as  neither  good 
vcrteous  ley  foike  shoulde  lacke  it,  nor  rude  and 
rashe  braynes  abuse  ^  it.  For  it  might  be  with 
diligence  well  and  truely  translated  by  some 
good  catholike  and  well  learned  man,  or  by 
dyvers  dividing  the  labour  among  them,  and 
after  conferring  theyr  several  parties  together 
eche  with  other.  And  after  that  might  the 
worke  be  alowed  and  approved  by  the  ordi- 
naries, and  by  theyr  authorities  so  put  unto 
prent,  as  all  the  copies  should  come  whole 
unto  the  bysshoppes  hande.  Which  he  may 
after  his  discrecion  and  wisedom  deliver  to  such 
as  he  perceiveth  honest,  sad,  and  verteous,  with 
a  good  monicion  and  fatherly  counsell  to  use 
it  reverently  with  humble  heart  and  lowly  mind, 
rather  sekyng  therin  occasion  of  devocion  than 
of  despicion.^  And  providing  as  much  as 
may  be,  that  the  boke  be  after  the  decease  of 
the  partie  brought  again  and  reverently  re- 
stored unto  the  ordinarye.  So  that  as  nere  as 
maye  be  devised,  no  man  have  it  but  of  the 
ordinaries  hande,  and  by  hym  thought  and  re- 
puted for  such  as  shalbe  likly  to  use  it  to  Gods 
honor  and  merite  of  his  own  soule.  Among 
whom  if  any  be  proved  after  to  have  abused  it, 
than  '  the  use  therof  to  be  forboden  him,  eyther 
for  ever,  or  till  he  be  waxen  wyser." 

"By  Our  Lady,"  quod  your  frend,  "this 
way  misliketh  not  me.  But  who  should  sette 
the  price  of  the  booke?"  "Forsoth,"  quod  I, 
"that  reken  I  a  thing  of  litle  force.  For 
neither  wer  it  a  great  matter  for  any  man  in 
maner  °  to  give  a  grote  or  twain  above  the  mene  ' 
price  for  a  boke  of  so  greate  proiite,  nor  for 
the  bysshope  to  geve  them  all  free,  wherin  he 
myght  serve  his  dyoces  with  the  cost  of  x.  li.,^ 
I  thynke,  or  xx.  markes.'  Which  summe,  I 
dare  saye  there  is  no  bishop  but  he  wold  be  glad 
to  bestow  '"  about  a  thing  that  might  do  his  hole 
dyoces  so  special  a  pleasure  with  such  a  spiri- 
tuall  profit."  "By  my  trouth,"  quod  he,  "yet 
wene  '^  I  that  the  peple  would  grudge  to  have 
it  on  this  wise  delivered  them  at  the  bishops 

1  easy  « once  « misuse  « dispute  *  then 
'  practically  ^  ordinary  » ten  pounds  ^  twenty 
marks  (=£13  6s.  Hd.)      10  spend     "  ween,  think 


hande,  and  had  lever '  pay  for  it  to  the  printer 
than  have  it  of  the  byshop  free."  "It  might  so 
happen  with  some,"  quod  I.  "But  yet,  in 
myne  opinion,  ther  wer  in  that  maner  more 
wilfulness  than  wisedom  or  any  good  mind  in 
suche  as  would  not  be  content  so  to  receive 
them.  And  therfore  I  wold  think  in  good 
faith  that  it  wold  so  fortune  in  few.  But,  for 
God,  the  more  dout  would  be,  lest  they  would 
grudge  and  hold  themself  sore  greved  that  wold 
require  it  and  wer  happely  denied  it:  which 
I  suppose  would  not  often  happen  unto  any 
honest  housholder  to  be  by  his  discrecion  rever- 
ently red  in  his  house.  But  though  it  wer  not 
taken  ^  to  every  lewde  lad  in  his  own  handes 
to  rede  a  litle  rudely  whan  he  list,  and  than 
cast  the  boke  at  his  heles,  or  among  other  such 
as  himselfe  to  kepe  a  quotlibet  ^  and  a  pot 
parlament  ^  upon,  I  trow  there  wil  no  wise 
man  find  a  faulte  therin. 

"Ye  spake  right  now  of  the  Jewes,  among 
whom  the  hole  peple  have,  ye  say,  the  Scripture 
in  their  hands.  And  ye  thought  it  no  reason 
that  we  shold  reken  Christen  men  lesse  worthy 
therto  'than  them.  Wherin  I  am  as  ye  see  of 
your  own  opinion.  But  yet  wold  God,  we  had 
the  like  reverence  to  the  Scripture  of  God  that 
they  have.  For  I  assure  you  I  have  heard  very 
worshipfuU  folke  say  which  have  been  in  their 
houses,  that  a  man  could  not  hyre  a  Jewe  to  sit 
down  upon  his  Byble  of  the  Olde  Testament, 
but  he  taketh  it  with  gret  reverence  in  hand 
whan  he  wil  rede,  and  reverently  layeth  it  up 
agayn  whan  he  hath  doone.  Wheras  we,  God 
forgeve  us !  take  a  litle  regarde  to  sit  down  on 
our  Byble  with  the  Old  Testament  and  the 
New  too.  Which  homely  handeling,  as  it 
procedeth  of  litle  reverence,  so  doth  it  more  and 
more  engrendre  in  the  mind  a  negligence  and 
contempt  of  Gods  holi  words.  .  .  .'" 

WILLIAM  TYNDALE   (d.  1536) 

THE   GOSPELL   OF   S.    MATHEW.     THE 
FYFTH   CHAPTER 

When  he  sawe  the  people,  he  went  up  into  a 
mountaine,  and  wen  he  was  sett,  hys  disciples 
cam  unto  him,  and  he  opened  his  mouth,  and 
taught  them  sayinge:  "Blessed  are  the  poure 
in  sprete:  for  thers  is  the  k}Tigdom  of  heven. 
Blessed  are  they  that  mourne :  for  they  shalbe 
comforted.     Blessed  are  the   meke:    for  they 


'  liefer,   rather 
cussion 


'  deliver    ^  debate    *  drunken  dis- 


THE   GOSPELL   OF   S.  MATHEW 


35 


shall  inherct  the  erthe.  Blessed  are  they  which 
hunger  and  thurst  for  rightcwesnes :  for  they 
shalbe  fylled.  Blessed  are  the  mercyfuU: 
for  they  shall  obteyne  mercy.  Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  hert:  for  they  shall  se  God.  Blessed 
are  the  maynteyners  of  peace :  for  they  shalbe 
called  the  chylclren  of  God.  Blessed  are  they 
which  suffre  persecucion  for  rightewesnes  sake: 
for  thers  is  the  kyngdom  of  heven.  Blessed  are 
ye  when  men  shall  revyle  you,  and  persecute 
you,  and  shal  falsly  saye  all  manner  of  evle 
sayinges  agaynst  you  for  my  sake.  Rejoyce 
and  be  gladde,  for  greate  is  youre  rewarde  in 
heven.  For  so  persecuted  they  the  prophettes 
which  were  before  youre  dayes. 

"Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  erthe,  but  ah !  yf  the 
salte  be  once  unsavery,  what  can  be  salted 
there  with?  it  is  thence  forthe  good  for  noth- 
ynge,  but  to  be  cast  out  at  the  dores,  and  that 
men  treade  it  uTider  fete.  Ye  are  the  light  of 
the  worlde.  A  cite  that  is  sett  on  an  hill 
cannot  be  hyd,  nether  do  men  light  a  candle 
and  put  it  under  a  busshell,  but  on  a  candel- 
stycke,  and  it  lighteth  all  those  which  are  in 
the  housse.  Se  that  youre  light  so  schyne 
before  men,  that  they  maye  se  youre  good 
werkes,  and  gloryfie  youre  Father,  which  is  in 
heven. 

"Ye  shall  not  thynke,  that  y  am  come  to 
disanull  the  lawe  other'  the  prophettes:  no,  y 
am  not  come  to  dysanull  them,  but  to  fulfyll 
them.  For  truely  y  say  unto  you,  tyll  heven 
and  erthe  perysshe,  one  jott,  or  one  tytle  of  the 
lawe  shall  not  scape,  tyll  all  be  fulfylled. 

"Whosoever  breakcth  one  of  these  leest 
commaundmentes,  and  shall  teche  men  so,  he 
shalbe  called  the  leest  in  the  kyngdom  of  heven. 
But  whosoever  shall  observe  and  teache  them, 
that  persone  shalbe  called  greate  in  the  kyng- 
dom of  heven. 

"For  I  say  unto  you,  except  youre  rightewes- 
nes excede  the  rightewesnes  of  the  scrybes  and 
pharyses,  ye  cannot  entre  into  the  kyngdom 
of  heven. 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  it  was  sayd  unto  them 
of  the  olde  tyme.  Thou  shalt  not  kyll.  Who- 
soever shall  kyll,  shalbe  in  daunger  of  judge- 
ment. But  I  say  unto  you,  whosoever  ys 
angre  with  hys  brother,  shalbe  in  daunger  of 
judgement.  Whosoever  shall  say  unto  his 
brother,  Racha !  shalbe  in  daunger  of  a 
counseill.  But  whosoever  shall  say  unto  his 
brother,  Thou  fole !  shalbe  in  daunger  of  hell 
fyre.     Therfore  when  thou  offerest  thy  gyfte 


att  the  altre,  and  there  remembrest  that  thy 
brother  hath  eny  thyngc  agaynst  the:  Icve 
there  thyne  offrynge  before  the  altre,  and  go 
thy  wa3'e  fyrst  and  reconcyle  thy  silff  to  thy 
brother,  and  then  come  and  oflre  thy  gyfte. 

"Agre  with  thine  adversary  at  once,  whyles 
thou  arte  in  the  waye  with  hjm,  lest  thine 
adversary  delivre  the  to  the  judge,  and  the 
judge  delyvre  the  to  the  minister,'  and  then 
thou  be  cast  into  preson.  I  say  unto  the 
verely:  thou  shalt  not  come  out  thence  tyll 
thou  have  payed  the  utmoost  forthynge.' 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  jt  was  sayde  to  them 
of  olde  tyme,  thou  shalt  not  commytt  advoutric.^ 
But  I  say  unto  you,  that  whosoever  eyeth  a 
wyfe,  lustynge  after  her,  hathe  commytted 
advoutrie  with  her  alredy  in  his  hert. 

"  Wherfore  yf  thy  right  eye  offende  the,  plucke 
h)Tn  out  and  caste  him  from  the.  Better  hit  is 
for  the,  that  one  of  thy  membres  perysshe  then 
that  thy  whole  body  shuld  be  caste  in  to  hell. 
Also  yf  thy  right  honde  offend  the,  cutt  hym  of 
and  caste  hym  from  the.  Better  hit  is  that 
one  of  thy  membres  perisshe,  then  that  all  thy 
body  shulde  be  caste  in  to  hell. 

"Hit  ys  sayd,  whosoever  put  ■*  awaye  his 
wyfe,  let  hym  geve  her  a  testymonyall  of  her 
divorcement.  But  I  say  unto  you:  whosoever 
put  ^  awaye  hys  wyfe  (except  hit  be  for  fomica- 
cion)  causeth  her  to  breake  matrimony,  And 
who  soever  maryeth  her  that  is  divorsed,  break- 
eth  wedlocke. 

"AgajTie  ye  have  herde,  howe  it  was  said  to 
them  of  olde  tyme,  thou  shalt  not  forswere 
thysilfe,  but  shalt  performe  thine  othe  to  God. 
But  I  saye  unto  you  swere  not  at  all:  nether 
by  heven,  for  hit  ys  Goddes  seate:  nor  yet  by 
the  erth.  For  it  is  hys  fote  stole:  Nether  by 
Jerusalem,  for  it  is  the  cite  of  the  greate  kynge: 
Nether  shalt  thou  swere  by  thy  heed,  because 
thou  canst  not  make  one  heer  whyte,  or  blacke : 
But  youre  communicacion  shalbe,  ye,  ye:  nay, 
nay.  For  whatsoever  is  more  then  that,  com- 
meth  of  evle. 

"Ye  have  herde  howe  it  is  sayd,  an  eye  for 
an  eye:  a  tothe  for  a  tothe.  But  I  say  unto 
you,  that  ye  withstond  ^  not  wronge:  But  yf  a 
man  geve  the  a  blowe  on  thy  right  chcke,  turne 
to  hym  the  othre.  And  yf  eny  man  wyll  sue 
the  at  the  lawe,  and  take  thi  coote  from  the, 
lett  hym  have  thi  clooke  also.  And  whosoever 
wyll  compell  the  to  goo  a  myle,  goo  wyth  him 
twayne.  Geve  to  him  that  axeth:  and  from 
him  that  wolde  borowe  turne  not  away. 


officer     2  farthing    ^  adultery     *  puts     *  resist 


36 


HUGH    LATIMER 


"Ye  have  herde  howe  it  is  saide:  thou  shalt 
love  th)Tie  neghbour,  and  hate  thyne  enemy. 
But  y  saye  unto  you,  love  youre  enemies. 
Blesse  them  that  cursse  you.  Doo  good  to 
them  that  hate  you,  Praye  for  them  which  doo 
you  wronge,  and  persecute  you,  that  ye  maye 
be  the  chyldren  of  youre  hevenly  Father:  for 
he  maketh  his  sunne  to  aryse  on  the  evle_  and 
on  the  good,  and  sendeth  his  rejue  on  the  juste 
and  on  the  onjuste.  For  if  ye  shall  love  them, 
which  love  you:  what  rewarde  shall  ye  have? 
Doo  not  the  publicans  even  so?  And  if  ye 
be  frendly  to  youre  brethren  only:  what  sin- 
guler  thynge  doo  ye  ?  Doo  nott  the  publicans 
lyke  wyse?  Ye  shall  therfore  be  perfecte,  even 
as  youre  hevenly  Father  is  perfecte." 

HUGH  LATIMER  (i485?-i555) 

From  THE  FIRST  SERMON  BEFORE 
KING   EDWARD   VI 

And  necessary  it  is  that  a  kyng  have  a  treas- 
ure all  wayeys  in  a  redines,  for  that,  and  such 
other  affa'yres,  as  be  dayly  in  hys  handes. 
The  which  treasure,  if  it  be  not  sufficiente,  he 
maye  lawfully  and  wyth  a  salve  '  conscience 
take  taxis  of  hys  subjectes.  For  it  were  not 
mete  ^  the  treasure  shoulde  be  in  the  subjectes 
purses  whan  the  money  shoulde  be  occupied,^ 
nor  it  were  not  best  for  themselves,  for  the  lacke 
there  of,  it  myght  cause  both  it  and  all  the  rest 
that  they  have  shold  not  long  be  theirs,  x'X.nd  so 
for  a  necessarj'e  and  expedyent  occacion,  it  is 
warranted  by  Goddes  word  to  take  of  the  sub- 
jectes. But  if  there  be  sufificyente  treasures, 
and  the  burdenynge  of  subjectes  be  for  a  vayne 
th}Tig,  so  that  he  wyl  require  thus  much,  or  so 
much,  of  his  subjects,  whyche  perchaunce  are 
in  great  necessitie  and  penurye,  then  this  covet- 
ous intent,  and  the  request  thereof,  is  to  muche, 
whych  God  forbiddeth  the  king  her  in  this  place 
of  scripture  to  have.  But  who  shal  se  this 
"to  much,"  or  tell  the  king  of  this  "to  much"? 
Thinke  you  anye  of  the  Kynges  prevye  cham- 
ber? No.  For  feare  of  losse  of  faver.  Shall 
any  of  his  swome  chapelins?  No.  Thei  bee  of 
the  claussef*  and  kepe  close  such  matters.  But 
the  Kynge  him  selfe  must  se  this  "to  much," 
and  that  shal  he  do  by  no  meanes  with  the 
corporal  eyes.  Wherfore  he  must  have  a  paier 
of  spectacles,  whiche  shall  have  two  cleare 
syghtes  in  them,  that  is,  the  one  is  fayth,  not  a 
seasonable  faj'eth,  which  shall  laste  but  a  whyle, 
but  a  fayeth  whiche  is  continuynge  in  God. 


The  seconde  cleare  sighte  is  charitie,  whych  is 
fervente  towardes  hys  Chrysten  brother.  By 
them  two  must  the  Kynge  se  ever  whan  he 
hath  to  muche.  But  fewe  therbe  that  useth 
these  spectacles,  the  more  is  theyr  dampnacion. 
Not  w)1;houte  cause  Chrisostome  wyth  admira- 
cion'  sayeth,  "Mir or  si  aliqiiis  rector um  potest 
salvari.  I  marv'ell  if  anye  ruler  can  be  saved." 
Whyche  wordes  he  speaketh  not  of  an  impos- 
sibilitie,  but  of  a  great  difi&cultie ;  for  that  their 
charge  is  marvelous  great,  and  that  none  aboute 
them  dare  shew  them  the  truth  of  the  thing 
how  it  goth.  Wei  then,  if  God  wyl  not  alowe 
a  king  to  much,  whither  ^  wyl  he  alowe  a  sub- 
ject to  much  ?  No,  that  he  wil  not.  Whether 
have  any  man  here  in  England  to  much?  I 
doubte  most  riche  men  have  to  muche,  for 
w>ihout  to  muche,  we  can  get  nothynge.  As 
for  example,  the  Phisicion.  If  the  pore  man 
be  dyseased,  he  can  have  no  helpe  without  to 
much;  and  of  the  lawyer  the  pore  man  can 
get  no  counsell,  expedicion,  nor  helpe  in  his 
matter,  except  he  geve  him  to  much.  At  mar- 
chandes  handes  no  kynd  of  wares  can  be  had, 
except  we  geve  for  it  to  muche.  You  lande- 
lordes,  you  rent-reisers,  I  maye  saye  you 
steplordes,  you  unnaturall  lordes,  you  have  for 
your  possessions  yerely  to  much.  For  that  ^ 
herebefore  went  for  .xx.  or  .xl.  pound  by  yere, 
(which  is  an  honest  porcion  to  be  had  gratis  in 
one  Lordeshyp,  of  a  nother  mannes  sweat  and 
laboure)  now  is  it  let  for  .1.  (fifty)  or  a  .C.  (hun- 
dred) pound  by  yeare.  Of  thys  "to  muche" 
commeth  thys  monsterous  and  portentious 
dearthis  made  by  man.  Not  with  standynge 
God  doeth  sende  us  plentifullye  the  fruites  of 
the  earth,  mercyfullye,  contrarye  unto  oure 
desertes,  not  wythstandjmge  "  to  muche," 
whyche  these  riche  menne  have,  causeth  suche 
dearth,  that  poore  menne  (whyche  live  of  theyr 
laboure)  can  not  wyth  the  sweate  of  their  face 
have  a  livinge,  all  kinde  of  victales  is  so  deare, 
pigges,  gese,  capons,  chickens,  egges,  etc. 

These  thinges  with  other  are  so  unresonably 
enhansed.  And  I  thinke  verely  that  if  it  this* 
continewe,  we  shal  at  length  be  constrayned 
to  paye  for  a  pygge  a  pounde.  I  wyl  tel  you, 
my  lordes  and  maysters,  thys  is  not  for  the 
kynges  honoure.  Yet  some  wyl  saye,  knowest 
thou  what  belongeth  unto  the  kinges  honoure 
better  then  we?  I  answere,  that  the  true 
honoure  of  a  Kinge,  is  moost  perfectly  men- 
cioned  and  painted  furth  in  the  scriptures,  of 
which,  if  ye  be  ignoraunt,  for  lacke  of  tyme, 


'  safe      ^  proper      ^  made  use  of      *  closet 


wonder 


whether 


'  what 


thus 


THE    FIRST    SERMON    BEFORE    KING    EDWARD    VI 


37 


that  ye  cannot  reade  it,  albeit,  that  your  coun- 
saile  be  never  so  politike,  yet  is  it  not  for  the 
kynges  honoure.  What  his  honoure  meaneth 
ye  canot  teh  It  is  the  kynges  honoure  that  his 
subjectes  bee  led  in  the  true  religion.  That 
all  hys  prelates  and  Cleargie  be  set  about  their 
worcke  in  preching  and  studieng,  and  not  to 
be  interrupted  from  their  charge.  Also  it  is 
the  Kinges  honour  that  the  commen  wealth  be 
avaunsed,  that  the  dearth  of  these  forsaied 
thynges  be  provided  for,  and  the  commodities 
of  thys  Realme  so  emploied,  as  it  may  be  to  the 
setting  his  subjectes  on  worke,  and  kepyng 
them  from  idlenes.  And  herin  resteth  the 
kinges  honour  and  hys  office.  So  doynge,  his 
accompte  before  God  shalbe  alovi^ed,  and  re- 
warded. Furder  '  more,  if  the  kinges  honour 
(as  sum  men  say)  standeth  in  the  great  multi- 
tude of  people,  then  these  grasiers,  inclosers, 
and  rente-rearers,  are  hinderers  of  the  kings 
honour.  For  wher  as  have  bene  a  great  meany  ^ 
of  householders  and  inhabitauntes,  ther  is  nowe 
but  a  shepherd  and  his  dogge,  so  thei  hynder 
the  kinges  honour  most  of  al.  My  lordes  and 
maisters,  I  say  also  that  all  suche  procedyngcs 
which  are  agaynste  the  Kynges  honoure  (as  I 
have  a  part  declared  before)  and  as  far  as  I 
can  perceive,  do  intend  plainly,  to  make  the 
yomanry  slavery  and  the  Cleargye  shavery. 
For  suche  worckes  are  al  syngular,^  private 
welth  and  commoditye.  We  of  the  cleargye 
had  to  much,  but  that  is  taken  away;  and 
nowe  we  have  to  little.  But  for  myne  owne 
part,  I  have  no  cause  to  complaine,  for,  I 
thanke  God  and  the  kyng,  I  have  sufhcient, 
and  God  is  my  judge  I  came  not  to  crave  of 
anye  man  any  thyng;  but  I  knowe  theim  that 
have  to  litle.  There  lyeth  a  greate  matter  by 
these  appropriacions,  greate  reformacions  is  to 
be  had  in  them.  I  knowe  wher  is  a  great 
market  Towne  with  divers  hamelets  and  in- 
habitauntes, wher  do  rise  yereli  of  their  labours 
to  the  value  of  .1.  (fifty)  pounde,  and  the  vicar 
that  serveth  (being  so  great  a  cure)  hath  but 
.xii.  or  .xiiii.  markes  by  yere,  so  that  of  thys 
pension  he  is  not  able  to  by  him  bokes,  nor 
geve  hys  neyghboure  dryncke,  al  the  great 
gaine  goeth  another  way.  My  father  was  a 
Yoman,  and  had  no  landes  of  his  owne,  onlye 
he  had  a  farme  of  .iii.  or  .iiii.  pound  by  yere  at 
the  uttermost,  and  here  upon  he  tilled  so  much 
as  kepte  halfe  a  dosen  men.  He  had  walke  * 
for  a  hundred  shepe,  and  my  mother  mylked 

'  further    2  company    '  for  the  benefit  of  an  indi- 
vidual    *  pasture 


.x.xx.  kyne.  He  was  able  and  did  find  the  king 
a  harnesse,  wyth  hym  selfe,  and  hys  horsse, 
whyle  he  came  to  the  place  that  he  should 
receyve  the  kynges  wages.  I  can  remembre 
that  I  buckled  hys  harnes  when  he  went  unto 
Blacke-heeath  fclde.  He  kept  me  to  schole, 
or  elles  I  had  not  bene  al)le  to  have  preached 
before  the  kinges  majestie  nowe.  He  marycd 
my  systers  with  v.  pounde  or  .xx.  nobles  a 
pece,  so  that  he  broughte  them  up  in  godlines, 
and  feare  of  God. 

He  kept  hospitalitie  for  his  pore  neighbours. 
And  sum  almcss  '  he  gave  to  the  poore,  and  all 
thys  did  he  of  the  sayd  farme.  Wher  he  that 
now  hath  it,  paieth  .xvi.  pounde  by  yere  or 
more,  and  is  not  able  to  do  any  thing  for  his 
Prynce,  for  himselfe,  nor  for  his  children,  or 
gcve  a  cup  of  drincke  to  the  pore.  Thus  al  the 
enhansinge  and  rearing  goth  to  your  private 
commoditie  and  wealth.  So  that  where  ye 
had  a  single  "  to  much,"  you  have  that:  and 
syns  the  same,  ye  have  enhansed  the  rente,  and 
so  have  encreased  an  other  "to  much."  So 
now  ye  have  doble  to  muche,  whyche  is  to  to 
much.  But  let  the  preacher  preach  til  his 
tong  be  worne  to  the  stompes,  nothing  is 
amended.  We  have  good  statutes  made  for 
the  commen  welth  as  touching  comeners,  en- 
closers,  many  metinges  and  Sessions,  but  in  the 
end  of  the  matter  their  ^  commeth  nothing  forth. 
Wei,  well,  th3's  is  one  thynge  I  wyll  saye  unto 
you,  from  whens  it  commeth  I  knowe,  even, 
from  the  devill.  I  knowe  his  intent  in  it.  For 
if  ye  bryng  it  to  passe,  that  the  yomanry  be  not 
able  to  put  their  sonnes  to  schole  (as  in  dede 
universities  do  wonderously  decaye  all  redy) 
and  that  they  be  not  able  to  mary  their  daugh- 
ters to  the  avoidyng  of  whoredome,  I  say  ye 
plucke  salvation  from  the  people  and  utterly 
distroy  the  realme.  For  by  yomans  sonnes  the 
fayth  of  Christ  is  and  hath  bene  mayntained 
chefely.  Is  this  realme  taught  by  rich  mens 
sonnes?  No,  no!  Reade  the  Cronicles;  ye 
shall  fynde  sumtime  noble  mennes  sonnes 
which  have  bene  unpreaching  byshoppes  and 
prelates,  but  ye  shall  finde  none  of  them  learned 
men.  But  verilye,  they  that  shoulde  loke  to 
the  redresse  of  these  thinges,  be  the  greatest 
against  them.  In  thyse  realm  are  a  great 
meany  ^  of  folkes,  and  amongest  many  I  knowe 
but  one  of  tender  zeale,  at  the  mocion  of  his 
poore  tennauntes,  hath  let  downe  his  landes 
to  the  olde  rentes  for  their  reliefe.  For  Goddes 
love,  let  not  him  be  a  Phenix,  let  him  not  be 

'  alms    ^  there     '  company 


38 


ROGER    ASCHAM 


alone,  let  h\Tn  not  be  an  Hermite  closed  in  a 
wall,  sum  good  man  follow  him  and  do  as  he 
geveth  example !  Surveiers '  there  be,  that 
gredyly  gorge  up  their  covetouse  guttes,  hande- 
makers  ^  I  meane  (honest  men  I  touch  not 
but  al  suche  as  survei  ^) ;  thei  make  up  ■*  their 
mouthes  but  the  commens  ^  be  utterlye  undone 
by  them.  Whose "  bitter  cry  ascendyng  up 
to  the  eares  of  the  God  of  Sabaoth,  the  gredy 
p)t  of  hel  burning  fire  (without  great  repent- 
aunce)  do  tary  and  loke  for  them.'  A  redresse 
God  graunt !  For  suerly,  suerly,  but  that  .ii. 
thynges  do  comfort  me,  I  wold  despaire  of  the 
redresse  in  these  maters.  One  is,  that  the 
kinges  majestie  whan  he  commeth  to  age  wyll 
se  a  redresse  of  these  thinges  so  out  of  frame, 
geving  example  by  letting  doune  his  owne 
landes  first  and  then  enjoyne  hys  subjectes  to 
folowe  him.  The  second  hope  I  have,  is,  I 
beleve  that  the  general  accomptyng  ^  daye  is 
at  hande,  the  dreadfull  day  of  judgement  I 
meane,  whiche  shall  make  an  end  of  al  these 
calamities  and  miseries.  For  as  the  scr}-ptures 
be,  Cum  dixcrint,  pax  pax,  "When  they  shal 
say,  Peace,  peace,"  Omnia  tiita,  "All  thynges 
are  sure,"  then  is  the  day  at  hand,  a  mer}^  day, 
I  saye,  for  al  such  as  do  in  this  world  studye  to 
serve  and  please  god  and  continue  in  his  fajth, 
feare  and  love:  and  a  dreadful,  horrible  day 
for  them  that  decline  from  God,  walking  in 
ther  owne  wayes,  to  whom  as  it  is  wr}'tten  in 
the  XXV  of  Mathew  is  sayd:  Ite  maledicti  in 
ignem  ekrnum,  "Go  ye  curssed  into  ever- 
lastynge  punyshment,  wher  shalbe  waylinge 
and  gnashing  of  teeth."  But  unto  the  other  he 
shal  saye:  Venite  benedicti,  "come  ye  blessed 
chyldren  of  my  father,  possesse  ye  the  kyng- 
dome  prepared  for  you  from  the  beginninge  of 
the  worlde."  Of  the  which  God  make  us  al 
partakers !    Amen. 

ROGER  ASCHAM   (1515-1568) 

THE   SCHOLEMASTER 

From  THE  FIRST  BOOKE  FOR  THE  YOUTH 

_  After  the  childe  hath  learned  perfitlie  the 
eight  partes  of  speach,  let  him  then  learne  the 
right  jo>Tiing  togither  of  substantives  with 
adjectives,  the  nowne  with  the  verbe,  the  rela- 
tive with  the  antecedent.  And  in  learninge 
farther  hys  Syntaxis,  by  mine  advice,  he  shall 

'  government  ofBcials  2  grafters  ^  serve  as 

overseers     *  fill     «  commons,  common  people      »  i.e. 
the  commons    ''  i.e.  the  surveyors     *  accounting 


not  use  the  common  order  in  common  scholes, 
for  making  of  Latines:  wherby  the  childe 
commonlie  leameth,  first,  an  evill  choice 
of  wordes,  (and  right  choice  of  wordes,  saith 
Caesar,  is  the  foundation  of  eloquence)  than,' 
a  wrong  placing  of  wordes:  and  lastlie,  an  ill 
framing  of  the  sentence,  with  a  perverse  judge- 
ment, both  of  wordes  and  sentences.  These 
faultes,  taking  once  roote  in  yougthe,  be  never, 
or  hardlie,  pluckt  away  in  age.  Moreover, 
there  is  no  one  thing,  that  hath  more,  either 
dulled  the  wittes,  or  taken  awaye  the  will  of 
children  from  learning,  than  the  care  they  have, 
to  satisfie  their  masters,  in  making  of  Latines. 

For  the  scholer  is  commonlie  beat  for  the  mak- 
ing, when  the  master  were  more  worthie  to  be 
beat  for  the  mending,  or  rather,  marring  of  the 
same :  The  master  many  times  being  as  igno- 
rant as  the  childe  what  to  sale  properlie  and 
fitlie  to  ;he  matter.  Two  scholemasters  have 
set  forth  in  print,  either  of  them  a  booke,  of 
soch  kinde  of  Latines,  Horman  and  Whittington. 

A  childe  shall  learne  of  the  better  of  them, 
that,  which  an  other  daie,  if  he  be  wise,  and 
cum  to  judgement,  he  must  be  faine  to  unleame 
againe. 

There  is  a  waie,  touched  in  the  first  booke 
of  Cicero  De  Oratore,  which,  wiselie  brought 
into  scholes,  truely  taught,  and  constantly  used, 
would  not  onely  take  wholly  away  this  butchcrlie 
feare  in  making  of  Latines,  but  would  also,  with 
ease  and  pleasure,  and  in  short  time,  as  I  know 
by  good  experience,  worke  a  true  choice  and 
placing  of  wordes,  a  right  ordering  of  sentences, 
an  easie  undcrstand\Tig  of  the  tonge,  a  readines 
to  speake,  a  facultie  to  write,  a  true  judgement, 
both  of  his  owne,  and  other  mens  doinges, 
what  tonge  so  ever  he  doth  use. 

The  waie  is  this.  After  the  three  concord- 
ances ^  learned,  as  I  touched  before,  let  the 
master  read  unto  hym  the  Epistles  of  Cicero, 
gathered  togither  and  chosen  out  by  Sturmius 
for  the  capacitie  of  children.  First,  let  him 
teach  the  childe,  cherefullie  and  plain  lie,  the 
cause,  and  matter  of  the  letter:  then,  let  him 
construe  it  into  Englishe,  so  oft,  as  the  childe 
may  easilie  carie  awaie  the  understanding  of 
it:  .Lastlie,  parse  it  over  perfitlie.  This  done 
thus,  let  the  childe,  by  and  by,^  both  construe 
and  parse  it  over  againe;  so  that  it  may 
appeare  that  the  childe  douteth"  in  nothing 
that  his  master  taught  him  before.  After  this, 
the  childe  must  take  a  paper  booke,  and  sitting 

1  then  2  ^gg  tffg  ji^g^  sentence  of  this  selection.   ' 

'  immediately    *  is  at  a  loss 


THE    SCHOLEMASTER 


in  some  place  where  no  man  shall  prompe  him, 
by  him  self,  let  him  translate  into  Englishe  his 
former  lesson.  Then  shewing  it  to  his  master, 
let  the  master  take  from  him  his  Latin  booke, 
and  pausing  an  houre,  at  the  least,  than^  let 
the  childe  translate  his  owne  Englishe  into 
Latin  againe,  in  an  other  paper  booke.  When 
the  childe  bringeth  it,  turned  into  Latin,  the 
master  must  compare  it  with  Tullies  ^  booke, 
and  laie  them  both  togither:  and  where  the 
childe  doth  well,  either  in  chosing,  or  true 
placing  of  Tullies  wordes,  let  the  master  praise 
him,  and  sale,  "  Here  ye  do  well."  F^or  I  assure 
you,  there  is  no  such  whetstone  to  sharpen  a 
good  witte  and  encourage  a  will  to  learninge  as 
is  praise. 

But  if  the  childe  misse,  either  in  forgetting  a 
worde,  or  in  chaunging  a  good  with  a  worse, 
or  misordering  the  sentence,  I  would  not  have 
the  master,  either  froune,  or  chide  with  him, 
if  the  childe  have  done  his  diligence,  and  used 
no  trewandship  ^  therin.  For  I  know  by  good 
experience,  that  a  childe  shall  take  more  profit 
of  two  fautes  *  jentlie  warned  of  then  of  foure 
thinges  rightly  hitt.  For  than  ^  the  master 
shall  have  good  occasion  to  sale  unto  him, 
"N.,^  Tullie  would  have  used  such  a  worde, 
not  this:  Tullie  would  have  placed  this  word 
here,  not  there:  would  have  used  this  case, 
this  number,  this  person,  this  degree,  this 
gender:  he  would  have  used  this  moode,  this 
tens,  this  simple,  rather  than  this  compound: 
this  adverbe  here,  not  there:  he  would  have 
ended  the  sentence  with  this  verbe,  not  with 
that  nowne  or  participle,"  etc. 

In  these  fewe  lines,  I  have  wrapped  up  the 
most  tedious  part  of  Grammer:  and  also  the 
ground  of  almost  all  the  Rewles,  that  are  so 
busilie  taught  by  the  Master,  and  so  hardlie 
learned  by  the  Scholer,  in  all  common  Scholes : 
which  after  this  sort,  the  master  shall  teach 
without  all  error,  and  the  scholer  shall  learne 
without  great  paine:  the  master  being  led  by 
so  sure  a  guide,  and  the  scholer  being  brought 
into  so  plaine  and  easie  a  waie.  And  therefore, 
we  do  not  contemne  Rewles,  but  we  gladlie 
teach  Rewles:  and  teach  them,  more  plainlie, 
sensiblie,  and  orderlie,  than  they  be  commonlie 
taught  in  common  Scholes.  For  whan  the 
Master  shall  compare  Tullies  booke  with  his 
Scholers  translation,  let  the  Master,  at  the  first, 
lead  and  teach  his  Scholer  to  joyne  the  Rewles 
of  his  Grammer  booke,  with  the  examples  of 


'  then     ^  Cicero's     ^  negligence      *  faults 
''  N  stands  for  the  name  of  the  child. 


then 


his  present  lesson,  untill  the  Scholer,  by  him 
selfe,  be  hablevi  to  fetch  out  of  his  Grammer 
everie  Rewle  for  everie  Example:  So  as  the 
Grammer  booke  be  ever  in  the  Scholers  hand, 
and  also  used  of  him,  as  a  Dictionarie,  for  everie 
present  use.  This  is  a  lively  and  perfite  waie 
of  teaching  of  Rewles :  where  the  common  waie, 
used  in  common  Scholes,  to  read  the  Grammer 
alone  by  it  selfe,  is  tedious  for  the  Master,  hard 
for  the  Scholer,  colde  and  uncumfortable  for 
them  bothe. 

Let  your  Scholer  be  never  afraide  to  aske  you 
any  dout,  but  use  discretlie  the  best  allurements 
ye  can  to  encorage  him  to  the  same  :  lest  his 
overmoch  fearinge  of  you  drive  him  to  seeke 
some  misorderlie  shifte:  as,  to  seeke  to  be 
helped  by  some  other  booke,  or  to  be  prompted 
by  some  other  Scholer,  and  so  goe  aboute  to 
begile  you  moch,  and  him  selfe  more. 

With  this  waie,  of  good  understanding  the 
mater,  plaine  construinge,  diligent  parsinge, 
dailie  translatinge,  cherefull  admonishinge, 
and  heedefull  amendinge  of  faultes:  never 
leavinge  behinde  juste  praise  for  well  doinge, 
I  would  have  the  Scholer  brought  up  withall, 
till  he  had  red,  and  translated  over  the  first  booke 
of  Epistles  chosen  out  by  Sturmius,  with  a  good 
peece  of  a  Comedie  of  Terence  also. 

All  this  while,  by  mine  advise,  the  childe 
shall  use  to  speake  no  Latine:  For,  as  Cicero 
saith  in  like  mater,  with  like  wordes,  loquendo, 
male  loqiii  discunt.  And,  that  excellent 
learned  man,  G.  Budaeus,  in  his  Greeke  Com- 
mentaries, sore  complaineth,  that  whan  he  be- 
gan to  learne  the  Latin  tonge,  use  of  speaking 
Latin  at  the  table,  and  elsewhere,  unadvisedlie, 
did  bring  him  to  soch  an  evill  choice  of  wordes, 
to  soch  a  crooked  framing  of  sentences,  that  no 
one  thing  did  hurt  or  hinder  him  more,  all  the 
dales  of  his  life  afterward,  both  for  redinesse  in 
speaking,  and  also  good  judgement  in  writinge. 

In  very  deede,  if  children  were  brought  up, 
in  soch  a  house,  or  soch  a  Schole,  where  the 
Latin  tonge  were  properlie  and  perfitlie  spoken, 
as  Tib.  and  Ca.  Gracci  were  brought  up,  in 
their  mother  Cornelias  house,  surelie  than  ' 
the  dailie  use  of  speaking  were  the  best  and 
readiest  waie  to  learne  the  Latin  tong.  But, 
now,  commonlie,  in  the  best  Scholes  in  England, 
for  wordes,  right  choice  is  smallie  regarded,  true 
proprietie  whollie  neglected,  confusion  is 
brought  in,  barbariousnesse  is  bred  up  so  in 
yong  wittes,  as  afterward  they  be,  not  onelie 
marde    for   speaking,    but   also    corrupted   in 

1  then 


40 


ROGER   ASCHAM 


judgement :  as  with  moch  adoe,  or  never  at  all 
they  be  brought  to  right  frame*  againe. 

Yet  all  men  covet  to  have  their  children 
speake  Latin:  and  so  do  I  verie  earnestlie 
too.  We  bothe  have  one  purpose :  we  agree  in 
desire,  we  wish  one  end :  but  we  differ  somewhat 
in  order  and  waie,  that  leadeth  rightlie  to  that 
end.  Other  would  have  them  speake  at  all 
adventures:  and,  so  they  be  speakinge,  to 
speake,  the  Master  careth  not,  the  Scholer 
knoweth  not,  what.  This  is  to  seeme  and  not 
to  bee :  except  it  be  to  be  bolde  without  shame, 
rashe  without  skill,  full  of  wordes  without 
witte.  I  wish  to  have  them  speake  so  as  it 
may  well  appeare  that  the  braine  doth  governe 
the  tonge,  and  that  reason  leadeth  forth  the 
taulke.  Socrates  doctrine  is  true  in  Plato,  and 
well  marked,  and  truely  uttered  by  Horace  in 
Arte  Poetica,  that,  where  so  ever  knowledge 
doth  accompanie  the  witte,  there  best  utterance 
doth  alwaies  awaite  upon  the  tonge :  For  good 
understanding  must  first  be  bred  in  the  childe, 
which,  being  nurished  with  skill,  and  use  of 
writing  (as  I  will  teach  more  largelie  hereafter) 
is  the  onelie  waie  to  bring  him  to  judgement 
and  readinesse  in  speakinge:  and  that  in  farre 
shorter  time  (if  he  followe  constantlie  the  trade  ^ 
of  this  litle  lesson)  than  he  shall  do,  by  common 
teachinge  of  the  common  scholes  in  England. 

But,  to  go  forward,  as  you  perceive  your 
scholer  to  goe  better  and  better  on  awaie, 
first,  with  understanding  his  lesson  more  quick- 
lie,  with  parsing  more  readelie,  with  translating 
more  spedelie  and  perfitlie  then  he  was  wonte, 
after,  give  him  longer  lessons  to  translate: 
and  withall,  begin  to  teach  him,  both  in  nownes, 
and  verbes,  what  is  Proprium,  and  what  is 
Translatum,  what  Synonymum,  what  Diversmn, 
which  be  Contraria,  and  which  be  most  notable 
Phrases  in  all  his  lecture:  As,  Proprium,  Rex 
Sepultus  est  magnifice;  Translatum,  Cum  illo 
principe,  Sepulta  est  &=  gloria  et  Salus  Rei- 
publicae;  Synonyma,  Ensis,  Gladius;  Laudare, 
praedicare;  Diversa,  Diligere,  Aniare;  Calere, 
Exardescere;  Inimicus,  Hostis;  Contraria, 
Acerbum  6^  luctuosum  bellum,  Dulcis  df  laeta 
Pax;  Phrases,  Dare  verba,  abjicere  obedientiam. 

Your  scholer  then,  must  have  the  third  paper 
booke;  in  the  which,  after  he  hath  done  his 
double  translation,  let  him  write,  after  this  sort 
foure  of  these  forenamed  sixe,  diligentlie  marked 
out  of  everie  lesson.  Or  else,  three,  or  two,  if 
there  be  no  moe:  and  if  there  be  none  of 
these  at  all  in  some  lecture,  yet  not  omitte  the 


order,  but  write  these:  Diversa,  nulla;  Contra- 
ria, nulla;  etc. 

This  diligent  translating,  joyned  with  this 
heedeful  marking,  in  the  foresaid  Epistles,  and 
afterwarde  in  some  plaine  Oration  of  Tullie, 
as  pro  lege  Manil:  pro  Archia  Poeta,  or  in  those 
three  ad  C.  Caes:  shall  worke  soch  a  right 
choise  of  wordes,  so  streight  a  framing  of 
sentences,  soch  a  true  judgement,  both  to 
write  skilfullie,  and  speake  wittielie,  as  wise  men 
shall  both  praise  and  marvell  at. 

If  your  scholer  do  misse  sometimes,  in 
marking  rightlie  these  foresaid  sixe  thinges, 
chide  not  hastelie:  for  that  shall,  both  dull  his 
witte,  and  discorage  his  diligence:  but  monish 
him  gentelie :  which  shall  make  him,  both  will- 
ing to  amende,  and  glad  to  go  forward  in  love 
and  hope  of  learning.  I  have  now  wished, 
twise  or  thrise,  this  gentle  nature,  to  be  in  a 
Scholemaster:  And,  that  I  have  done  so, 
neither  by  chance,  nor  without  some  reason, 
I  will  now  declare  at  large,  why,  in  mine  opin- 
ion, love  is  fitter  then  feare,  gentlenes  better 
than  beating,  to  bring  up  a  childe  rightlie  in 
learn  inge. 

With  the  common  use  of  teaching  and  beating 
in  common  scholes  of  England,  I  will  not  great- 
lie  contend:  which  if  I  did,  it  were  but  a  small 
grammaticall  controversie,  neither  belonging  to 
heresie  nor  treason,^  nor  greatly  touching  God 
nor  the  Prince:  although  in  very  deede,  in  the 
end,  the  good  or  ill  bringing  up  of  children, 
doth  as  much  serve  to  the  good  or  ill  service,  of 
God,  our  Prince,  and  our  whole  countrie,  as 
any  one  thing  doth  beside. 

I  do  gladlie  agree  with  all  good  Scholemasters 
in  these  pointes:  to  have  children  brought  to  a 
good  perfitnes  in  learning:  to  all  honestie  in 
maners:  to  have  all  fautes  ^  rightlie  amended: 
to  have  everie  vice  severelie  corrected:  but  for 
the  order  and  waie  that  leadeth  rightlie  to  these 
pointes,  we  somewhat  differ.  For  commonlie, 
many  scholemasters,  some,  as  I  have  seen, 
moe,^  as  I  have  heard  tell,  be  of  so  crooked  a 
nature,  as,  when  they  meete  with  a  hard  witted 
scholer,  they  rather  breake  him  than  bowe  him, 
rather  marre  him  then  mend  him.  For  whan 
the  scholemaster  is  angrie  with  some  other 
matter,  then  will  he  sonest  faul  to  beate  his 
scholer:  and  though  he  him  selfe  should  be 
punished  for  his  folie,  yet  must  he  beate  some 
scholer  for  his  pleasure:  though  there  be  no 
cause  for  him  to  do  so,  nor  yet  fault  in  the 
scholer  to  deserve  so.     These,  ye  will  say,  be 


practice. 


1  This  is  a  proverbial  expression.     ^  faults     ^  more 


^  THE    SCHOLEMASTER 


41 


fond  '  scholemasters,  and  fewe  they  be  that 
be  found  to  be  soch.  They  be  fond  in  deede, 
but  surelie  ovcrmany  soch  be  found  everie 
where.  But  this  will  I  say,  that  even  the  wisest 
of  your  great  beaters,  do  as  oft  punishe  nature 
as  they  do  correcte  faultes.  Yea,  many  times, 
the  better  nature  is  sorer  punished :  For,  if  one, 
by  quicknes  of  witte,  take  his  lesson  readelie, 
an  other,  by  hardnes  of  witte,  takcth  it  not  so 
speedelie:  the  first  is  alwaies  commended,  the 
other  is  commonlie  punished:  whan  a  wise 
scholemaster  should  rather  discretelie  consider 
the  right  disposition  of  both  their  natures, 
and  not  so  moch  wey  ^  what  either  of  them  is 
able  to  do  now,  as  what  either  of  them  is  likelie 
to  do  hereafter.  For  this  I  know,  not  onelie 
by  reading  of  bookes  in  my  studie,  but  also  by 
experience  of  life,  abrode  in  the  world,  that 
those  which  be  commonlie  the  wisest,  the  best 
learned,  and  best  men  also,  when  they  be  olde, 
were  never  commonlie  the  quickest  of  witte, 
when  they  were  yonge.  The  causes  why, 
amongest  other,  which  be  many,  that  move 
me  thus  to  thinke,  be  these  fewe,  which  I  will 
recken.  Quicke  wittes,  commonlie,  be  apte 
to  take,  unapte  to  keepe:  soone  bote  and 
desirous  of  this  and  that:  as  colde  and  sone 
wery  of  the  same  againe :  more  quicke  to  enter 
spedelie,  than  hable  ^  to  pearse  *  farre :  even 
like  over  sharpe  tooles,  whose  edges  be  verie 
soone  turned.  Soch  wittes  delite  them  selves 
in  easie  and  pleasant  studies,  and  never  passe 
farre  forward  in  hie  and  hard  sciences.  And 
therefore  the  quickest  wittes  commonlie  may 
prove  the  best  Poetes,  but  not  the  wisest 
Orators:  readie  of  tonge  to  speake  boldlie, 
not  deepe  of  judgement,  either  for  good  counsell 
or  wise  writing.  Also,  for  maners  and  life, 
quicke  wittes,  commonlie,  be,  in  desire,  new- 
fangle,^  in  purpose  unconstant,  light  to  promise 
any  thing,  readie  to  forget  every  thing:  both 
benefite  and  injurie:  and  therby  neither  fast  to 
frend,  nor  fearefull  to  foe:  inquisitive  of  every 
trifle,  not  secret  in  greatest  affaires:  bolde, 
with  any  person:  busie,  in  every  matter: 
sothing '  soch  as  be  present:  nipping  any  that 
is  absent:  of  nature  also,  alwaies,  flattering 
their  betters,  envying  their  equals,  despising 
their  inferiors:  and,  by  quicknes  of  witte, 
verie  quicke  and  readie,  to  like  none  so  well  as 
them  selves. 

Moreover  commonlie,  men,  very  quicke  of 
witte,  be  also,  verie  light  of  conditions:  ' 
and  thereby,  very  readie  of  disposition,  to  be 

*  foolish  2  weigh  ^  able  *  pierce  *  fond  of 
novelty        "  agreeing  with        ^  character 


caried  over  quicklie,  by  any  light  cumpanie, 
to  any  riot  and  unthriftiness,  when  they  be 
yonge:  and  therfore  seldome,  either  honest 
of  life,  or  riche  in  living,  when  they  be  olde. 
For,  quicke  in  witte  and  light  in  maners, 
be,  either  seldome  troubled,  or  verie  sone  wery, 
in  carying  a  verie  hevie  purse.  Quicke  wittes 
also  be,  in  most  part  of  all  their  doinges,  over- 
quicke,  hastie,  rashe,  headie,  and  brainsicke. 
These  two  last  wordes,  Headie,  and  Brain- 
sicke, be  fitte  and  proper  wordes,  rising  natural- 
lie  of  the  matter,  and  tearmed  aptlie  by  the 
condition,  of  over  moch  quickenes  of  witte. 
In  yougthe  also  they  be  readie  scoffers, 
privie  mockers,  and  ever  over  light  and  mery. 
In  aige,  sone  testie,  very  waspishe,  and  alwaies 
over  miserable:  and  yet  fewe  of  them  cum  to 
any  great  aige,  by  reason  of  their  misordered 
life  when  they  were  yong:  but  a  great  deale 
fewer  of  them  cum  to  shewe  any  great  counte- 
nance, or  beare  any  great  authoritie  abrode  in 
the  world,  but  either  live  obscurelie,  men  know 
not  how,  or  dye  obscurelie,  men  marke  not 
whan.  They  be  like  trees,  that  shewe  forth 
faire  blossoms  and  broad  leaves  in  spring  time, 
but  bring  out  small  and  not  long  lasting  fruite 
in  harvest  time:  and  that,  onelie  soch  as  fall 
and  rotte  before  they  be  ripe,  and  so,  never,  or 
seldome,  cum  to  any  good  at  all.  For  this  ye  shall 
finde  most  true  by  experience,  that  amongest 
a  number  of  quicke  wittes  in  youthe,  fewe  be 
found,  in  the  end,  either  verie  fortunate  for 
them  selves,  or  verie  profitable  to  serve  the 
common  wealth,  but  decay  and  vanish,  men 
know  not  which  way:  except  a  very  fewe,  to 
whom  peradventure  blood  and  happie  par- 
entage may  perchance  purchace  a  long  standing 
upon  the  stage.  The  which  felicitie,  because 
it  commeth  by  others  procuring,  not  by  their 
owne  deservinge,  and  stand  by  other  mens  feete, 
and  not  by  their  own,  what  owtward  brag  so 
ever  is  borne  by  them,  is  in  deed,  of  it  selfe, 
and  in  wise  mens  eyes,  of  no  great  estimation. 

JOHN   FOXE  (1516-1587) 

ACTS     AND     MONUMENTS     OF    THESE 
LATTER   AND   PERILLOUS    DAYES 

THE    BEHAVIOUR    OF    DR.    RIDLEY    AND 

MASTER   LATIMER    AT    THE   TIME 

OF  THEIR   DE.A.TH 

Upon  the  north-side  of  the  towne,  in  the  ditch 
over   against    Baily '    Colledge,    the    place   of 

1  Balliol 


42 


JOHN    FOXE 


execution  was  appointed;  and  for  feare  of  any 
tumult  that  might  arise,  to  let '  the  burning  of 
them,  the  Lord  Williams  was  commanded  by 
the  Queenes  letters  and  the  householders  of  the 
city,  to  be  there  assistant,  sufficientlie  ap- 
pointed. And  when  every  thing  was  in  a 
readiness,  the  prisoners  were  brought  forth  by 
the  maior  and  the  bayliffes.  Master  Ridley 
had  a  faire  blacke  gowne  furred,  and  faced  with 
foines,"  such  as  he  was  wont  to  weare  beeing 
bishop,  and  a  tippet  of  velvet,  furred  likewise, 
about  his  neck,  a  velvet  night-cap  upon  his  head, 
and  a  corner  cap  upon  the  same,  going  in  a  paire 
of  slippers  to  the  stake,  and  going  between  the 
maior  and  an  alderman,  etc.  After  him  came 
Master  Latimer  in  a  poor  Bristow  freeze  ^ 
frock  all  worne,  with  his  buttoned  cap,  and  a 
kerchiefe  on  his  head  all  readie  to  the  fire,  a 
newe  long  shrowde  hanging  over  his  hose  ^ 
downe  to  the  feet ;  which  at  the  first  sight  stirred 
mens  hearts  to  rue  upon  them,  beholding  on  the 
one  side  the  honour  they  sometime  had,  and 
on  the  other,  the  calamitie  whereunto  they  were 
fallen. 

Master  Doctour  Ridley,  as  he  passed  toward 
Bocardo,^  looked  up  where  Master  Cranmer 
did  lie,  hoping  belike  to  have  scene  him  at  the 
glass  windowe,  and  to  have  spoken  unto  him. 
But  then  Master  Cranmer  was  busie  with  Frier 
Soto  and  his  fellowes,  disputing  together,  so 
that  he  could  not  see  him  through  that  occasion. 
Then  Master  Ridley,  looking  backe,  espied 
Master  Latimer  comming  after,  unto  whom  he 
said,  "  Oh,  be  ye  there?  "  "  Yea,"  said  Master 
Latimer,  "have  after  as  fast  as  I  can  follow." 
So  he  following  a  prettie  way  off,  at  length  they 
came  both  to  the  stake,  the  one  after  the  other, 
where  first  Dr.  Ridley  entring  the  place,  mar- 
vellous earnestly  holding  up  both  his  hands, 
looked  towards  heaven.  Then  shortlie  after 
espying  Master  Latimer,  with  a  wondrous 
cheereful  looke  he  ran  to  him,  imbraced  and 
kissed  him;  and,  as  they  that  stood  neere  re- 
ported, comforted  him  saying,  "Be  of  good 
heart,  brother,  for  God  will  either  asswage  the 
furie  of  the  flame,  or  else  strengthen  us  to  abide 
it."  With  that  went  he  to  the  stake,  kneeled 
downe  by  it,  kissed  it,  and  most  effectuouslie 
praied,  and  behind  him  Master  Latimer  kneeled, 
as  eamestlie  calling  upon  God  as  he.  After 
they  arose,  the  one  talked  with  the  other  a  little 
while,   till  they  which  were  appointed  to  see 

'  hinder  ^  trimmings  of  beech-martin  fur  ^  ^ 
coarse  woolen  cloth  made  at  Bristol  *  breeches 
*  the  old  north  gate  at  Oxford,  used  as  a  prison 


the  execution,  remooved  themselves  out  of  the 
sun.     What  they  said  I  can  learn  of  no  man. 

Then  Dr.  Smith,  of  whose  recantation  in 
King  Edwards  time  ye  heard  before,  beganne 
his  sermon  to  them  upon  this  text  of  St.  Paul 
in  the  13  chap,  of  the  first  epistle  to  the  Corin- 
thians: Si  corpus  meiim  tradam  igni,  chari- 
tatem  auteni  non  habeam,  nihil  inde  utilitatis 
capio,  that  is,  "If  I  yeelde  my  body  to  the  fire 
to  be  burnt,  and  have  not  charity,  I  shall  gaine 
nothing  thereby."  Wherein  he  alledged  that 
the  goodnesse  of  the  cause,  and  not  the  order 
of  death,  maketh  the  holines  of  the  person; 
which  he  confirmed  by  the  examples  of  Judas, 
and  of  a  woman  in  Oxford  that  of  late  hanged 
her  selfe,  for  that  they,  and  such  like  as  he 
recited,  might  then  be  adjudged  righteous, 
which  desperatelie  sundered  their  lives  from 
their  bodies,  as  hee  feared  that  those  men 
that  stood  before  him  would  doe.  But  he 
cried  stil '  to  the  people  to  beware  of  them,  for 
they  were  heretikes,  and  died  out  of  the  church. 
And  on  the  other  side,  he  declared  their  diversi- 
ties in  opinions,  as  Lutherians,  CEcolampadians, 
Zuinglians,  of  which  sect  they  were,  he  said, 
and  that  was  the  worst:  but  the  old  church  of 
Christ  and  the  catholike  faith  beleeved  far 
otherwise.  At  which  place  they  ^  lifted  uppe 
both  their  hands  and  eies  to  heaven,  as  it  were 
calling  God  to  witnes  of  the  truth:  the  which 
countenance  they  made  in  many  other  places 
of  his  sermon,  whereas  they  thought  he  spake 
amisse.  Hee  ended  with  a  verie  short  ex- 
hortation to  them  to  recant,  and  come  home 
again  to  the  church,  and  save  their  lives  and 
soules,  which  else  were  condemned.  His  ser- 
mon was  scant  in  all  a  quarter  of  an  houre. 

Doctor  Ridley  said  to  Master  Latimer, 
"Will  you  begin  to  answer  the  sermon,  or  shall 
I?"  Master  Latimer  said:  "Begin  you  first, 
I  pray  you."     "I  will,"  said  Master  Ridley. 

Then  the  wicked  sermon  being  ended.  Dr. 
Ridley  and  Master  Latimer  kneeled  downe 
uppon  their  knees  towards  my  Lord  W^illiams 
of  Tame,  the  vice-chancellour  of  Oxford,  and 
divers  other  commissioners  appointed  for  that 
purpose,  which  sate  upon  a  forme  ^  thereby. 
Unto  whom  Master  Ridley  said:  "I  beseech 
you,  my  lord,  even  for  Christs  sake,  that  I  may 
speake  but  two  or  three  wordes."  And  whilest 
my  lord  bent  his  head  to  the  maior  and  vice- 
chancellor,  to  know  (as  it  appeared)  whether 
he  might  give  him  leave  to  speake,  the  bailiffes 
and  Dr.  Marshall,  vice-chancellor,  ran  hastily 

'  constantly    2  Ridley  and  Latimer     ^  bench 


ACTS    AND    MONUMENTS    OF   THESE    PERILLOUS    DAYES 


43 


unto  him,  and  with  their  hands  stopped  his 
mouth,  and  said:  "Master  Ridley,  if  you  will 
revoke  your  erroneous  opinions,  and  recant 
the  same,  you  shall  not  onely  have  liberty  so 
to  doe,  but  also  the  benefite  of  a  sul)ject ;  that 
is,  have  your  life."  "Not  otherwise?"  said 
Maister  Ridley.  "No,"  quoth  Dr.  Marshall. 
"Therefore  if  you  will  not  so  doe,  then  there 
is  no  remedy  but  you  must  suffer  for  your 
deserts."  "Well,"  quoth  Master  Ridley,  "so 
long  as  the  breath  is  in  my  bodie,  I  will  never 
deny  my  Lord  Christ,  and  his  knowne  truth: 
Gods  will  be  done  in  me !"  And  with  that  he 
rose  up  and  said  with  a  loud  voice:  "Well 
then,  I  commit  our  cause  to  almightie  God, 
which  shall  indifferently '  judge  all."  To 
whose  saying,  Maister  Latimer  added  his  old 
posie,-  "Well!  there  is  nothing  hid  but  it  shall 
be  opened."  And  he  said,  he  could  answer 
Smith  well  enough,  if  hee  might  be  suffered. 

Incontinently  ^  they  were  commanded  to 
make  them  readie,  which  they  with  all  meek- 
nesse  obeyed.  Master  Ridley  tooke  his  gowne 
and  his  tippet,  and  gave  it  to  his  brother-in-lawe 
Master  Shepside,  who  all  his  time  of  imprison- 
ment, although  he  might  not  be  suffered  to  come 
to  him,  lay  there  at  his  owne  charges  to  provide 
him  necessaries,  which  from  time  to  time  he 
sent  him  by  the  sergeant  that  kept  him.  Some 
other  of  his  apparel  that  was  little  worth,  hee 
gave  away;  other  the  bailiffes  took.  He  gave 
away  besides  divers  other  small  things  to  gentle- 
men standing  by,  and  divers  of  them  pitifullie 
weeping,  as  to  Sir  Henry  Lea  he  gave  a  new 
groat;  and  to  divers  of  my  Lord  Williams 
gentlemen  some  napkins,  some  nutmegges, 
and  races  *  of  ginger;  his  diall,  and  such  other 
things  as  he  had  about  him,  to  every  one  that 
stood  next  him.  Some  plucked  the  pointes 
of  his  hose.  Happie  was  he  that  might  get 
any  ragge  of  him.  Master  Latimer  gave 
nothing,  but  very  quickly  suffered  his  keeper  to 
pull  off  his  hose,  and  his  other  array,  which 
to  look  unto  was  very  simple :  and  being  stripped 
into  his  shrowd,^  hee  seemed  as  comly  a  person 
to  them  that  were  there  present  as  one  should 
lightly  see;  and  whereas  in  his  clothes  hee 
appeared  a  withered  and  crooked  sillie  olde 
man,  he  now  stood  bolt  upright,  as  comely  a 
father  as  one  might  lightly  behold. 

Then  Master  Ridley,  standing  as  yet  in  his 
trusse,"  said  to  his  brother:  "It  were  best  for 
me  to  go  in  my  trusse  still."  "No,"  quoth  his 
brother,  "it  will  put  you  to  more  paine:    and 

'  impartially  ^  motto  ^  immediately  ■•  roots  ^  shirt 
*  a  padded  jacket 


the  trusse  will  do  a  poore  man  good."  Where- 
unto  Master  Ridley  said:  "Be  it,  in  the  name 
of  God;"  and  so  unlaced  himselfe.  Then 
beeing  in  his  shirt,  he  stood  upon  the  foresaid 
stone,  and  held  up  his  hande  and  said:  "O 
heavenly  Father,  I  give  unto  thee  most  heartie 
thanks,  for  that  thou  hast  called  mee  to  be  a 
professour  of  thee,  even  unto  death.  I  be- 
seech thee.  Lord  God,  take  mercie  upon  this 
realme  of  England,  and  deliver  the  same  from 
all  her  enemies." 

Then  the  smith  took  a  chaine  of  iron,  and 
brought  the  same  about  both  Dr.  Ridleyes  and 
Maister  Latimers  middles;  and  as  he  was 
knocking  in  a  staple,  Dr.  Ridley  tooke  the 
chaine  in  his  hand,  and  shaked  the  same,  for 
it  did  girde  in  his  belly,  and  looking  aside  to  the 
smith,  said:  "Good  fellow,  knocke  it  in  hard, 
for  the  flesh  will  have  his  course."  Then  his 
brother  did  bringe  him  gunnepowder  in  a  bag, 
and  would  have  tied  the  same  about  his  necke. 
Master  Ridley  asked  what  it  was.  His  brother 
said,  "Gunnepowder."  "Then,"  sayd  he, 
"I  take  it  to  be  sent  of  God;  therefore  I  will 
receive  it  as  sent  of  him.  And  have  you  any," 
sayd  he,  "for  my  brother?"  meaning  Master 
Latimer.  "Yea,  sir,  that  I  have,"  quoth  his 
brother.  "Then  give  it  unto  him,"  sayd  hee, 
"bctime;'  least  ye  come  too  late."  So  his 
brother  went,  and  caried  of  the  same  gunne- 
powder unto  Maister  Latimer. 

In  the  mean  time  Dr.  Ridley  spake  unto  my 
Lord  Williams,  and  saide:  "My  lord,  I  must 
be  a  suter  unto  your  lordshippe  in  the  behalfe 
of  divers  poore  men,  and  speciallie  in  the  cause 
of  my  poor  sister;  I  have  made  a  supplication 
to  the  Queenes  Majestie  in  their  behalves.  I 
beseech  your  lordship  for  Christs  sake,  to  be  a 
mean  to  her  Grace  for  them.  My  brother  here 
hath  the  supplication,  and  will  resort  to  your 
lordshippe  to  certifie  you  herof.  There  is 
nothing  in  all  the  world  that  troubleth  my 
conscience,  I  praise  God,  this  only  excepted. 
W^hiles  I  was  in  the  see  of  London  divers  poore 
men  tooke  leases  of  me,  and  agreed  with  me  for 
the  same.  Now  I  heare  say  the  bishop  that 
now  occupieth  the  same  roome  will  not  allow 
my  grants  unto  them  made,  but  contrarie  unto 
all  lawe  and  conscience  hath  taken  from  them 
their  livings,  and  will  not  suffer  them  to  injoy 
the  same.  I  beseech  you,  my  lord,  be  a  meane 
for  them;  you  shall  do  a  good  deed,  and  God 
will  reward  you." 

Then  they  brought  a  faggotte,  kindled  with 

'  early 


44 


JOHN   FOXE 


fire,  and  laid  the  same  downe  at  Dr.  Ridleys 
feete.  To  whome  Master  Latimer  spake  in  this 
manner:  "Bee  of  good  comfort,  Master  Ridley, 
and  play  the  man.  Wee  shall  this  day  light 
such  a  candle,  by  Gods  grace,  in  England,  as 
I  trust  shall  never  bee  putte  out." 

And  so  the  fire  being  given  unto  them,  when 
Dr.  Ridley  saw  the  fire  flaming  up  towards  him, 
he  cried  with  a  wonderful  lowd  voice:  "In 
manus  tuas,  Domine,  commendo  spiritum 
meum:  Domine,  recipe  spiritum  meum." 
And  after,  repeated  this  latter  part  often  in 
English,  "Lord,  Lord,  receive  my  spirit;" 
Master  Latimer  crying  as  vehementlie  on  the 
other  side,  "O  Father  of  heaven,  receive  my 
soule!"  who  received  the  flame  as  it  were 
imbracing  of  it.  After  that  he  had  stroaked 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  as  it  were  bathed 
them  a  little  in  the  fire,  he  soone  died  (as  it 
appeared)  with  verie  little  paine  or  none. 
And  thus  much  concerning  the  end  of  this  olde 
and  blessed  servant  of  God,  Master  Latimer, 
for  whose  laborious  travailes,'  fruitfull  life, 
and  constant  death  the  whole  realme  hath  cause 
to  give  great  thanks  to  almightie  God. 

But  Master  Ridley,  by  reason  of  the  evill 
making  of  the  fire  unto  him,  because  the 
wooden  faggots  were  laide  about  the  gosse  ^ 
and  over-high  built,  the  fire  burned  first  be- 
neath, being  kept  downe  by  the  wood;  which 
when  he  felt,  hee  desired  them  for  Christes 
sake  to  let  the  fire  come  unto  him.  Which 
when  his  brother-in-law  heard,  but  not  well 
understood,  intending  to  rid  him  out  of  his 
paine  (for  the  which  cause  hee  gave  attendance), 
as  one  in  such  sorrow  not  well  advised  what 
hee  did,  heaped  faggots  upon  him,  so  that  he 
cleane  covered  him,  which  made  the  fire  more 
vehement  beneath,  that  it  burned  cleane  all  his 
neather  parts,  before  it  once  touched  the  upper; 
and  that  made  him  leape  up  and  down  under 
the  faggots,  and  often  desire  them  to  let  the 
fire  come  unto  him,  saying,  "I  cannot  bume." 
Which  indeed  appeared  well;  for,  after  his 
legges  were  consumed  by  reason  of  his  strug- 
ling  through  the  paine  (whereof  hee  had  no 
release,  but  onelie  his  contentation  in  God), 
he  showed  that  side  toward  us  cleane,  shirt  and 
all  untouched  with  flame.  Yet  in  all  this 
torment  he  forgate  not  to  call  unto  God  still, 


having  in  his  mouth,  "Lord  have  mercy  upon 
me,"  intermedling  '  this  cry,  "Let  the  fire  come 
unto  me,  I  cannot  bume."  In  which  paines  he 
laboured  till  one  of  the  standers  by  with  his 
bill  ^  pulled  off  the  faggots  above,  and  where  he 
saw  the  fire  flame  up,  he  wrested  himself  unto 
that  side.  And  when  the  flame  touched  the 
gunpowder,  he  was  seen  to  stirre  no  more,  but 
burned  on  the  other  side,  falling  downe  at 
Master  Latimers  feete.  Which  some  said 
happened  by  reason  that  the  chain  loosed; 
other  said  that  he  fel  over  the  chain  by  reason 
of  the  poise  of  his  body,  and  the  weakness  of 
the  neather  lims. 

Some  said  that  before  he  was  like  to  fall  from 
the  stake,  hee  desired  them  to  hold  him  to  it 
with  their  billes.  However  it  was,  surelie  it 
mooved  hundreds  to  teares,  in  beholding  the 
horrible  sight ;  for  I  thinke  there  was  none  that 
had  not  cleane  exiled  all  humanitie  and  mercie, 
which  would  not  have  lamented  to  beholde 
the  furie  of  the  fire  so  to  rage  upon  their  bodies. 
Signes  there  were  of  sorrow  on  everie  side. 
Some  tooke  it  greevouslie  to  see  their  deathes, 
whose  lives  they  held  full  deare:  some  pittied 
their  persons,  that  thought  their  soules  had  no 
need  thereof.  His  brother  mooved  many  men, 
seeing  his  miserable  case,  seeing  (I  say)  him 
compelled  to  such  infelicitie,  that  he  thought 
then  to  doe  him  best  service  when  he  hastned 
his  end.  Some  cried  out  of  the  lucke,  to  see 
his  indevor  (who  most  dearelie  loved  him,  and 
sought  his  release)  tume  to  his  greater  vexation 
and  increase  of  paine.  But  whoso  considered 
their  preferments  in  time  past,  the  places  of 
honour  that  they  some  time  occupied  in  this 
common  wealth,  the  favour  they  were  in  with 
their  princes,  and  the  opinion  of  learning  they 
had  in  the  university  where  they  studied,  could 
not  chuse  but  sorrow  with  teares  to  see  so  great 
dignity,  honour,  and  estimation,  so  necessary 
members  sometime  accounted,  so  many  godly 
vertues,  the  study  of  so  manie  yeres,  such  ex- 
cellent learning,  to  be  put  into  the  fire  and 
consumed  in  one  moment.  Well  !  dead  they 
are,  and  the  reward  of  this  world  they  have 
alreadie.  What  reward  remaineth  for  them  in 
heaven,  the  day  of  the  Lords  glorie,  when  hee 
commeth  with  his  saints,  shall  shortlie,  I  trust, 
declare. 


*  labors    ^  gorse,  furze 


'  intermingling       ^  ^  kind  of  weapon  consisting  of 
a  curved  blade  fixed  at  the  end  of  a  pole 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 


SIR  PHILIP   SIDNEY   (1554-1586) 


ARCADIA 


BOOK  I.     CHAP.  I 


And  now  they  were  already  come  upon  the 
stays,'  when  one  of  the  sailors  descried  a 
galley  which  came  with  sails  and  oars  directly 
in  the  chase  of  them,  and  straight  perceived 
it  was  a  well-known  pirate,  who  hunted,  not 
only  for  goods,  but  for  bodies  of  men,  which 
he  employed  either  to  be  his  galley-slaves  or 
to  sell  at  the  best  market.  Which  when  the 
master  understood,  he  commanded  forthwith 
to  set  on  all  the  canvas  they  could  and  fly 
homeward,  leaving  in  that  sort  poor  Pyrocles, 
so  near  to  be  rescued.  But  what  did  not 
Musidorus  say?  what  did  he  not  offer  to 
persuade  them  to  venture  the  fight?  But  fear, 
standing  at  the  gates  of  their  ears,  put  back 
all  persuasions;  so  that  he  had  nothing  to 
accompany  Pyrocles  but  his  eyes,  nor  to  suc- 
cour him  but  his  wishes.  Therefore  praying 
for  him,  and  casting  a  long  look  that  way,  he 
saw  the  galley  leave  the  pursuit  of  them  and 
turn  to  take  up  the  spoils  of  the  other  wreck; 
and,  lastly,  he  might  well  see  them  lift  up  the 
young  man;  and,  "Alas!"  said  he  to  himself, 
"dear  Pyrocles,  shall  that  body  of  thine  be 
enchained?  Shall  those  victorious  hands  of 
thine  be  commanded  to  base  offices?  Shall 
virtue  become  a  slave  to  those  that  be  slaves 
to  viciousness?  Alas,  better  had  it  been  thou 
hadst  ended  nobly  thy  noble  days.  What 
death  is  so  evil  as  unworthy  servitude?"  But 
that  opinion  soon  ceased  when  he  saw  the  galley 
setting  upon  another  ship,  which  held  long  and 
strong  fight  with  her;  for  then  he  began  afresh 
to  fear  the  life  of  his  friend,  and  to  wish  well 
to  the  pirates,  whom  before  he  hated,  lest  in 
their  ruin  he  might  perish.  But  the  fishermen 
made  such  speed  into  the  haven  that  they 
absented  his  eyes  from  beholding  the  issue; 


'  come  upon  the  stay.s  =  go  about  from  one  tack  to 
another 


where  being  entered,  he  could  procure  neither 
them  nor  any  other  as  then'  to  put  themselves 
into  the  sea;  so  that,  being  as  full  of  sorrow 
for  being  unable  to  do  anything  as  void  of 
counsel  how  to  do  anything,  besides  that  sick- 
ness grew  something  upon  him,  the  honest 
shepherds  Strephon  and  Claius  (who,  being 
themselves  true  friends,  did  the  more  perfectly 
judge  the  justness  of  his  sorrow)  advise  him 
that  he  should  mitigate  somewhat  of  his  woe, 
since  he  had  gotten  an  amendment  in  fortune, 
being  come  from  assured  persuasion  of  his 
death  to  have  no  cause  to  despair  of  his  life, 
as  one  that  had  lamented  the  death  of  his 
sheep  should  after  know  they  were  but  strayed, 
would  receive  pleasure,  though  readily'  he 
knew  not  where  to  find  them. 


CHAP.  II 

"Now,  sir,"  said  they,  "thus  for  ourselves 
it  is.  We  are,  in  profession,  but  shepherds, 
and,  in  this  country  of  Laconia,  little  better 
than  strangers,  and,  therefore,  neither  in  skill 
nor  ability  of  power  greatly  to  stead  you. 
But  what  we  can  present  unto  you  is  this: 
Arcadia,  of  which  country  we  are,  is  but  a  little 
way  hence,  and  even  upon  the  next  confines. 
There  dwelleth  a  gentleman,  by  name  Kalan- 
der,  who  vouchsafeth  much  favour  unto  us; 
a  man  who  for  his  hospitality  is  so  much 
haunted  ^  that  no  news  stir  but  come  to  his 
ears;  for  his  upright  dealing  so  beloved  of  his 
neighbours  that  he  hath  many  ever  ready 
to  do  him  their  uttermost  ser\'ice,  and,  by  the 
great  goodwill  our  Prince  bears  him,  may  soon 
obtain  the  use  of  his  name  and  credit,  which 
hath  a  principal  sway,  not  only  in  his  own 
Arcadia,  but  in  all  these  countries  of  Pelopon- 
nesus; and,  which  is  worth  all,  all  these  things 
give  him  not  so  much  power  as  his  nature  gives 
him  will  to  benefit,  so  that  it  seems  no  music 
is  so  sweet  to  his  ear  as  deserved  thanks. 
To  him  we  will  bring  you,  and  there  you  may 

'  a.s  then  =  at  the  time    -  visited 


45 


46 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


recover  again  your  health,  without  which  you 
cannot  be  able  to  make  any  diligent  search  for 
your  friend,  and,  therefore  but  in  that  respect, 
you  must  labour  for  it.  Besides,  we  are  sure 
the  comfort  of  courtesy  and  ease  of  wise  counsel 
shall  not  be  wanting." 

Musidorus  (who,  besides  he  was  merely ' 
unacquainted  in  the  country,  had  his  wits 
astonished  -  with  sorrow)  gave  easy  consent  to 
that  from  which  he  saw  no  reason  to  disagree; 
and  therefore,  defraying  ^  the  mariners  with  a 
ring  bestowed  upon  them,  they  took  their 
journey  together  through  Laconia,  Claius 
and  Strephon  by  course  carrying  his  chest  for 
him,  Musidorus  only  bearing  in  his  counte- 
nance evident  marks  of  a  sorrowful  mind  sup- 
ported with  a  weak  body;  which  they  per- 
ceiving, and  knowing  that  the  violence  of  sor- 
row is  not,  at  the  first,  to  be  striven  withal 
(being  like  a  mighty  beast,  sooner  tamed  with 
following  than  overthrown  by  withstanding) 
they  gave  way  unto  it  for  that  day  and  the  next, 
never  troubling  him,  either  with  asking  ques- 
tions or  finding  fault  with  his  melancholy, 
but  rather  fitting  to  his  dolour  dolorous  dis- 
courses of  their  own  and  other  folk's  misfor- 
tunes. Which  speeches,  though  they  had  not 
a  lively  entrance  to  his  senses,  shut  up  in  sor- 
row, yet,  like  one  half  asleep,  he  took  hold  of 
much  of  the  matters  spoken  unto  him,  so  as 
a  man  may  say,  ere  sorrow  was  aware,  they 
made  his  thoughts  bear  away  something  else 
beside  his  own  sorrow,  which  wrought  so  in 
him  that  at  length  he  grew  content  to  mark 
their  speeches,  then  to  marvel  at  such  wit  in 
shepherds,  after  to  like  their  company,  and 
lastly  to  vouchsafe  conference;  so  that  the 
third  day  after,  in  the  time  that  the  morning 
did  strow  roses  and  violets  in  the  heavenly 
floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightin- 
gales, striving  one  with  the  other  which  could 
in  most  dainty  variety  recount  their  wrong- 
caused  sorrow,  made  them  put  off  their  sleep; 
and,  rising  from  under  a  tree,  which  that  night 
had  been  their  pavilion,  they  went  on  their 
journey,  which  by  and  by  welcomed  Musi- 
dorus' eyes,  wearied  with  the  wasted  soil  of 
Laconia,  with  delightful  prospects.  There 
were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights 
with  stately  trees;  humble  valleys  whose 
base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  refreshing 
of  silver  rivers;  meadows  enamelled  with  all 
sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets  which, 
being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade,   were 


witnessed  so  to  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of 
many  well-tuned  birds;  each  pasture  stored 
with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security,  while 
the  pretty  lambs,  with  bleating  oratory,  craved 
the  dams'  comfort:  here  a  shepherd's  boy 
piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old; 
there  a  young  shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal 
singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  com- 
forted her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept 
time  to  her  voice's  music.  As  for  the  houses 
of  the  country  (for  many  houses  came  under 
their  eye)  they  were  all  scattered,  no  two  being 
one  by  the  other,  and  yet  not  so  far  off  as  that 
it  barred  mutual  succour:  a  show,  as  it  were, 
of  an  accompanable '  solitariness,  and  of  a 
civiP  wildness.  "I  pray  you,"  said  Musi- 
dorus, then  first  unsealing  his  long-silent  lips, 
"what  countries  be  these  we  pass  through, 
which  are  so  diverse  in  show,  the  one  wanting 
no  store,^  the  other  having  no  store  but  of 
want?" 

"The  countr}%"  answered  Claius,  "where 
you  were  cast  ashore,  and  now  are  passed 
through,  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the  barren- 
ness of  the  soil  (though  in  itself  not  passing 
fertile)  as  by  a  civil  war,  which,  being  these 
two  years  within  the  bowels  of  that  estate, 
between  the  gentlemen  and  the  peasants  (by 
them  named  helots)  hath  in  this  sort,  as  it 
were,  disfigured  the  face  of  nature  and  made  it 
so  unhospitall  as  now  you  have  found  it; 
the  towns  neither  of  the  one  side  nor  the  other 
willingly  opening  their  gates  to  strangers,  nor 
strangers  willingly  entering,  for  fear  of  being 
mistaken. 

"But  this  country,  where  now  you  set  your 
foot,  is  Arcadia;  and  even  hard  by  is  the  house 
of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead  you.  This 
country  being  thus  decked  with  peace  and  (the 
child  of  peace)  good  husbandry.  These  houses 
you  see  so  scattered  are  of  men,  as  we  two  are, 
that  live  upon  the  commodity  of  their  sheep, 
and  therefore,  in  the  division  of  the  Arcadian 
estate,  are  termed  shepherds;  a  happy  people, 
wanting  ^  little,  because  they  desire  not  much." 

"What  cause,  then,"  said  Musidorus,  "made 
you  venture  to  leave  this  sweet  life  and  put 
yourself  in  yonder  unpleasant  and  dangerous 
realm?"  "Guarded  with  poverty,"  answered 
Strephon,  "and  guided  with  love."  "But 
now,"  said  Claius,  "since  it  hath  pleased  you 
to  ask  anything  of  us,  whose  baseness  is  such 
as  the  very  knowledge  is  darkness,  give  us 
leave  to  know  something  of  you  and  of  the  young 


>  entirely     2  stricken     »  paying  1  companionable     2  civilized      ^  plenty      *  lacking 


ARCADIA 


47 


man  you  so  much  lament,  that  at  least  we  may 
be  the  better  instructed  to  inform  Kalandcr, 
and  he  the  better  know  how  to  proportion  his 
entertainment."  Musidorus,  according  to  the 
agreement  between  Pyrocles  and  him  to  alter 
their  names,  answered  that  he  called  himself 
Palladius,  and  his  friend  Daiphantus.  "But, 
till  I  have  him  again,"  said  he,  "  I  am  indeed 
nothing,  and  therefore  my  story  is  of  nothing. 
His  entertainment,  since  so  good  a  man  he  is, 
cannot  be  so  low  as  I  account  my  estate;  and, 
in  sum,  the  sum  of  all  his  courtesy  may  be  to 
help  me  by  some  means  to  seek  my  friend." 

They  perceived  he  was  not  willing  to  open 
himself  further,  and  therefore,  without  further 
questioning,  brought  him  to  the  house;  about 
which  they  might  see  (with  fit  consideration 
both  of  the  air,  the  prospect,  and  the  nature  of 
the  ground)  all  such  necessary  additions  to  a 
great  house  as  might  well  show  Kalander  knew 
that  provision  is  the  foundation  of  hospitality, 
and  thrift  the  fuel  of  magnificence.  The  house 
itself  was  built  of  fair  and  strong  stone,  not 
aflfecting  so  much  any  extraordinary  kind  of 
fineness  as  an  honourable  representing  of  a  firm 
stateliness;  the  lights,  doors,  and  stairs  rather 
directed  to  the  use  of  the  guest  than  to  the  eye 
of  the  artificer,  and  yet  as  the  one  chiefly  heeded, 
so  the  other  not  neglected;  each  place  hand- 
some without  curiosity,  and  homely  without 
loathsomeness;  not  so  dainty  as  not  to  be  trod 
on,  nor  yet  slubbered  up^  with  good-fellowship ;  ^ 
all  more  lasting  than  beautiful,  but  that  the 
consideration  of  the  exceeding  lastingness  made 
the  eye  believe  it  was  exceeding  beautiful; 
the  servants,  not  so  many  in  numl)er  as  cleanly 
in  apparel  and  serviceable  in  behaviour,  testi- 
fying even  in  their  countenances  that  their 
master  took  as  well  care  to  be  served  as  of  them 
that  did  serve.  One  of  them  was  forthwith 
ready  to  welcome  the  shepherds,  as  men  who, 
■  though  they  were  poor,  their  master  greatly  fa- 
voured; and  understanding  by  them  that  the 
young  man  with  them  was  to  be  much  ac- 
counted of,  for  that  they  had  seen  tokens  of 
more  than  common  greatness,  howsoever  now 
eclipsed  with  fortune,  he  ran  to  his  master,  who 
came  presently  forth,  and  pleasantly  welcoming 
the  shepherds,  but  especially  applying  him  to 
Musidorus,  Strephon  privately  told  him  all 
what  he  knew  of  him,  and  particularly  that  he 
found  this  stranger  was  loth  to  be  known. 

"No,"  said  Kalander,  speaking  aloud,  "I 
am  no  herald  to  inquire  of  men's  pedigrees; 


it  sufficeth  me  if  I  know  their  virtues;  which, 
if  this  young  man's  face  be  not  a  false  witness, 
do  better  apparel  his  mind  than  you  have  done 
his  body."  While  he  was  speaking,  there  came 
a  boy,  in  show  like  a  merchant's  prentice,  who, 
taking  Strephon  by  the  sleeve,  delivered  him 
a  letter,  written  jointly  both  to  him  and  Claius 
from  Urania  ;  which  they  no  sooner  had  read, 
but  that  with  short  leave  taking  of  Kalander, 
who  quickly  guessed  and  smiled  at  the  matter, 
and  once  again,  though  hastily,  recommend- 
ing the  young  man  unto  him,  they  went  away, 
leaving  Musidorus  even  loth  to  part  with  them, 
for  the  good  conversation  he  had  of  them,  and 
obligation  he  accounted  himself  tied  in  unto 
them;  and  therefore,  they  delivering  his  chest 
unto  him,  he  opened  it,  and  would  have  pre- 
sented them  with  two  very  rich  jewels,  but 
they  absolutely  refused  them,  telling  him  they 
were  more  than  enougli  rewarded  in  the  know- 
ing of  him,  and  without  hearkening  unto  a 
reply,  like  men  whose  hearts  disdained  all 
desires  but  one,  gat  speedily  away,  as  if  the 
letter  had  brought  wings  to  make  them  fly. 
But  by  that  sight  Kalander  soon  judged  that 
his  guest  was  of  no  mean  calling;  '  and  there- 
fore the  more  respectfully  entertaining  him, 
Musidorus  found  his  sickness,  which  the  fight, 
the  sea,  and  late  travel  had  laid  upon  him,  grow 
greatly,  so  that  fearing  some  sudden  accident, 
he  delivered  the  chest  to  Kalander,  which  was 
full  of  most  precious  stones,  gorgeously  and 
cunningly  set  in  divers  manners,  desiring  him 
he  would  keep  those  trifles,  and  if  he  died, 
he  would  bestow  so  much  of  it  as  was  needful 
to  find  out  and  redeem  a  young  man  naming 
himself  Daiphantus,  as  then  in  the  hands  of 
Laconian  pirates. 

But  Kalander  seeing  him  faint  more  and 
more,  with  careful  speed  conveyed  him  to  the 
most  commodious  lodging  in  his  house ;  where, 
being  possessed  with  an  extreme  burning  fever, 
he  continued  some  while  with  no  great  hope 
of  life;  but  youth  at  length  got  the  victory  of 
sickness,  so  that  in  six  weeks  the  excellency 
of  his  returned  beauty  was  a  credible  ambas- 
sador of  his  health,  to  the  great  joy  of  Kalander, 
who,  as  in  this  time  he  had  by  certain  friends 
of  his,  that  dwelt  near  the  sea  in  ISIessenia, 
set  forth  a  ship  and  a  galley  to  seek  and  succour 
Daiphantus,  so  at  home  did  he  omit  nothing 
which  he  thought  might  either  profit  or  gratify 
Palladius. 

For,  having  found  in  him  (besides  his  bodily 


'  made  slovenly     ^  revelry 


*  rank 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


gifts,  bevond  the  degree  of  admiration)  by 
daily  discourses,  whicli  he  dehghted  himself 
to  have  with  him,  a  mind  of  most  excellent 
composition  (a  piercing  wit,  quite  void  ot 
ostentation,  high-erected  thoughts  seated  in 
a  heart  of  courtesy,  an  eloquence  as  sweet  m 
the  uttering  as  slow  to  come  to  the  uttering, 
a  behaviour  so  noble  as  gave  a  majesty  to 
adversity,  and  all  in  a  man  whose  age  could 
not  be  above  one-and-twenty  years),  the  good 
old  man  was  even  enamoured  with  a  fatherly 
love  towards  him,  or  rather  became  his  servant 
bv  the  bonds  such  virtue  laid  upon  him ;  once, 
he  acknowledged  himself  so  to  be,  by  the  badge 
of  diligent  attendance. 

CHAP.  Ill 

But  Palladius  having  gotten  his  health,  and 
only  staying  there  to  be  in  place  where  he  might 
hear  answer  of  the  ships  set  forth,  kalander 
one  afternoon  led  him  abroad  to  a  well-arrayed 
ground  he  had  behind  his  house,  which  he 
thought  to  show  him  before  his  going,  as  the 
place  himself  more  than  in  any  other  dehghted. 
The  backside  of  the  house  was  neither  he  d, 
garden,  nor  orchard ;  or  rather  it  was  both  field, 
garden,  and  orchard:    for  as  soon  as  the  de- 
scending of  the  stairs  had  delivered  them  down, 
they  came  into  a  place  cunningly  set  with  trees 
of  the  most  taste-pleasing  fruits;    but  scarcely 
they  had  taken  that  into  their  consideration, 
but  that  they  were  suddenly  stepped  into  a 
delicate  green;    of  each  side  of  the  green  a 
thicket  bend,'  behind  the  thickets  again  new 
beds  of  flowers,  which  being  under  the  trees, 
the  trees  were  to  them  a  pavilion,  and  they  to 
the  trees  a  mosaical   floor,  so  that   it  seemed 
that  Art  therein  would  needs  be  delightful,  by 
counterfeiting   his  enemy   Error,  and   making 
order  in  confusion. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  place  was  a  fair 
pond,  whose  shaking  crystal  was  a  perfect 
mirror  to  all  the  other  beauties,  so  that  it 
bare  show  of  two  gardens,  —  one  in  deed,  the 
other  in  shadows;  and  in  one  of  the  thickets 
was  a  fine  fountain,  made  thus:  a  naked  Venus, 
of  white  marble,  wherein  the  graver  had  used 
such  cunning  that  the  natural  blue  veins  of  the 
marble  were  framed  in  fit  places  to  set  forth 
the  beautiful  veins  of 'her  body;  at  her  breast 
she  had  her  babe  .fLneas,  who  seemed,  having 
begun  to  suck,  to  leave  that  to  look  upon  her 
fair  eyes,  which  smiled  at  the  babe's  folly, 
the  mean  while  the  breast  running.     Hard  by 

1  field  of  grass 


was  a  house  of  pleasure,  built  for  a  summer 
retiring-place,  whither  Kalander  leading  him, 
he  found  a  square  room,  full  of  delightful  pic^ 
tures  made  by  the  most  excellent  workman  of 
Greece      There  was  Diana  when  Acteon  saw 
her  bathing,  in  whose  cheeks  the  painter  had 
set  such  a  colour,  as  was  mi.xed  between  shame 
and  disdain:    and  one  of  her  foolish  Nymphs, 
who  weeping,  and  withal  louring,  one  might 
see  the  workman  meant  to  set  forth  tears  of 
anger      In  another    table  ^  was  Atalanta;    the 
posture  of  whose  limbs  was  so  lively  expressed, 
that  if  the  eyes  were  the  only  judges,  as  they  be 
the  only  seers,  one  would  have  sworn  the  very 
picture  had  run.     Besides  many  more,  as  of 
Helena,  Omphale,  lole:    but  in  none  of  them 
all  beauty  seemed  to  speak  so  much  as  in  a 
large    table,'    which    contained   a   comely  old 
man,  with  a  lady  of  middle  age,  but  of  excellent 
beauty;    and  more  excellent  would  have  been 
deemed,  but  that  there  stood  between  them  a 
young  maid,  whose  wonderfulness  took  away 
all  beauty  from  her,  but  that,  which  it  might 
seem  she  gave  her  back  again  by  her  very  shadow^ 
And  such  difference,  being  known  that  it  did 
indeed  counterfeit  a  person  living,  was  there 
between  her  and  all  the   other,  though  God- 
desses, that  it  seemed  the  skill  of  the  painter 
bestowed  on  the  other  new  beauty,  but  that  the 
beauty  of  her  bestowed  new  skill  of  the  painter. 
Though  he  thought    inquisitiveness  an  un- 
comely guest,  he   could    not    choose,  but    ask 
who  she  was,  that  bearing  show  of  one  being 
in  deed,'  could  with  natural  gifts  go  beyond 
the  reach  of  invention.     Kalander  answered, 
that  it  was  made  by^  Philoclea,  the  younger 
dau<^hter  of  his  prince,  who  also  with  his  wife 
were  contained  in  that  table:  the  painter  mean- 
ino-  to  represent  the   present  condition  of  the 
young  lady,  who  stood  watched  by  an  over- 
curious  eye  of  her  parents:    and  that  he  would 
also  have   drawn   her  eldest   sister,   esteenied 
her  match  for  beauty,  in  her  shepherdish  attire ; 
but  that  the  rude  clown  her  guardian  would 
not  suffer  it:  neither  durst  he  ask  leave  of  the 
Prince   for  fear  of  suspicion.     Palladius  per- 
ceived that  the  matter  was  wrapped  up  in  some 
secrecy,    and    therefore    would    for    modesty 
demand  no  further:    but  yet  his  countenance 
could  not  but  with  dumb  eloquence  desire  it : 
which   Kalander  perceiving,  "Well,"  said  he 
"my  dear  guest,  I  know  your  mind,  and  I  will 
satisfy  it:   neither  will  I  do  it  like  a  niggardly 
answerer,  going  no  further  than  the  bounds 

»  picture     ^  existing  in  reality     '  of 


ARCADIA 


49 


of  the  question,  but  I  will  discover  unto  you, 
as  well  that  wherein  my  knowledge  is  common 
with  others,  as  that  which  by  extraordinary 
means  is  delivered  unto  me :  knowing  so  much 
in  you,  though  not  long  acquainted,  that  I 
shall  find  your  ears  faithful  treasurers." 

So  then  sitting  down  in  two  chairs;  and 
sometimes  casting  his  eye  to  the  picture,  he 
thus  spake:  —  "This  country  Arcadia,  among 
all  the  provinces  of  Greece,  hath  ever  been 
had  in  singular  reputation,  partly  for  the 
sweetness  of  the  air,  and  other  natural  benefits, 
but  principally  for  the  well-tempered  minds 
of  the  people,  who  (finding  that  the  shining 
title  of  glory,  so  much  affected  by  other  nations, 
doth  indeed  help  little  to  the  happiness  of  life) 
are  the  only  people  which,  as  by  their  justice 
and  providence,  give  neither  cause  nor  hope 
to  their  neighbours  to  annoy  them,  so  are 
they  not  stirred  with  false  praise  to  trouble 
others'  quiet,  thinking  it  a  small  reward  for  the 
wasting  of  their  own  lives  in  ravening  that  their 
posterity  should  long  after  say  they  had  done 
so.  Even  the  Muses  seem  to  approve  their 
good  determination  by  choosing  this  country 
for  their  chief  repairing  place,  and  by  bestowing 
their  perfections  so  largely  here,  that  the  very 
shepherds  have  their  fancies  lifted  to  so  high 
conceits  as  the  learned  of  other  nations  are 
content  both  to  borrow  their  names  and 
imitate  their  cunning. 

"  Here  dwelleth  and  reigneth  this  prince 
whose  picture  you  see,  by  name  Basilius;  a 
prince  of  sufiicient  skill  to  govern  so  quiet 
a  country,  where  the  good  minds  of  the  former 
princes  had  set  down  good  laws,  and  the  well 
bringing  up  of  the  people  doth  serve  as  a  most 
sure  bond  to  hold  them.  But  to  be  plain  with 
you,  he  excels  in  nothing  so  much,  as  in  the 
zealous  love  of  his  people,  wherein  he  doth  not 
only  pass  all  his  own  foregoers,  but  as  I  think 
all  the  princes  living.  Whereof  the  cause 
is,  that  though  he  exceed  not  in  the  virtues 
which  get  admiration,  as  depth  of  wisdom, 
height  of  courage  and  largeness  of  magnifi- 
cence, yet  is  he  notable  in  those  which  stir 
affection,  as  truth  of  word,  meekness,  courtesy, 
mercifulness,  and  liberality. 

"He,  being  already  well  stricken  in  years, 
married  a  young  princess,  named  Gynecia, 
daughter  to  the  king  of  Cyprus,  of  notable 
beauty,  as  by  her  picture  you  see ;  a  woman  of 
great  wit,  and  in  truth  of  more  princely  virtues 
than  her  husband;  of  most  unspotted  chastity, 
but  of  so  working  a  mind,  and  so  vehement 
spirits,  as  a  man  may  say  it  was  happy  she 


took  a  good  course,  for  otherwise  it  would  have 
been  terrible. 

"Of  these  two  are  brought  to  the  world  two 
daughters,  so  beyond  measure  excellent  in  all 
the  gifts  allotted  to  reasonable  creatures,  that 
we  may  think  they  were  born  to  show  that 
Nature  is  no  stepmother  to  that  sex,  how  much 
soever  some  men,  sharp-witted  only  in  evil 
speaking,  have  sought  to  disgrace  them.  The 
elder  is  named  Pamela,  by  many  men  not 
deemed  inferior  to  her  si.ster.  For  my  part, 
when  I  marked  them  both,  methought  there 
was  (if  at  least  such  perfections  may  receive 
the  word  of  more)  more  sweetness  in  Philo- 
clea,  but  more  majesty  in  Pamela:  methought 
love  played  in  Philoclea's  eyes  and  threatened 
in  Pamela's:  methought  Philoclea's  beauty 
only  persuaded,  but  so  persuaded  as  all  hearts 
must  yield;  Pamela's  beauty  used  violence, 
and  such  violence  as  no  heart  could  resist. 
And  it  seems  that  such  proportion  is  between 
their  minds:  Philoclea  so  bashful  as  though  her 
excellencies  had  stolen  into  her  before  she  was 
aware,  so  humble  that  she  will  put  all  pride  out 
of  countenance,  —  in  sum,  such  proceeding  as 
will  stir  hope,  but  teach  hope  good  manners; 
Pamela  of  high  thoughts,  who  avoids  not  pride 
with  not  knowing  her  excellencies,  but  by 
making  that  one  of  her  excellencies  to  be  void 
of  pride,  —  her  mother's  wisdom,  greatness, 
nobility,  but  (if  I  can  guess  aright)  knit  with  a 
more  constant  temper. 

"Now,  then,  our  Basilius  being  so  publicly 
happy  as  to  be  a  prince,  and  so  happy  in  that 
happiness  as  to  be  a  beloved  prince,  and  so 
in  his  private  blessed  as  to  have  so  excellent  a 
wife,  and  so  over-excellent  children,  hath  of 
late  taken  a  course  which  yet  makes  him  more 
spoken  of  than  all  these  blessings.  For,  hav- 
ing made  a  journey  to  Delphos,  and  safely  re- 
turned, within  short  space  he  brake  up  his 
court  and  retired  himself,  his  wife,  and  children, 
into  a  certain  forest  hereby,  which  he  calleth 
his  desert;  wherein  (besides  a  house  appointed 
for  stables,  and  lodgings  for  certain  persons  of 
mean  calling,  who  do  all  household  services)  he 
hath  builded  two  fine  lodges;  in  the  one  of  them 
himself  remains  with  his  younger  daughter 
Philoclea  (which  was  the  cause  they  three  were 
matched  together  in  this  picture),  without  hav- 
ing any  other  creature  living  in  that  lodge  with 
him.  Which,  though  it  be  strange,  yet  not  so 
strange  as  the  course  he  hath  taken  with  the 
princess  Pamela,  whom  he  hath  placed  in  the 
other  lodge:  but  how  think  you  accompanied? 
truly  with  none  other  but  one  Dametas,  the 


5° 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


most  arrant,  doltish  clown  that  I  think  ever 
was  without  the  privilege  of  a  bauble,  with  his 
wife  Miso  and  daughter  Mopsa,  in  whom  no 
wit  can  devise  anything  wherein  they  may 
pleasure  her,  but  to  exercise  her  patience  and 
to  serve  for  a  foil  of  her  perfections.  This 
loutish  clown  is  such  that  you  never  saw  so 
ill-favoured  a  vizard ;  *  his  behaviour  such  that 
he  is  beyond  the  degree  of  ridiculous ;  and  for 
his  apparel,  even  as  I  would  wish  him :  Miso  his 
wife,  so  handsome  a  beldame  '  that  only  her  face 
and  her  splay-foot  have  made  her  accused  for 
a  witch;  only  one  good  point  she  hath,  that 
she  observes  decorum,^  having  a  froward  mind 
in  a  wretched  body.  Between  these  two  per- 
sonages (who  never  agreed  in  any  humour  but 
in  disagreeing)  is  issued  forth  Mistress  Mopsa, 
a  rit  woman  to  participate  of  both  their  per- 
fections; but  because  a  pleasant  fellow  of  my 
acquaintance  set  forth  her  praises  in  verse,  I 
will  only  repeat  them,  and  spare  mine  own 
tongue,  since  she  goes  for  a  woman.  These 
verses  are  these,  which  I  have  so  often  caused 
to  be  sung,  that  I  have  them  without  book. 

"What  length  of  verse  can  serve  brave  Mopsa's 

good  to  show? 
Whose  virtues  strange,  and  beauties  such,  as 

no  man  them  may  know? 
Thus  shrewdly  burdened  then,  how  can  my 

Muse  escape? 
The  gods  must  help,  and  precious  things  must 

serve  to  show  her  shape. 
Like  great  god  Saturn  fair,  and  like  fair  Venus 

chaste: 
As  smooth  as  Pan,  as  Juno  mild,  like  goddess 

Iris  faced. ^ 
With  Cupid  she  foresees,  and  goes  god  Vulcan's 

pace: 
And  for  a  taste  of  all  these  gifts,  she  steals  god 

Momus'  grace. 
Her  forehead  jacinth  like,  her  cheeks  of  opal 

hue, 
Her  twinkling  eyes  bedecked  with  pearl,  her 

lips  as  sapphire  blue: 
Her  hair   like    crapal -stone ;  ^     her   mouth    O 

heavenly  wide; 
Her  skin  like  burnished  gold,  her  hands  like 

silver  ore  untried. 
As  for  her  parts  unknown,  which  hidden  sure 

are  best: 
Happy  be  they  which  well  believe,  and  never 

seek  the  rest. 

'  mask,  face  ^  crone  ^  harmony  *  Iris  7cas 
identified  with  Eris  (Strife)  by  the  older  mythologists. 
^  toad  stone 


"Now  truly  having  made  these  descriptions 
unto  you,  methinks  you  should  imagine  that  I 
rather  feign  some  pleasant  device,  than  recount 
a  truth,  that  a  prince  (not  banished  from  his 
own  wits)  could  possibly  make  so  unworthy 
a  choice.  But  truly  (dear  guest)  so  it  is,  that 
princes  (whose  doings  have  been  often  soothed ' 
with  good  success)  think  nothing  so  absurd, 
which  they  cannot  make  honourable.  The 
beginning  of  his  credit  was  by  the  prince's 
straying  out  of  the  way,  one  time  he  hunted, 
where  meeting  this  fellow,  and  asking  him  the 
way;  and  so  falling  into  other  questions,  he 
found  some  of  his  answers  (as  a  dog  sure  if  he 
could  speak,  had  wit  enough  to  describe  his 
kennel)  not  insensible,  and  all  uttered  with 
such  rudeness,  which  he  interpreted  plainness 
(though  there  be  great  difference  between  them) 
that  Basilius  conceiving  a  sudden  delight,  took 
him  to  his  Court,  with  apparent  show  of  his 
good  opinion :  where  the  flattering  courtier 
had  no  sooner  taken  the  prince's  mind,  but 
that  there  were  straight  reasons  to  confirm  the 
prince's  doing,  and  shadows  of  virtues  found 
for  Dametas.  His  silence  grew  wit,  his  blunt- 
ness  integrity,  his  beastly  ignorance  virtuous 
simplicity:  and  the  prince  (according  to  the 
nature  of  great  persons,  in  love  with  that  he 
had  done  himself)  fancied,  that  his  weakness 
with  his  presence  would  much  be  mended. 
And  so  like  a  creature  of  his  own  making,  he 
liked  him  more  and  more,  and  thus  having  first 
given  him  the  office  of  principal  herdman, 
lastly,  since  he  took  this  strange  determination, 
he  hath  in  a  manner  put  the  life  of  himself  and 
his  children  into  his  hands.  Which  authority 
(like  too  great  a  sail  for  so  small  a  boat)  doth 
so  oversway  poor  Dametas,  that  if  before  he 
were  a  good  fool  in  a  chamber,  he  might  be 
allowed  it  now  in  a  comedy :  so  as  I  doubt  me 
(I  fear  me  indeed)  my  master  will  in  the  end 
(with  his  cost)  find,  that  his  office  is  not  to 
make  men,  but  to  use  men  as  men  are ;  no  more 
than  a  horse  will  be  taught  to  hunt,  or  an  ass 
to  manage.  But  in  sooth  I  am  afraid  I  have 
given  your  ears  too  great  a  surfeit,  with  the 
gross  discourses  of  that  heavy  piece  of  flesh. 
But  the  zealous  grief  I  conceive  to  see  so  great 
an  error  in  my  Lord,  hath  made  me  bestow 
more  words,  than  I  confess  so  base  a  subject 
deserveth. 

CHAP.  IV 

"Thus  much  now  that  I  have  told  you  is 
nothing  more  than  in  elifect  any  Arcadian  knows. 

'  made  good,  verified 


ARCADIA 


51 


But  what  moved  him  to  this  strange  solitariness 
hath  l)een  imparted,  as  1  think,  but  to  one  i)er- 
son  Hving.  Myself  can  conjecture,  and  indeed 
more  than  conjecture,  by  this  accident  that  I 
will  tell  you.  I  have  an  only  son,  by  name 
Clitophon,  who  is  now  absent,  preparing  for 
his  own  marriage,  which  I  mean  shortly  shall 
be  here  celebrated.  This  son  of  mine,  while 
the  prince  kept  his  court,  was  of  his  bed- 
chamber; now,  since  the  breaking  up  thereof, 
returned  home;  and  showed  me,  among  other 
things  he  had  gathered,  the  copy  which  he  had 
taken  of  a  letter,  which,  when  the  prince  had 
read,  he  had  laid  in  a  window,  presuming  no- 
body durst  look  in  his  writings;  but  my  son 
not  only  took  a  time  to  read  it,  but  to  copy  it. 
In  truth  I  blamed  Clitophon  for  the  curiosity 
which  made  him  break  his  duty  in  such  a  kind, 
whereby  kings'  secrets  are  suljject  to  be  re- 
vealed; but,  since  it  was  done,  I  was  content 
to  take  so  much  profit  as  to  know  it.  Now 
here  is  the  letter,  that  I  ever  since  for  my  good 
liking,  have  carried  about  me;  which  before  I 
read  unto  you,  I  must  tell  you  from  whom  it 
came.  It  is  a  nobleman  of  this  country,  named 
Philanax,  appointed  by  the  prince  regent  in 
this  time  of  his  retiring,  and  most  worthy  so 
to  be;  for  there  lives  no  man  whose  excellent 
wit  more  simply  embraceth  integrity,  besides 
his  unfeigned  love  to  his  master,  wherein  never 
yet  any  could  make  question,  saving  whether 
he  loved  Basilius  or  the  prince  better;  a  rare 
temper,  while  most  men  either  servilely  yield  to 
all  appetites,  or  with  an  obstinate  austerity, 
looking  to  that  they  fancy  good,  in  effect 
neglect  the  prince's  person.  This,  then,  being 
the  man,  whom  of  all  other,  and  most  worthy, 
the  prince  chiefly  loves,  it  should  seem  (for 
more  than  the  letter  I  have  not  to  guess  by) 
that  the  prince,  upon  his  return  from  Delphos 
(Philanax  then  lying  sick),  had  written  unto 
him  his  determination,  rising,  as  evidently 
appears,  upon  some  oracle  he  had  there  re- 
ceived, whereunto  he  wrote  this  answer. 

Philanax  his  Letter  to  Basilius 

'"Most  redouted  and  beloved  prince,  if  as 
well  it  had  pleased  you  at  your  going  to  Delphos 
as  now,  to  have  used  my  humble  service,  both  I 
should  in  better  season,  and  to  better  purpose 
have  spoken :  and  you  (if  my  speech  had  pre- 
vailed) should  have  been  at  this  time,  as  no 
way  more  in  danger,  so  much  more  in  quiet- 
ness; I  would  then  have  said,  that  wisdom 
and  virtue  be  the  only  destinies  appointed  to 


man  to  follow,  whence  we  ought  to  seek  all  our 
knowledge,  since  they  be  such  guides  as  cannot 
fail;  which,  besides  their  inward  comfort,  do 
lead  so  direct  a  way  of  proceeding,  as  either 
prosperity  must  ensue;  or,  if  the  wickedness  of 
the  world  should  oppress  it,  it  can  never  be 
said,  that  evil  happencth  to  him,  who  falls 
accompanied  with  virtue.  I  would  then  have 
said,  the  heavenly  powers  to  be  reverenced,  and 
not  searched  into;  and  their  mercies  rather 
by  prayers  to  be  sought,  than  their  hidden 
counsels  by  curiosity;  these  kind  of  sooth- 
sayers (since  they  '  have  left  us  in  ourselves 
sufficient  guides)  to  be  nothing  but  fancy, 
wherein  there  must  either  be  vanity,  or  infalli- 
bleness,  and  so,  either  not  to  be  respected,  or 
not  to  be  prevented.  But  since  it  is  weakness 
too  much  to  remember  what  should  have  been 
done,  and  that  your  commandment  stretcheth 
to  know  what  is  to  be  done,  I  do  (most  dear 
Lord)  with  humble  boldness  say,  that  the  man- 
ner of  your  determination  doth  in  no  sort  better 
please  me,  than  the  cause  of  your  going.  These 
thirty  years  you  have  so  governed  this  region, 
that  neither  your  subjects  have  wanted  justice 
in  you,  nor  you  obedience  in  them;  and  your 
neighbours  have  found  you  so  hurtlessly  ^ 
strong,  that  they  thought  it  better  to  rest  in 
your  friendship,  than  make  new  trial  of  your 
enmity.  If  this  then  have  proceeded  out  of  the 
good  constitution  of  your  state,  and  out  of  a 
wise  providence,  generally  to  prevent  all  those 
things,  which  might  encumber  your  happiness: 
why  should  3'ou  now  seek  new  courses,  since 
your  own  ensample  comforts  you  to  continue, 
and  that  it  is  to  me  most  certain  (though  it 
please  you  not  to  tell  me  the  very  words  of  the 
Oracle)  that  yet  no  destiny,  nor  influence 
whatsoever,  can  bring  man's  wit  to  a  higher 
point,  than  wisdom  and  goodness?  Why 
should  you  deprive  yourself  of  government, 
for  fear  of  losing  your  government  (like  one 
that  should  kill  himself  for  fear  of  death)  ? 
Nay  rather,  if  this  Oracle  be  to  be  accounted  of, 
arm  up  your  courage  the  more  against  it;  for 
who  will  stick  to  him  that  abandons  himself? 
Let  your  subjects  have  you  in  their  eyes;  let 
them  see  the  benefits  of  your  justice  daily  more 
and  more;  and  so  must  they  needs  rather  like 
of  present  sureties  than  uncertain  changes. 
Lastly,  whether  your  time  call  you  to  live  or 
die,  do  both  like  a  prince.  Now  for  your 
second  resolution ;  which  is,  to  suffer  no  worthy 


'  i.e.  the    heavenly  powers    ^  not  doing  injury  to 
others 


52 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


prince  to  be  a  suitor  to  either  of  your  daughters, 
but  while  you  live  to  keep  them  both  unmar- 
ried; and,  as  it  were,  to  kill  the  joy  of  pos- 
terity, which  in  your  time  you  may  enjoy: 
moved  perchance  by  a  misunderstood  Oracle: 
what  shall  I  say,  if  the  affection  of  a  father 
to  his  own  children,  cannot  plead  sufificiently 
against  such  fancies?  Once,'  certain  it  is,  the 
God  which  is  God  of  nature  doth  never  teach 
unnaturalness:  and  even  the  same  mind  hold 
I  touching  your  banishing  them  from  company, 
lest  I  know  not  what  strange  loves  should  fol- 
low. Certainly,  Sir,  in  niy  ladies,  your  daugh- 
ters, nature  promiseth  nothing  but  goodness, 
and  their  education  by  your  fatherly  care  hath 
been  hitherto  such  as  hath  been  most  fit  to 
restrain  all  evil:  giving  their  minds  virtuous 
delights,  and  not  grieving  them  for  want  of 
well-ruled  liberty.  Now  to  fall  to  a  sudden 
straitening  them,  what  can  it  do  but  argue 
suspicion,  a  thing  no  more  unpleasant  than 
unsure  for  the  preserving  of  virtue?  Leave 
women's  minds  the  most  untamed  that  way  of 
any:  see  whether  any  cage  can  please  a  bird! 
or  whether  a  dog  grow  not  fiercer  with  tying! 
What  doeth  jealousy,  but  stir  up  the  mind  to 
think,  what  it  is  from  which  they  are  restrained? 
For  they  are  treasures,  or  things  of  great  de- 
light, which  men  use  to  hide,  for  the  aptness 
they  have  to  catch  men's  fancies:  and  the 
thoughts  once  awaked  to  that,  harder  sure  it  is 
to  keep  those  thoughts  from  accomplishment, 
than  it  had  been  before  to  have  kept  the  mind 
(which  being  the  chief  part,  by  this  means  is 
defiled)  from  thinking.  Lastly,  for  the  recom- 
mending so  principal  a  charge  of  the  Princess 
Pamela,  (whose  mind  goes  beyond  the  govern- 
ing of  many  thousands  such)  to  such  a  person 
as  Dametas  is  (besides  that  the  thing  in  itself 
is  strange)  it  comes  of  a  very  evil  ground,  that 
ignorance  should  be  the  mother  of  faithfulness. 
Oh,  no ;  he  cannot  be  good,  that  knows  not  why 
he  is  good,  but  stands  so  far  good  as  his  fortune 
may  keep  him  unassayed :  but  coming  once  to 
that,  his  rude  simplicity  is  either  easily  changed, 
or  easily  deceived:  and  so  grows  that  to  be  the 
last  excuse  of  his  fault,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  the  first  foundation  of  his  faith.  Thus 
far  hath  your  commandment  and  my  zeal 
drawn  me;  which  I,  like  a  man  in  a  valley  that 
may  discern  hills,  or  like  a  poor  passenger  that 
may  spy  a  rock,  so  humbly  submit  to  your  gra- 
cious consideration,  beseeching  you  again,  to 
stand  wholly  upon  your  own  virtue,   as  the 


surest  way  to  maintain  you  in  that  you  are, 
and  to  avoid  any  evil  which  may  be  imagined.' 

"By  the  contents  of  this  letter  you  may  per- 
ceive, that  the  cause  of  all,  hath  been  the  van- 
ity which  possesseth  many,  who  (making  a 
perpetual  mansion  of  this  poor  baiting  place 
of  man's  life)  are  desirous  to  know  the  certainty 
of  things  to  come;  wherein  there  is  nothing 
so  certain,  as  our  continual  uncertainty.  But 
what  in  particular  points  the  oracle  was,  in 
faith  I  know  not:  neither  (as  you  may  see  by 
one  place  of  Philanax's  letter)  he  himself  dis- 
tinctly knew.  But  this  experience  shows  us, 
that  Basilius'  judgment,  corrupted  with  a 
prince's  fortune,  hath  rather  heard  than  fol- 
lowed the  wise  (as  I  take  it)  counsel  of  Phila- 
nax.  For,  having  lost  the  stem  '  of  his  gov- 
ernment, with  much  amazement  to  the  people, 
among  whom  many  strange  bruits  ^  are  re- 
ceived for  current,  and  wdth  some  appearance 
of  danger  in  respect  of  the  valiant  Amphalus 
his  nephew,  and  much  envy  in  the  amljitious 
number  of  the  nobility  against  Philanax,  to  see 
Philanax  so  advanced,  though  (to  speak  sim- 
ply) he  desen'e  more  than  as  many  of  us  as 
there  be  in  Arcadia:  the  prince  himself  hath 
hidden  his  head  in  such  sort  as  I  told  you,  not 
sticking  3  plainly  to  confess  that  he  means  not 
(while  he  breathes)  that  his  daughters  shall 
have  any  husband,  but  keep  them  thus  solitary 
with  him :  where  he  gives  no  other  body  leave 
to  visit  him  at  any  time,  but  a  certain  priest, 
who  being  excellent  in  poetrj',  he  makes  him 
write  out  such  things  as  he  best  likes,  he  being 
no  less  delightful  in  conversation,  than  needful 
for  devotion,  and  about  twenty  specified 
shepherds,  in  whom  (some  for  exercises, 
and  some  for  eclogues)  he  taketh  greater 
recreation. 

"And  now  you  know  as  much  as  myself: 
wherein  if  I  have  held  you  over  long,  lay  hardly* 
the  fault  upon  my  old  age,  which  in  the  very 
disposition  of  it  is  talkative:  whether  it  be 
(said  he  smiling)  that  nature  loves  to  exercise 
that  part  most,  which  is  least  decayed,  and  that 
is  our  tongue:  or,  that  knowledge  being  the 
only  thing  whereof  we  poor  old  men  can  brag, 
we  cannot  make  it  known  but  by  utterance; 
or,  that  mankind  by  all  means  seeking  to 
eternise  himself  so  much  the  more,  as  he  is 
near  his  end,  doeth  it  not  only  by  the  children 
that  come  of  him,  but  by  speeches  and  writings 
recommended  to  the  memory  of  hearers  and 
readers.     And  yet  thus  much  I  will  say  for 


'  in  short 


rudder       ^  rumors       ^  hesitating       *  hardily 


ARCADIA 


53 


myself,  that  I  have  not  laid  these  matters,  either 
so  openly,  or  largely  to  any  as  yourself: 
so  much  (if  I  much  fail  not)  do  I  see  in 
you,  which  makes  me  both  love  and  trust 
you." 

"Never  may  he  be  old,"  answered  Palladius, 
"that  doeth  not  reverence  that  age,  whose 
heaviness,  if  it  weigh  down  the  frail  and  fleshly 
balance,  it  as  much  lifts  up  the  noble  and 
spiritual  part:  and  well  might  you  have  alleged 
another  reason,  that  their  wisdom  makes  them 
willing  to  profit  others.  And  that  have  I  re- 
ceived of  you,  never  to  be  forgotten,  but  with 
ungratefulness.  But  among  many  strange 
conceits  you  told  me,  which  have  showed  effects 
in  your  prince,  truly  even  the  last,  that  he 
should  conceive  such  pleasure  in  shepherds' 
discourses,  would  not  seem  the  least  unto  me, 
saving  that  you  told  me  at  the  first,  that  this 
country  is  notable  in  those  wits,  and  that  in- 
deed my  self  having  been  brought  not  only  to 
this  place,  but  to  my  life,  by  Strephon  and 
Claius,  in  their  conference  found  wits  as  might 
better  become  such  shepherds  as  Homer  speaks 
of,  that  be  governors  of  peoples,  than  such  sena- 
tors who  hold  their  council  in  a  sheepcote." 
"For  them  two  (said  Kalander)  especially 
Claius,  they  are  beyond,  the  rest  by  so  much, 
as  learning  commonly  doth  add  to  nature :  for, 
having  neglected  their  wealth  in  respect  of  their 
knowledge,  they  have  not  so  much  impaired 
the  meaner,  as  they  bettered  the  better.  Which 
all  notwithstanding,  it  is  a  sport  to  hear 
how  they  impute  to  love,  which  hath  indued 
their  thoughts  (say  they)  with  such  a 
strength. 

"But  certainly,  all  the  people  of  this  country 
from  high  to  low,  is  given  to  those  sports  of  the 
wit,  so  as  you  would  wonder  to  hear  how  soon 
even  children  will  begin  to  versify.  Once,'  or- 
dinary it  is  among  the  meanest  sort,  to  make 
songs  and  dialogues  in  meter,  either  love  whet- 
ting their  brain,  or  long  peace  having  begun  it, 
example  and  emulation  amending  it.  Not  so 
much,  but  the  clown  Dametas  will  stumble 
sometimes  upon  some  songs  that  might  become 
a  better  brain :  but  no  sort  of  people  so  excel- 
lent in  that  kind  as  the  pastors;  for  their  living 
standing  ^  but  upon  the  looking  to  their  beasts, 
they  have  ease,  the  nurse  of  poetry.  Neither 
are  our  shepherds  such,  as  (I  hear)  they  be  in 
other  countries;  but  they  are  the  very  owners 
of  the  sheep,  to  which  either  themselves  look, 
or  their  children  give  daily  attendance.     Anci 

1  in  short      ^  depending 


then  truly,  it  would  delight  you  under  some 
tree,  or  by  some  river's  side  (when  two  or  three 
of  them  meet  together)  to  hear  their  rural 
muse,  how  prettily  it  will  deliver  out,  sometimes 
joys,  sometimes  lamentations,  sometimes  chal- 
lengings  one  of  the  other,  sometimes  under 
hidden  forms  uttering  such  matters,  as  other- 
wise they  durst  not  deal  with.  Then  they 
have  most  commonly  one,  who  judgeth  the 
prize  to  the  best  doer,  of  w'hich  they  are  no  less 
glad,  than  great  princes  are  of  triumphs:  and 
his  part  is  to  set  down  in  writing  all  that  is  said, 
save  that  it  may  be,  his  pen  with  more  leisure 
doth  polish  the  rudeness  of  an  unthoughl-on 
song.  Now  the  choice  of  all  (as  you  may  well 
think)  either  for  goodness  of  voice,  or  pleasant- 
ness of  wit,  the  prince  hath:  among  whom 
also  there  are  two  or  three  strangers,  whom 
inward  melancholies  having  made  weary  of  the 
world's  eyes,  have  come  to  spend  their  lives 
among  the  country  people  of  Arcadia;  and 
their  conversation  being  well  approved,  the 
prince  vouchsafeth  them  his  presence,  and  not 
only  by  looking  on,  but  by  great  courtesy  and 
liberality,  animates  the  shepherds  the  more 
exquisitely  to  labour  for  his  good  liking.  So 
that  there  is  no  cause  to  blame  the  prince  for 
sometimes  hearing  them;  the  blameworthiness 
is,  that  to  hear  them,  he  rather  goes  to  solita- 
riness than  makes  them  come  to  company. 
Neither  do  I  accuse  my  master  for  advancing 
a  countryman,  as  Dametas  is,  since  God  for- 
bid, but  where  worthiness  is  (as,  truly,  it  is 
among  divers  of  that  fellowship)  any  outward 
lowness  should  hinder  the  highest  raising;  but 
that  he  would  needs  make  election  of  one,  the 
baseness  of  whose  mind  is  such,  that  it  sinks 
a  thousand  degrees  lower  than  the  basest  body 
could  carry  the  most  base  fortune:  which 
although  it  might  be  answered  for  the  prince, 
that  it  is  rather  a  trust  he  hath  in  his  simple 
plainness,  than  any  great  advancement,  being 
but  chief  herdman ;  yet  all  honest  hearts  feel, 
that  the  trust  of  their  lord  goes  beyond  all 
advancement.  But  I  am  ever  too  long  upon 
him,  when  he  crosseth  the  way  of  my  speech, 
and  by  the  shadow  of  yonder  tower,  I  see  it  is 
a  fitter  time,  with  our  supper  to  pay  the  duties 
we  owe  to  our  stomachs,  than  to  break  the  air 
with  my  idle  discourses:  and  more  wit  I  might 
have  learned  of  Homer  (whom  even  now  you 
mentioned)  who  never  entertained  either  guests 
or  hosts  with  long  speeches,  till  the  mouth  of 
hunger  be  thoroughly  stopped."  So  withal 
he  rose,  leading  Palladius  through  the  garden 
again    to    the    parlour,   where    they   used    to 


54 


RICHARD    HOOKER 


sup;  Palladius  assuring  him,  that  he  had 
already  been  more  fed  to  his  liking,  than  he 
could  be  by  the  skilf ullest  trencher-men  o  f 
Media. 


RICHARD   HOOKER   (i554?-i6oo) 

OF  THE  LAWS  OF  ECCLESIASTICAL 
POLITY 

From  BOOK  I 

Thus  far  therefore  we  have  endeavoured  in 
part  to  open,  of  what  nature  and  force  laws  are, 
according  unto  their  several  kinds;  the  law 
which  God  with  himself  hath  eternally  set 
down  to  follow  in  his  own  works;  the  law 
which  he  hath  made  for  his  creatures  to  keep; 
the  law  of  natural  and  necessar}'  agents;  the 
law  which  Angels  in  heaven  obey;  the  law 
whereunto  by  the  light  of  reason  men  find 
themselves  bound  in  that  they  are  men;  the 
law  which  they  make  by  composition  for  mul- 
titudes and  politic  societies  of  men  to  be  guided 
by;  the  law  which  belongeth  unto  each  nation ; 
the  law  that  conccrncth  the  fellowship  of  all; 
and  lastly  the  law  which  God  himself  hath 
supematurally  revealed.  It  might  peradven- 
ture  have  been  more  popular  and  more  plaus- 
ible to  vulgar  ears,  if  this  first  discourse  had 
been  spent  in  extolling  the  force  of  laws,  in 
showing  the  great  necessity  of  them  when  they 
are  good,  and  in  aggravating  their  ofTence  by 
whom  public  laws  are  injuriously  traduced. 
But  forasmuch  as  with  such  kind  of  matter 
the  passions  of  men  are  rather  stirred  one  way 
or  oiher,  than  their  knowledge  any  way  set 
forward  unto  the  trial  of  that  whereof  there 
is  doubt  made;  I  have  therefore  turned  aside 
from  that  beaten  path,  and  chosen  though  a 
less  easy  yet  a  more  profitable  way  in  regard 
of  the  end  we  propose.  Lest  therefore  any 
man  should  marvel  whereunto  all  these  things 
tend,  the  drift  and  purpose  of  all  is  this,  even 
to  show  in  what  manner,  as  every  good  and 
perfect  gift,  so  this  verj^  gift  of  good  and  per- 
fect laws  is  derived  from  the  Father  of  lights; 
to  teach  men  a  reason  why  just  and  reasonable 
laws  are  of  so  great  force,  of  so  great  use  in  the 
world;  and  to  inform  their  minds  with  some 
method  of  reducing  the  laws  whereof  there  is 
present  controversy  unto  their  first  original 
causes,  that  so  it  may  be  in  every  particular 
ordinance  thereby  the  better  discerned,  whether 
the  same  be  reasonable,  just,  and  righteous,  or 
no.      Is  there  anvthing  which   can  either  be 


thoroughly  understood  or  soundly  judged  of, 
till  the  very  first  causes  and  principles  from 
which  originally  it  springeth  be  made  mani- 
fest? If  all  parts  of  knowledge  have  been 
thought  by  wise  men  to  be  then  most  orderly 
delivered  and  proceeded  in,  when  they  are 
drawn  to  their  first  original;  seeing  that  our 
whole  question  concerneth  the  quahty  of  eccle- 
siastical laws,  let  it  not  seem  a  labour  super- 
fluous that  in  the  entrance  thereunto  all  these 
several  kinds  of  laws  have  been  considered, 
inasmuch  as  they  all  concur  as  principles,  they 
all  have  their  forcible  operations  therein,  al- 
though not  all  in  like  apparent  and  manifest 
manner.  By  means  whereof  it  cometh  to  pass 
that  the  force  which  they  have  is  not  observed 
of  many. 

Easier  a  great  deal  it  is  for  men  by  law  to  be 
taught  what  they  ought  to  do,  than  instructed 
how  to  judge  as  they  should  do  of  law.  the 
one  being  a  thing  which  belongeth  generally 
unto  all,  the  other  such  as  none  but  the  wiser 
and  more  judicious  sort  can  perform.  Yea, 
the  wisest  are  always,  touching  this  point,  the 
readiest  to  acknowledge  that  soundly  to  judge 
of  a  law  is  the  weightiest  thing  which  any  man 
can  take  upon  him.  But  if  we  will  give  judg- 
ment of  the  laws  under  which  we  live,  first  let 
that  law  eternal  be  always  before  our  eyes,  as 
being  of  principal  force  and  moment  to  breed 
in  religious  minds  a  dutiful  estimation  of  all 
laws,  the  use  and  benefit  whereof  we  see; 
because  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  laws 
apparently  good  are  (as  it  were)  things  copied 
out  of  the  very  tables  of  that  high  everlasting 
law;  even  as  the  book  of  that  law  hath  said 
concerning  itself,  "By  me  Kings  reign,  and  by 
me  Princes  decree  justice."  Not  as  if  men  did 
behold  that  book  and  accordingly  frame  their 
laws;  but  because  it  worketh  in  them,  because 
it  discovereth  and  (as  it  were)  readeth  itself 
to  the  worid  by  them,  when  the  laws  which 
they  make  are  righteous.  Furthermore,  al- 
though we  perceive  not  the  goodness  of  laws 
made,  nevertheless  sith  ^  things  in  themselves 
may  have  that  which  we  peradventure  discern 
not,  should  not  this  breed  a  fear  in  our  hearts, 
how  we  speak  or  judge  in  the  worse  part  con- 
cerning that,  the  unadvised  disgrace  whereof 
may  be  no  mean  dishonour  to  Him,  towards 
whom  we  profess  all  submission  and  awe? 
Surely  there  must  be  very  manifest  iniquity 
in  laws,  against  which  we  shall  be  able  to 
justify  our  contumelious  invectives.     The  chief- 


OF  -THE    LAWS    OF    ECCLESIASTICAL    POLITY 


55 


est  root  whereof,  when  we  use  them  without 
cause,  is  ignorance  how  hiws  inferior  are  de- 
rived from  that  supreme  or  highest  law. 

The  first  that  receive  impression  from  thence 
are  natural  agents.  The  law  of  whose  opera- 
tions might  be  haply  thought  less  pertinent, 
when  the  question  is  about  laws  for  human 
actions,  but  that  in  those  very  actions  which 
most  spiritually  and  supernaturally  concern 
men  the  rules  and  axioms  of  natural  operations 
have  their  force.  What  can  be  more  immedi- 
ate to  our  salvation  than  our  persuasion  con- 
cerning the  law  of  Christ  towards  his  Church? 
What  greater  assurance  of  love  towards  his 
Church  than  the  knowledge  of  that  mystical 
union  whereby  the  Church  is  become  as  near 
unto  Christ  as  any  one  part  of  his  flesh  is  unto 
other?  That  the  Church  being  in  such  sort 
his  he  must  needs  protect  it,  what  proof  more 
strong  than  if  a  manifest  law  so  require,  which 
law  it  is  not  possible  for  Christ  to  violate? 
And  what  other  law  doth  the  Apostle  for  this 
allege,  but  such  as  is  both  common  unto  Christ 
with  us,  and  unto  us  with  other  things  natural? 
"No  man  hateth  his  own  flesh,  but  doth  love 
and  cherish  it."  The  axioms  of  that  law  there- 
fore, whereby  natural  agents  are  guided,  have 
their  use  in  the  moral,  yea,  even  in  the  spiritual 
actions  of  men,  and  consequently  in  all  laws 
belonging  unto  men  howsoever. 

Neither  are  the  Angels  themselves  so  far 
severed  from  us  in  their  kind  and  manner  of 
working,  but  that  between  the  law  of  their 
heavenly  operations  and  the  actions  of  men 
in  this  our  state  of  mortality  such  correspond- 
ence there  is,  as  maketh  it  expedient  to  know 
in  some  sort  the  one  for  the  other's  more  per- 
fect direction.  Would  Angels  acknowledge 
themselves  fellow-servants  with  the  sons  of 
men,  but  that,  both  having  one  Lord,  there 
must  be  some  kind  of  law  which  is  one  and  the 
same  to  both,  whereunto  their  obedience  being 
perfecter  is  to  our  weaker  both  a  pattern  and 
a  spur?  Or  would  the  Apostles,  speaking  of 
that  which  belongeth  unto  saints  as  they  are 
linked  together  in  the  bond  of  spiritual  society, 
-  so  often  make  mention  how  Angels  therewith 
are  delighted,  if  in  things  publicly  done  by  the 
Church  we  are  not  somewhat  to  respect  what 
the  Angels  of  heaven  do  ?  Yea,  so  far  hath  the 
Apostle  Saint  Paul  proceeded,  as  to  signify 
that  even  about  the  outward  orders  of  the 
Church  which  serve  but  for  comeliness,  some 
regard  is  to  be  had  of  Angels;  who  best  like 
us  when  we  are  most  like  unto  them  in  all 
parts  of  decent  demeanour.     So  that  the  law 


of  Angels  we  cannot  judge  altogether  imper- 
tinent unto  the  affairs  of  the  Church  of  God. 

Our  largeness  of  speech  how  men  do  find 
out  what  things  reason  bindeth  them  of  neces- 
sity to  observe,  and  what  it  guideth  them  to 
choose  in  things  which  are  left  as  arbitrary; 
the  care  we  have  had  to  declare  the  different 
nature  of  laws  which  severally  concern  all 
men,  from  such  as  belong  unto  men  either  civ- 
illy or  spiritually  associated,  such  as  pertain 
to  the  fellowship  which  nations,  or  which 
Christian  nations  have  amongst  themselves, 
and  in  the  last  place  such  as  concerning  every 
or  any  of  these  God  himself  hath  revealed  by 
his  holy  word :  all  serveth  but  to  make  manifest, 
that  as  the  actions  of  men  are  of  sundry  dis- 
tinct kinds,  so  the  laws  thereof  must  accord- 
ingly be  distinguished.  There  are  in  men 
operations,  some  natural,  some  rational,  some 
supernatural,  some  politic,  some  finally  eccle- 
siastical: which  if  we  measure  not  each  by 
his  own  proper  law,  whereas  the  things  them- 
selves are  so  different,  there  will  be  in  our  under- 
standing and  judgment  of  them  confusion. 

As  that  first  error  showeth,  whereon  our 
opposites  in  this  cause  have  grounded  them- 
selves. For  as  they  rightly  maintain  that  God 
must  be  glorified  in  all  things,  and  that  the 
actions  of  men  cannot  tend  unto  his  glory  un- 
less they  be  framed  after  his  law ;  so  it  is  their 
error  to  think  that  the  only  law  which  God 
hath  appointed  unto  men  in  that  behalf  is 
the  sacred  scripture.  By  that  which  we  work 
naturally,  as  when  we  breathe,  sleep,  move, 
we  set  forth  the  glory  of  God  as  natural  agents 
do,  albeit  we  have  no  express  purpose  to  make 
that  our  end,  nor  any  advised  determination 
therein  to  follow  a  law,  but  do  that  we  do  (for 
the  most  part)  not  as  much  as  thinking  thereon. 
In  reasonable  and  moral  actions  another  law 
taketh  place;  law  by  the  observation  whereof 
we  glorify  God  in  such  sort,  as  no  creature  else 
under  man  is  able  to  do;  because  other  crea- 
tures have  not  judgment  to  examine  the  quality 
of  that  which  is  done  by  them,  and  therefore 
in  that  they  do  they  neither  can  accuse  nor 
approve  themselves.  Men  do  both,  as  the 
Apostle  teacheth;  yea,  those  men  which  have 
no  written  law  of  God  to  show  what  is  good  or 
evil,  carry  written  in  their  hearts  the  universal 
law  of  mankind,  the  law  of  reason,  whereby 
they  judge  as  by  a  rule  which  God  hath  given 
unto  all  men  for  that  purpose.  The  law  of 
reason  doth  somewhat  direct  men  how  to 
honour  God  as  their  creator;  but  how  to  glo- 
rify God  in  such  sort   as  is   required,  to   the 


56 


RICHARD    HOOKER 


end  he  may  be  an  everlasting  saviour,  this  we 
are  taught  by  divine  hiw,  which  law  both  ascer- 
taineth  the  truth  and  supplicth  unto  us  the 
want  of  that  other  law.  So  that  in  moral  ac- 
tions, divine  law  helpeth  exceedingly  the  law 
of  reason  to  guide  man's  life;  but  in  supernat- 
ural it  alone  guideth. 

Proceed  we  further;  let  us  place  man  in  some 
public  society  with  others,  whether  civil  or 
spiritual;  and  in  this  case  there  is  no  remedy 
but  we  must  add  yet  a  further  law.  For  al- 
though even  here  likewise  the  laws  of  nature 
and  reason  be  of  necessary  use,  yet  somewhat 
over  and  besides  them  is  necessary,  namely, 
human  and  positive  law,  together  with  that  law 
which  is  of  commerce  between  grand  societies, 
the  law  of  nations,  and  of  nations  Christian. 
For  which  cause  the  law  of  God  hath  likewise 
said,  "Let  every  soul  be  subject  to  the  higher 
powers."  The  public  power  of  all  societies  is 
above  every  soul  contained  in  the  same  socie- 
ties. And  the  principal  use  of  that  power  is 
to  give  laws  unto  all  that  are  under  it;  which 
laws  in  such  case  we  must  obey,  unless  there  be 
reason  showed  which  may  necessarily  enforce 
that  the  law  of  reason  or  of  God  doth  enjoin 
the  contrary.  Because  except  our  own  private 
and  but  probable  resolutions  be  by  the  law  of 
public  determinations  overruled,  we  take  away 
all  possibility  of  sociable  life  in  the  world.  A 
plainer  example  whereof  than  ourselves  we 
cannot  have.  How  cometh  it  to  pass  that  we 
are  at  this  present  day  so  rent  with  mutual 
contentions,  and  that  the  Church  is  so  much 
troubled  about  the  polity  of  the  Church  ?  No 
doubt  if  men  had  been  willing  to  learn  how 
many  laws  their  actions  in  this  life  are  subject 
unto,  and  what  the  true  force  of  each  law  is,  all 
these  controversies  might  have  died  the  very 
day  they  were  first  brought  forth. 

It  is  both  commonly  said,  and  truly,  that  the 
best  men  otherwise  are  not  always  the  best 
in  regard  of  society.  The  reason  whereof  is, 
for  that  the  law  of  men's  actions  is  one,  if  they 
be  respected  only  as  men ;  and  another,  when 
they  are  considered  as  parts  of  a  politic  body. 
Many  men  there  are,  than  whom  nothing  is 
more  commendable  when  they  are  singled; 
and  yet  in  society  with  others  none  less  fit  to 
answer  the  duties  which  are  looked  for  at  their 
hands.  Yea,  I  am  persuaded,  that  of  them 
with  whom  in  this  cause  we  strive,  there  are 
whose  betters  amongst  men  would  be  hardly 
found,  if  they  did  not  live  amongst  men,  but 
in  some  wilderness  by  themselves.  The  cause 
of  which  their  disposition,  so  unframable  unto 


societies  wherein  they  live,  is,  for  that  they 
discern  not  aright  what  place  and  force  these 
several  kinds  of  laws  ought  to  have  in  all  their 
actions.  Is  their  question  either  concerning 
the  regiment '  of  the  Church  in  general,  or 
about  conformity  between  one  church  and 
another,  or  of  ceremonies,  ofi&ces,  powers, 
jurisdictions  in  our  own  church?  Of  all  these 
things  they  judge  by  that  rule  which  they  frame 
to  themselves  with  some  show  of  probability, 
and  what  seemeth  in  that  sort  convenient,  the 
same  they  think  themselves  bound  to  practise ; 
the  same  by  all  means  they  labour  mightily 
to  uphold;  whatsoever  any  law  of  man  to  the 
contrary  hath  determined  they  weigh  it  not. 
Thus  by  following  the  law  of  private  reason, 
where  the  law  of  public  should  take  place,  they 
breed  disturbance. 

For  the  better  inuring  therefore  of  men's 
minds  with  the  true  distinction  of  laws,  and  of 
their  several  force  according  to  the  different 
kind  and  quality  of  our  actions,  it  shall  not  per- 
adventure  be  amiss  to  show  in  some  one  exam- 
ple how  they  all  take  place.  To  seek  no  further, 
let  but  that  be  considered,  than  which  there 
is  not  anything  more  familiar  unto  us,  our  food. 

What  things  are  food  and  what  are  not  we 
judge  naturally  by  sense ;  neither  need  we  any 
other  law  to  be  our  director  in  that  behalf  than  the 
selfsame  which  is  common  unto  us  with  beasts. 

But  when  we  come  to  consider  of  food,  as  of 
a  benefit  which  God  of  his  bounteous  goodness 
hath  provided  for  all  things  living;  the  law  of 
reason  doth  here  require  the  duty  of  thankful- 
ness at  our  hands,  towards  him  at  whose  hands 
we  have  it.  And  lest  appetite  in  the  use  of 
food  should  lead  us  beyond  that  which  is  meet, 
we  owe  in  this  case  obedience  to  that  law  of 
reason,  which  teacheth  mediocrity  in  meats 
and  drinks.  The  same  things  divine  law  teach- 
eth also,  as  at  large  we  have  showed  it  doth  all 
parts  of  moral  duty,  whereunto  we  all  of  necessity 
stand  bound,  in  regard  of  the  life  to  come. 

But  of  certain  kinds  of  food  the  Jews  some- 
time had,  and  we  ourselves  likewise  have,  a 
mystical,  religious,  and  supernatural  use,  they 
of  their  Paschal  lamb  and  oblations,  we  of  our 
bread  and  wine  in  the  Eucharist;  which  use 
none  but  divine  law  could  institute. 

Now  as  we  live  in  civil  society,  the  state  of 
the  commonwealth  wherein  we  live  both  may 
and  doth  require  certain  laws  concerning  food; 
which  laws,  saving  only  that  we  are  members 
of  the  commonwealth  where  they  are  of  force, 

*  organization  and  government 


JOHN    LYLY 


57 


we  should  not  need  to  respect  as  rules  of  action, 
whereas  now  in  their  place  and  kind  they  must 
be  respected  and  obeyed. 

Yea,  the  selfsame  matter  is  also  a  subject 
wherein  sometime  ecclesiastical  laws  have 
place;  so  that  unless  we  will  be  authors  of 
confusion  in  the  Church,  our  private  discre- 
tion, which  otherwise  might  guide  us  a  con- 
trary way,  must  here  submit  itself  to  be  that 
way  guided,  which  the  pubHc  judgment  of 
the  Church  hath  thought  better.  In  which 
case  that  of  Zonaras  concerning  fasts  may  be 
remembered,  "Fastings  are  good,  but  let  good 
things  be  done  in  good  and  convenient  manner. 
He  that  transgresseth  in  his  fasting  the  orders 
of  the  holy  fathers,  the  positive  laws  of  the 
Church  of  Christ,  must  he  plainly  told,  that 
good  things  do  lose  the  grace  of  their  goodness, 
when  in  good  sort  they  are  not  performed." 

And  as  here  men's  private  fancies  must  give 
place  to  the  higher  judgment  of  that  church 
which  is  in  authority  a  mother  over  them;  so 
the  very  actions  of  whole  churches  have,  in 
regard  of  commerce  and  fellowship  with  other 
churches,  been  subject  to  laws  concerning 
food,  the  contrary  unto  which  laws  had  else 
been  thought  more  convenient  for  them  to 
observe;  as  by  that  order  of  abstinence  from 
strangled  and  blood  may  appear;  an  order 
grounded  upon  that  fellowship  which  the 
churches  of  the  Gentiles  had  with  the  Jews. 

Thus  we  see  how  even  one  and  the  selfsame 
thing  is  under  divers  considerations  conveyed 
through  many  laws;  and  that  to  measure  by 
any  one  kind  of  law  all  the  actions  of  men  were 
to  confound  the  admirable  order  wherein  God 
hath  disposed  all  laws,  each  as  in  nature,  so  in 
degree,  distinct  from  other. 

Wherefore  that  here  we  may  briefly  end:  of 
Law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged,  than 
that  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice 
the  harmony  of  the  world ;  all  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very  least  as  feel- 
ing her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted 
from  her  power;  both  Angels  and  men  and 
creatures  of  what  condition  soever,  though  each 
in  different  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uni- 
form consent,  admiring  her  as  the  mother  of 
their  peace  and  joy. 

JOHN   LYLY    (i 554-1606) 

From    EUPHUES    AND    HIS    ENGLAND 

"I  perceive,  Camilla,  that  be  your  cloth 
never  so  bad  it  will  take  some  colour,  and  your 


cause  never  so  false,  it  will  bear  some  show  of 
prolmbility,  wherein  you  manifest  the  right 
nature  of  a  woman,  who  having  no  way  to  win, 
thinkcth  to  overcome  with  words.  This  I 
gather  by  your  answer,  that  beauty  may  have 
fair  leaves,  and  foul  fruit,  that  all  that  are  ami- 
alile  are  not  honest,  that  love  proceedeth  of  the 
woman's  perfection,  and  the  man's  follies,  that 
the  trial  looked  for,  is  to  perform  whatsoever 
they  promise,  that  in  mind  he  be  virtuous,  in 
body  comely,  such  a  husband  in  my  opinion  is 
to  be  wished  for,  but  not  looked  for.  Take 
heed,  Camilla,  that  seeking  all  the  wood  for 
a  straight  stick  you  choose  not  at  the  last 
a  crooked  staff,  or  prescribing  a  good  counsel 
to  others,  thou  thyself  follow  the  worst:  much 
like  to  Chius,  who  selling  the  best  wine  to  others, 
drank  himself  of  the  lees." 

"Truly,"  cjuoth  Camilla,  "  my  wool  was  black, 
and  therefore  it  could  take  no  other  colour,  and 
my  cause  good,  and  therefore  admitteth  no  cavil : 
as  for  the  rules  I  set  down  of  love,  they  were  not 
coined  of  me,  but  learned,  and,  being  so  true, 
believed.  If  my  fortune  be  so  ill  that,  search- 
ing for  a  wand,  I  gather  a  cammock,'  or,  selling 
wine  to  other,  I  drink  vinegar  myself,  I  must 
be  content,  that  of  the  wor.st,  poor  help,  pa- 
tience," which  by  so  much  the  more  is  to  be 
borne,  by  how  much  the  more  it  is  perforce." 

As  Surius  was  speaking,  the  Lady  Flavia 
prevented  him,  saying,  "It  is  time  that  you 
break  of?  your  speech,  lest  we  have  nothing  to 
speak,  for  should  you  wade  any  farther,  you 
would  both  waste  the  night  and  leave  us  no 
time,  and  take  our  reasons,  and  leave  us  no 
matter;  that  every  one  therefore  may  say 
somewhat,  we  command  you  to  cease ;  that  you 
have  both  said  so  well,  we  give  you  thanks." 
Thus  letting  Surius  and  Camilla  to  whisper  by 
themselves  (whose  talk  we  will  not  hear)  the 
lady  began  in  this  manner  to  greet  Martius. 

"We  see,  Martius,  that  where  young  folks 
are,  they  treat  of  love,  when  soldiers  meet, 
they  confer  of  war,  painters  of  their  colours, 
musicians  of  their  crochets,  and  every  one 
talketh  of  that  most  he  liketh  best.  Which 
seeing  it  is  so,  it  behooveth  us  that  have  more 
years,  to  have  more  wisdom,  not  to  measure  our 
talk  by  the  affections  we  have  had,  but  by 
those  we  should  have. 

"In  this  therefore  I  would  know  thy  mind 
whether  it  be  convenient  for  women  to  haunt 
such  places  where  gentlemen  are,  or  for  men 

'  crooked  stick  -  =  with  the  only  contentment 
possible  at  the  worst,  the  poor  help  patience 


S8 


JOHN    LYLY 


to  have  access  to  gentlewomen,  which  me- 
thinkcth  in  reason  cannot  be  tolerable,  knowing 
that  there  is  nothing  more  pernicious  to  either, 
than  love,  and  that  love  breedeth  by  nothing 
sooner  than  looks.  They  that  fear  water,  will 
come  near  no  wells,  they  that  stand  in  dread 
of  burning,  fly  from  the  fire:  and  ought  not 
they  that  would  not  be  entangled  with  desire 
to  refrain  company?  If  love  have  the  pangs 
which  the  passionate  set  down,  why  do  they 
not  al)Stain  from  the  cause  ?  If  it  be  pleasant 
why  do  they  dispraise  it? 

''We  shun  the  place  of  pestilence  for  fear  of 
infection,  the  eyes  of  Catol)lepas'  because  of 
diseases,  the  sight  of  the  basilisk  for  dread  of 
death,  and  shall  we  not  eschew  the  company 
of  them  that  may  entrap  us  in  love,  which  is 
more  bitter  than  any  destruction  ? 

"If  we  fly  thieves  that  steal  our  goods,  shall 
we  follow  "murderers  that  cut  our  throats? 
If  we  be  heedy  ^  to  come  where  wasps  be,  lest 
we  be  stung,  shall  we  hazard  to  run  where 
Cupid  is,  where  we  shall  be  stifled?  Truly, 
^Martius,  in  my  opinion  there  is  nothing  either 
more  repugnant  to  reason,  or  abhorring  from 
nature,  than  to  seek  that  we  should  shun, 
leaving  the  clear  stream  to  drink  of  the  muddy 
ditch,  or  in  the  extremity  of  heat  to  lie  in  the 
parching  sun,  when  he  may  sleep  in  the  cold 
shadow,  or,  being  free  from  fancy,  to  seek  after 
love,  which  is  as  much  as  to  cool  a  hot  liver 
with  strong  wine,  or  to  cure  a  weak  stomach 
with  raw  flesh.  In  this  I  would  hear  thy 
sentence,  induced  the  rather  to  this  discourse, 
for  that  Surius  and  Camilla  have  begun  it, 
than  that  I  like  it :  love  in  me  hath  neither  power 
to  command,  nor  persuasion  to  entreat.  Which 
how  idle  a  thing  it  is,  and  how  pestilent  to  youth, 
I  partly  know,  and  you  I  am  sure  can  guess." 

Martins  not  very  young  to  discourse  of  these 
matters,  yet  desirous  to  utter  his  mind,  whether 
it  were  to  flatter  Surius  in  his  will,  or  to  make 
trial  of  the  lady's  wit:  began  thus  to  frame 
his  answer: 

"Madam,  there  is  in  Chio  the  Image  of 
Diana,  which  to  those  that  enter  seemeth  sharp 
and  sour,  but  returning  after  their  suits  made, 
looketh  with  a  merry  and  pleasant  countenance. 
And  it  may  be  that  at  the  entrance  of  my  dis- 
course ye  will  bend  your  brows  as  one  dis- 
pleased, but  hearing  my  proof,  be  delighted 
and  satisfied. 

"The  question  you  move,  is  whether  it  be 
requisite,    that    gentlemen    and    gentlewomen 

*  a  fabulous  animal    -  headful 


should  meet.  Truly  among  lovers  it  is  con- 
venient to  augment  desire,  amongst  those  that 
are  firm,  necessary  to  maintain  society.  For 
to  take  away  all  meeting  for  fear  of  love,  were 
to  kindle  amongst  all,  the  fire  of  hate.  There 
is  greater  danger.  Madam,  by  absence,  which 
breedeth  melancholy,  than  by  presence,  which 
engendereth  affection. 

"If  the  sight  be  so  perilous,  that  the  com- 
pany should  be  barred,  why  then  admit  you 
those  to  see  banquets  that  may  thereby  surfeit, 
or  suffer  them  to  eat  their  meat  by  a  candle 
that  have  sore  eyes?  To  be  separated  from 
one  I  love,  would  make  me  more  constant,  and 
to  keep  company  with  her  I  love  not,  would 
not  kindle  desire.  Love  cometh  as  well  in  at 
the  ears,  by  the  report  of  good  conditions,  as 
in  at  the  eyes  by  the  amiable  countenance, 
which  is  the  cause,  that  divers  have  loved 
those  they  never  saw,  and  seen  those  they 
never  loved. 

"You  allege  that  those  that  fear  drowning, 
come  near  no  wells,  nor  they  that  dread  burn- 
ing, near  no  fire.  Why  then,  let  them  stand  in 
doubt  also  to  wash  their  hands  in  a  shallow 
brook,  for  that  Serapus  falling  into  a  channel 
was  drowned:  and  let  him  that  is  cold  never 
warm  his  hands,  for  that  a  spark  fell  into  the 
eyes  of  Actine,  whereof  she  died.  Let  none 
come  into  the  company  of  women,  for  that 
divers  have  been  allured  to  love,  and  being 
refused,  have  used  violence  to  themselves. 

"Let  this  be  set  down  for  a  law,  that  none 
walk  abroad  in  the  day  but  men,  lest  meeting 
a  beautiful  woman,  he  fall  in  love,  and  lose  his 
liberty. 

"I  think.  Madam,  you  will  not  be  so  precise, 
to  cut  off  all  conference,  because  love  cometh 
by  often  communication,  which  if  you  do,  let 
us  all  now  presently  depart,  lest  in  seeing  the 
beauty  which  dazzleth  our  eyes,  and  hearing 
the  wisdom  which  tickleth  our  ears,  we  be  en- 
flamed  with  love. 

"But  you  shall  never  beat  the  fly  from  the 
candle  though  he  bum,  nor  the  quail  from 
hemlock  though  it  be  poison,  nor  the  lover 
from  the  company  of  his  lady  though  it  be 
perilous. 

"It  falleth  out  sundry  times,  that  company 
is  the  cause  to  shake  off  love,  working  the 
effects  of  the  root  rhubarb,  which  being  full  of 
choler,  purgeth  choler,  or  of  the  scorpion's  sting, 
which  being  full  of  poison,  is  a  remedy  for 
poison. 

"But  this  I  conclude,  that  to  bar  one  that  is 
in  love  of  the  company  of  his  lady,  maketh  him 


EUPHUES    AND    HIS    ENGLAND 


59 


father  mad,  than  mortified,  for  him  to  refrain 
that  never  knew  love,  is  either  lo  suspect  him 
of  folly  without  cause,  or  the  next  way  for  him 
to  fall  into  folly  when  he  knoweth  the  cause. 

"A  lover  is  like  the  herb  heliotropium,  which 
always  inclineth  to  that  place  where  the  sun 
shineth,  and  being  deprived  of  the  sun,  dieth. 
For  as  lunaris  herb,  as  long  as  the  moon 
waxeth,  bringeth  forth  leaves,  and  in  the  wan- 
ing shaketh  them  off:  so  a  lover  whilst  he  is  in 
the  company  of  his  lady,  where  all  joys  increase, 
uttereth  many  pleasant  conceits,  but  banished 
from  the  sight  of  his  mistress,  where  all  mirth 
decreaseth,  either  liveth  in  melancholy,  or 
dieth    with    desperation." 

The  Lady  Flavia  speaking  in  his  cast,' 
proceeded  in  this  manner:  • 

"Truly,  Martins,  I  had  not  thought  that  as 
yet  your  colt's  tooth  stuck  in  your  mouth,  or 
that  so  old  a  truant  in  love,  could  hitherto 
remember  his  lesson.  You  seem  not  to  infer 
that  it  is  requisite  they  should  meet,  but  being 
in  love  that  it  is  convenient,  lest,  falling  into  a 
mad  mood,  they  pine  in  their  own  peevishness. 
Why  then  let  it  follow,  that  the  drunkard  which 
surfeiteth  with  wine  be  always  quafling,  because 
he  liketh  it,  or  the  epicure  which  glutteth  him- 
self with  meat  be  ever  eating,  for  that  it  con- 
tenteth  him,  not  seeking  at  any  time  the  means 
to  redress  their  vices,  but  to  renew  them. 
But  it  fareth  with  the  lover  as  it  doth  with  him 
that  poureth  in  much  wine,  who  is  ever  more 
thirsty,  than  he  that  drinketh  moderately, 
for  having  once  tasted  the  delights  of  love,  he 
desireth  most  the  thing  that  hurteth  him  most, 
not  laying  a  plaster  to  the  wound,  but  a  cor- 
rosive. 

"I  am  of  this  mind,  that  if  it  be  dangerous, 
to  lay  flax  to  the  fire,  salt  to  the  eyes,  sul]:ihur 
to  the  nose,  that  then  it  cannot  be  but  perilous 
to  let  one  lover  come  in  presence  of  the  other." 
Surius  overhearing  the  lady,  and  seeing  her  so 
earnest,  although  he  w^ere  more  earnest  in  his 
suit  to  Camilla,  cut  her  off  with  these  words: 

"Good  Madam,  give  me  leave  either  to 
depart,  or  to  speak,  for  in  truth  you  gall  me 
more  with  these  terms,  than  you  wist,"  in  seem- 
ing to  inveigh  so  bitterly  against  the  meeting 
of  lovers,  which  is  the  only  marrow  of  love, 
and  though  I  doubt  not  but  that  Martins  is 
sufhciently  armed  to  answer  you,  yet  would 
I  not  have  those  reasons  refelled,^  which 
I  loathe  to  have  repeated.  It  may  be  you  utter 
them  not  of  malice  you  bear  to  love,  but  only 


to  move  controversy  where  there  is  no  question: 
for  if  thou  envy  to  have  lovers  meet,  why  did 
you  grant  us;  if  allow  it,  why  seek  you  to  sepa- 
rate us?" 

The  good  lady  could  not  refrain  from 
laughter,  when  she  saw  Surius  so  angry,  who 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  tale,  was  troubled  with 
hers,  whom  she  thus  again  answered. 

"I  cry  you  mercy,'  gentleman,  I  had  not 
thought  to  have  catched  you,  when  I  fished  for 
another,  but  I  perceive  now  that  with  one  bean 
it  is  easy  to  get  two  pigeons,  and  with  one  bait 
to  have  divers  bites.  I  see  that  others  may 
guess  where  the  shoe  wrings,  besides  him  that 
wears  it."  "Madam,"  quoth  Surius,  "you 
have  caught  a  frog,  if  I  be  not  deceived,  and 
therefore  as  good  it  were  not  to  hurt  him,  as 
not  to  eat  him,  but  if  all  this  while  you  angled 
to  have  a  bite  at  a  lover,  you  should  have  used 
no  bitter  medicines,  but  pleasant  l)aits." 

"I  cannot  tell,"  answered  Flavia,  "whether 
my  bait  were  bitter  or  not,  but  sure  I  am  I 
have  the  fish  by  the  gill,  that  doth  me  good." 
Camilla  not  thinking  to  be  silent,  put  in  her 
spoke  as  she  thought  into  the  best  wheel, 
saying, 

"Lady,  your  cunning  may  deceive  you  in 
fishing  with  an  angle,  therefore  to  catch  him 
you  would  have,  you  were  best  to  use  a  net." 
"A  net!"  quoth  Flavia,  "I  need  none,  for  my 
fish  playeth  in  a  net  already."  With  that 
Surius  began  to  wince,  replying  immediately, 
"So  doth  many  a  fish,  good  lady,  that  slippeth 
out,  when  the  fisher  thinketh  him  fast  in,  and 
it  may  be,  that  either  your  net  is  too  weak  to 
hold  him,  or  your  hand  too  wet."  "A  wet 
hand,"  quoth  Flavia,  "will  hold  a  dead  her- 
ring:" "Aye,"  quoth  Surius,  "but  eels  are  no 
herrings."     "But  lovers  are,"  said  Flavia. 

Surius  not  willing  to  have  the  grass  mown, 
whereof  he  meant  to  make  his  hay,  began  thus 
to  conclude: 

"Good  Lady,  leave  ofT  fishing  for  this  time, 
and  though  it  be  Lent,  rather  break  a  statute 
which  is  but  penal,  than  sew- a  pond  that  may 
be  perpetual."  "I  am  content,"  quoth  Flavia, 
"rather  to  fast  for  once,  than  to  want  a  pleasure 
forever:  yet,  Surius,  betwixt  us  two,  I  will  at 
large  prove,  that  there  is  nothing  in  love  more 
venomous  than  meeting,  which  filleth  the  mind 
with  grief  and  the  body  with  diseases :  for  hav- 
ing the  one,  he  cannot  fail  of  the  other.  But 
now,  Philautus  and  niece  Francis,  since  I 
am  cut  off,  begin  you:  but  be  short,  because 


'  style,  manner       -  know 


refuted 


'  I  beg  your  pardon      -  drain,  empty 


6o 


THOMAS    LODGE 


the  time  is  short,  and  that  I  was  more  short 
than  I  would." 

THOMAS   LODGE   (i558?-i625) 

From  ROSALYNDE:  EUPHUES'   GOLDEN 
LEGACY 

They  came  no  sooner  nigh  the  folds,  but  they 
might  see  where  their  discontented  forester 
was  walking  in  his  melancholy.  As  soon  as 
Aliena  saw  him,  she  smiled,  and  said  to  Gani- 
mede:  "Wipe  your  eyes,  sweeting,  for  yonder 
is  vour  sweetheart  this  morning  in  deep  prayers 
no  doubt  to  Venus,  that  she  may  make  you  as 
pitiful  as  he  is  passionate.  Come  on,  Gani- 
mede,  I  pray  thee  let's  have  a  little  spoil  with 
him."  "Content,"  quoth  Ganimede,  and  with 
that,  to  waken  him  out  of  his  deep  memento,^ 
hc^  began  thus: 

"Forester,  good  fortune  to  thy  thoughts, 
and  ease  to  thy  passions !  What  makes  you 
so  early  abroad  this  morn,  in  contemplation, 
no  doubt,  of  your  Rosalynde?  Take  heed, 
forester,  step  not  too  far ;  the  ford  may  be  deep, 
and  you  slip  over  the  shoes.  I  tell  thee,  flies 
have  their  spleen,  the  ants  choler,  the  least 
hairs  shadows,  and  the  smallest  loves  great 
desires.  'Tis  good,  forester,  to  love,  but  not 
to  overlove,  lest,  in  loving  her  that  likes  not 
thee,  thou  fold  thyself  in  an  endless  labyrinth." 
Rosader  seeing  the  fair  shepherdess  and  her 
pretty  swain,  in  whose  company  he  feLt  the 
greatest  ease  of  his  care,  he  returned  them  a 
salute  on  this  manner: 

"Gentle  shepherds,  all  hail,  and  as  healthful 
be  your  flocks  as  you  happy  in  content.  Love 
is  restless,  and  my  bed  is  but  the  cell  of  my  bane, 
in  that  there  I  find  busy  thoughts  and  broken 
slumbers.  Here,  although  ever}^vhere  pas- 
sionate,^ yet  I  brook  love  with  more  patience,  in 
that  every  object  feeds  mine  eye  with  variety 
of  fancies.  When  I  look  on  Flora's  beauteous 
tapestry,  checkered  with  the  pride  of  all  her 
treasure,  I  call  to  mind  the  fair  face  of  Rosa- 
l>Tide,  whose  heavenly  hue  exceeds  the  rose  and 
the  lily  in  their  highest  excellence.  The  bright- 
ness of  Phoebus'  shine  puts  me  in  mind  to  think 
of  the  sparkling  flames  that  flew  from  her  eyes 
and  set  my  heart  first  on  fire;  the  sweet  har- 
monic of  the  birds  puts  me  in  remembrance 
of  the  rare  melody  of  her  voice,  which  like  the 
Syren  enchanteth  the  ears  of  the  hearer.  Thus 
in  contemplation  I  salve  my  sorrows,  with 
applying  the  perfection  of  every  object  to  the 
excellence  of  her  qualities." 

'  meditation  2  he  =  Rosalynde  disguised  as  Gani- 
mede    3  troubled 


"She  is  much  beholding  unto  you,"  quoth 
Aliena,  "and  so  much  that  I  have  oft  wished 
with  myself  that  if  I  should  ever  prove  as 
amorous  as  Qinone,  I  might  find  as  faithful  a 
Paris  as  yourself." 

"How  say  you  by  this  Item,  forester?"  quoth 
Ganimede.  "  The  fair  shepherdess  favours 
you,  who  is  mistress  of  so  many  flocks.  Leave 
off,  man,  the  supposition  of  Rosalynde's  love, 
whenas,  watching  at  her,  you  rove  beyond  the 
moon ;  and  cast  your  looks  upon  my  mistress, 
who  no  doubt  is  as  fair  though  not  so  royal. 
One  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  wood; 
better  possess  the  love  of  Aliena,  than  catch 
frivolously  at  the  shadow  of  Rosalynde." 

"I'll  tell  thee,  boy,"  quoth  Ganimede;  "so 
is  my  fancy  fixed  on  my  Rosal\Tide,  that  were 
thy  mistress  as  fair  as  Leda  or  Danae,  whom 
Jove  courted  in  transformed  shapes,  mine  eyes 
would  not  vouch'  to  entertain  their  beauties; 
and  so  hath  Love  locked  me  in  her  perfections, 
that  I  had  rather  only  contemplate  in  her 
beauties,  than  absolutely  possess  the  excellence 
of  any  other.  Venus  is  to  blame,  forester, 
if,  having  so  true  a  sen^ant  of  you,  she  reward 
you  not  with  RosalMide,  if  Rosalj-nde  were 
more  fairer  than  herself.  But  leaving  this 
prattle,  now  I'll  put  you  in  mind  of  your 
promise,  about  those  sonnets  which  you  said 
were  at  home  in  your  lodge."  "I  have  them 
about  me,"  quoth  Rosader;  "let  us  sit  down, 
and  then  you  shall  hear  what  a  poetical  fury 
Love  will  infuse  into  a  man."  With  that 
they  sat  down  upon  a  green  bank  shadowed 
with  fig  trees,  and  Rosader,  fetching  a  deep  sigh, 
read  them  this  sonnet: 

Rosader's  Sonnet 

In  sorrow's  cell  I  laid  me  down  to  sleep. 
But  waking  woes  were  jealous  of  mine  eyes. 
They  made  them  watch,  and  bend  themselves 

to  weep; 
But  weeping  tears  their  want  could  not  suffice. 
Yet  since  for  her  they  wept  who  guides  my 

heart, 
They,  weeping,  smile  and  triumph  in  their 
smart. 

Of  these  my  tears  a  fountain  fiercely  springs, 

Where  Venus  bains  ■  herself  incensed  with  love; 

Where  Cupid  boweth  his  fair  feathered  wings. 

But  I  behold  what  pains  I  must  approve. 
Care  drinks  it  dry;  but  when  on  her  I  think. 
Love  makes  me  weep  it  full  unto  the  brink. 


'  condescend 


^  bathes 


ROSALYNDE 


6i 


Meanwhile  my  sighs  yield  truce  unto  my  tears, 
By    them    the    winds    increased    and    fiercely 

blow; 

Yet  when  I  sigh,  the  flame  more  plain  appears, 

And  by  their  force  with  greater  power  doth  glow. 

Amidst  these  pains  all  Phoenix-like  I  thrive. 

Since  Love  that  yields  me  death  may  life 

revive. 

Rosader,  en  esperance.' 

"Now  surely,  forester,"  quoth  Aliena, 
"when  thou  madest  this  sonnet,  thou  wert  in 
some  amorous  quandary,  neither  too  fearful, 
as  despairing  of  thy  mistress'  favours,  nor  too 
gleesome,  as  hoping  in  thy  fortunes."  "I 
can  smile,"  quoth  Ganimede,  "at  the  sonettoes, 
canzones,  madrigals,  rounds  and  roundelays, 
that  these  pensive  patients  pour  out,  when 
their  eyes  are  more  full  of  wantonness  than 
their  hearts  of  passions.  Then,  as  the  fishers 
put  the  sweetest  bait  to  the  fairest  fish,  so  these 
Ovidians,'  holding  Amo  in  their  tongues, 
when  their  thoughts  come  at  haphazard,  write 
that  they  be  wrapped  in  an  endless  labyrinth 
of  sorrow,  when,  walking  in  the  large  lease 
of  liberty,  they  only  have  their  humours  in  their 
inkpot.  If  they  find  women  so  fond,"  that  they 
will  with  such  painted  lures  come  to  their  lust, 
then  they  triumph  till  they  be  full  gorged  with 
pleasures ;  and  then  fly  they  away,  like  ramage 
kites,  to  their  own  content,  leaving  the  tame 
fool,  their  mistress,  full  of  fancy,  yet  without 
ever  a  feather.  If  they  miss  (as  dealing  with 
some  wary  wanton,  that  wants  not  such  a  one  as 
themselves,  but  spies  their  subtilty),  they  end 
their  amours  with  a  few  feigned  sighs;  and  so 
their  excuse  is,  their  mistress  is  cruel,  and  they 
smother  passions  with  patience.  Such,  gentle 
forester,  we  may  deem  you  to  be,  that  rather 
pass  away  the  time  here  in  these  woods  with 
writing  amorets,  than  to  be  deeply  enamoured, 
as  you  say,  of  your  Rosalynde.  If  you  be  such 
a  one,  then  I  pray  God,  when  you  think  your 
fortunes  at  the  highest,  and  your  desires  to  be 
most  excellent,  then  that  you  may  with  Ixion 
embrace  Juno  in  a  cloud,  and  have  nothing 
but  a  marble  mistress  to  release  your  martyr- 
dom ;  but  if  you  be  true  and  trusty,  eye-pained 
and  heart-sick,  then  accursed  be  Rosalynde 
if  she  prove  cruel;  for,  forester,  (I  flatter  not) 
thou  art  worthy  of  as  fair  as  she."  Aliena, 
spying  the  storm  by  the  wind,  smiled  to  see 
how  Ganimede  flew  to  the  fist  without  any 
call;  but  Rosader,  who  took  him  flat  for  a 
shepherd's  swain,  made  him  this  answer. 

^  devotees  of  Ovid's  Art  of  Love     ^  foolish 


"Trust  me,  swain,"  quoth  Rosader,  "but 
my  canzon'  was  written  in  no  such  humour; 
for  mine  eye  and  my  heart  are  relatives,  the 
one  drawing  fancy  ^  by  sight,  the  other  enter- 
taining her  by  sorrow.  If  thou  sawest  my 
Rosalynde,  with  what  beauties  Nature  hath 
favoured  her,  with  what  perfection  the  heavens 
hath  graced  her,  with  what  qualities  the  Gods 
have  endued  her,  then  wouldst  thou  say,  there 
is  none  so  fickle  that  could  be  fleeting  unto  her. 
If  she  had  been  y^ilneas'  Dido,  had  Venus  and 
Juno  both  scolded  him  from  Carthage,  yet 
her  excellence,  despite  of  them,  would  have 
detained  him  at  Tyre.  If  Phylhs  had  been  as 
beauteous,  or  Ariadne  as  virtuous,  or  both  as 
honourable  and  excellent  as  she,  neither  had 
the  philbert  tree  sorrowed  in  the  death  of 
despairing  Phyllis,  nor  the  stars  have  been 
graced  with  Ariadne,  but  Demophon  and 
Theseus  had  been  trusty  to  their  paragons. 
I  will  tell  thee,  swain,  if  with  a  deep  insight 
thou  couldst  pierce  into  the  secret  of  my  loves, 
and  see  what  deep  impressions  of  her  idea 
affection  hath  made  in  my  heart,  then  wouldst 
thou  confess  I  were  passing  passionate,  and 
no  less  endued  with  admirable  patience." 
"Why,  "  quoth  z-Miena,  "  needs  there  patience  in 
Love?"  "Or  else  in  nothing,"  quoth  Rosader; 
"  for  it  is  a  restless  sore  that  hath  no  ease,  a  can- 
ker that  still  frets,  a  disease  that  taketh  away 
all  hope  of  sleep.  If,  then,  so  many  sorrows, 
sudden  joys,  momentary  pleasures,  continual 
fears,  daily  griefs,  and  nightly  woes  be  found  in 
love,  then  is  not  he  to  be  accounted  patient, 
that  smothers  all  these  passions  with  silence?" 
"Thou  speakest  by  experience,"  quoth  Gani- 
mede, "and  therefore  we  hold  all  thy  words 
for  axioms.  But  is  love  such  a  lingering 
malady?"  "It  is,"  quoth  he,  "either  extreme 
or  mean,  according  to  the  mind  of  the  party 
that  entertains  it ;  for  as  the  weeds  grow  longer 
untouched  than  the  pretty  flowers,  and  the  flint 
lies  safe  in  the  quarry,  when  the  emerald  is 
suffering  the  lapidary's  tool,  so  mean  men  are 
freed  from  Venus'  injuries,  when  kings  are 
environed  with  a  labyrinth  of  her  cares.  The 
whiter  the  lawn  is  the  deeper  is  the  mole,  the 
more  purer  the  chrysolite  the  sooner  stained; 
and  such  as  have  their  hearts  full  of  honour, 
have  their  loves  full  of  the  greatest  sorrows. 
But  in  whomsoever,"  quoth  Rosader,  "  he  fixeth 
his  dart,  he  never  leaveth  to  assault  him,  till 
either  he  hath  won  him  to  folly  or  fancy;  for 
as  the  moon  never  goes  without  the  star  Luni- 
sequa,^  so  a  lover  never  goeth  without  the  unrest 


1  a  kind  of  sono 


2  love       3  Moon-follower 


THOMAS    LODGE 


of  his  thoughts.  For  proof  you  shall  hear 
another  fancy  oi'  my  making."  "Now  do, 
gentle  forester,"  quoth  Ganimede.  And  with 
that  he  read  over  this  sonetto: 

Ros/Vder's  Second  Sonetto 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies, 
Love  with  his  arrows  wounds  mine  eyes; 
If  so  I  gaze  upon  the  ground, 
Love  then  in  every  flower  is  found; 
Search  I  the  shade  to  fly  my  pain, 
He  meets  me  in  the  shade  again; 
Wend  I  to  walk  in  secret  grove. 
Even  there  I  meet  with  sacred  Love; 
If  so  I  bain  '  me  in  the  spring. 
Even  on  the  brink  I  hear  him  sing; 
If  so  I  meditate  alone. 
He  will  be  partner  of  my  moan ; 
If  so  I  mourn,  he  weeps  with  me; 
And  where  I  am,  there  will  he  be. 
"Whenas  I  talk  of  Rosalynde, 
The  God  from  coyness  waxeth  kind. 
And  seems  in  selfsame  flames  to  fry, 
Because  he  loves  as  well  as  I. 
Sweet  Rosalynde,  for  pity  rue, 
For-why^  than  Love  I  am  more  true; 
He,  if  he  speed  ^  will  quickly  fly. 
But  in  thy  love  I  live  and  die. 

"  How  like  you  this  sonnet?  "  quoth  Rosader. 
"  Marr)',"  quoth  Ganimede,  "for  the  pen  well, 
for  the  passion  ill;  for,  as  I  praise  the  one,  I 
pity  the  other,  in  that  thou  shouldest  hunt  after 
a  cloud,  and  love  either  without  reward  or 
regard."  "  'Tis  not  her  frowardness,"  quoth 
Rosader,  "but  my  hard  fortunes,  whose  des- 
tinies have  crossed  me  with  her  absence; 
for  did  she  feel  my  loves,  she  would  not  let 
me  linger  in  these  sorrows.  Women,  as  they 
are  fair,  so  they  respect  faith,  and  estimate 
more,  if  they  be  honourable,  the  will  than  the 
wealth,  having  loyalty  the  object  whereat  they 
aim  their  fancies.  But,  leaving  off  these  inter- 
parleys,  you  shall  hear  my  last  sonetto,  and 
then  you  have  heard  all  my  poetry."  And  with 
that  he  sighed  out  this: 

Rosader's  Third  Sonnet 

Of  virtuous  love  myself  may  boast  alone, 
Since  no  suspect  my  service  may  attaint; 
For  perfect  fair  *  she  is  the  only  one, 
Whom  I  esteem  for  my  beloved  Saint. 
Thus  for  my  faith  I  only  bear  the  bell,*^ 
And  for  her  fair  ■*  she  only  doth  excell. 

•  bathe     =  because     ^  succeed     *  beauty     ^  excel  all 


Then  let  fond  '  Petrarch  shroud  ^  his  Laura's 

praise, 
And  Tasso  cease  to  publish  his  affect,^ 
Since  mine  the  faith  confirmicd  at  all  assays. 
And  hers  the  fair^  which  all  men  do  respect. 

My  lines  her  fair,  her  fair  my  faith  assures; 

Thus  I  by  Love,  and  Love  by  me  endures. 

"Thus,"  quoth  Rosader,  "here  is  an  end  of 
my  poems,  but  for  all  this  no  release  of  my 
passions;  so  that  I  resemble  him  that  in  the 
depth  of  his  distress  hath  none  but  the  Echo 
to  answer  him."  Ganimede,  pitying  her 
Rosader,  thinking  to  drive  him  out  of  this 
amorous  melancholy,  said  that  "Now  the  sun 
was  in  his  meridional  heat,  and  that  it  was 
high  noon,  therefore  we  shepherds  say,  'tis 
time  to  go  to  dinner:  for  the  sun  and  our 
stomachs,  are  shepherd's  dials.  Therefore, 
forester,  if  thou  wilt  take  such  fare  as  comes 
out  of  our  homely  scrips,  welcome  shall  answer 
whatsoever  thou  wantest  in  dclicates."  Aliena 
took  the  entertainment  by  the  end,  and  told 
Rosader  he  should  be  her  guest.  He  thanked 
them  heartily,  and  sat  with  them  down  to  din- 
ner: where  they  had  such  cates  ^  as  country 
state  did  allow  them,  sauced  with  such  content 
and  such  sweet  prattle  as  it  seemed  far  more 
sweet  than  all  their  courtly  junkets." 

As  soon  as  they  had  taken  their  repast, 
Rosader  giving  them  thanks  for  his  good  cheer, 
would  have  been  gone;  but  Ganimede,  that 
was  loath  to  let  him  pass  out  of  her  presence, 
began  thus:  "Nay,  forester,"  quoth  he,  "if 
thy  business  be  not  the  greater,  seeing  thou 
sayest  thou  art  so  deeply  in  love,  let  me  see 
how  thou  canst  woo.  I  will  represent  Rosa- 
lynde, and  thou  shalt  be,  as  thou  art,  Rosader. 
See  in  some  amorous  Eglogue,  how  if  Rosa- 
l}Tide  were  present,  how  thou  couldst  court 
her;  and  while  we  sing  of  love,  Aliena  shall 
tune  her  pipe,  and  play  us  melody."  "Con- 
tent," quoth  Rosader.  And  Aliena,  she  to 
show  her  willingness,  drew  forth  a  recorder, 
and  began  to  wind '  it.  Then  the  loving  for- 
ester began  thus: 

The  Wooing  Eclogue  betwixt  Rosalynde 
AND  Rosader 

Rosader 

I  pray  thee.  Nymph,  by  all  the  working  words, 
By  all  the  tears  and  sighs  that  lovers  know. 
Or  what  or  thoughts  or  faltering  tongue  affords, 
I  crave  for  mine  in  ripping  up  my  woe. 


'  foolish 
^  delicacies 


^  cover  up      '  love     *  beauty      ^  cakes 
^  blow 


ROSALYNDE 


63 


Sweet   Rosalynde,   my   love   (would   God   my 

love !), 
My  life  (would  God  my  life!),  ay  pity  me; 
Thy  lips  are  kind,  and  humble  like  the  dove, 
And  but  with  beauty  pity  will  not  be. 
Look  on  mine  eyes,  made  red  with  rueful  tears, 
From  whence  the  rain  of    true    remorse  de- 

scendeth. 
All  pale  in  looks,  and  I  though  young  in  years, 
And  nought  but  love  or  death  my  days  be- 

friendcth. 
Oh,  let  no  stormy  rigour  knit  thy  brows. 
Which  Love  appointed  for  his  mercy-seat! 
The  tallest  tree  by  Boreas'  breath  it  bows, 
The  iron  yields  with  hammer,  and  to  heat; 
O  Rosalynde,  then  be  thou  pitiful  ; 
For  Rosalynde  is  only  beautiful. 

Rosalynde 

Love's  wantons  arm  their  trait'rous  suits  with 

tears. 
With    vows,    with    oaths,    with    looks,    with 

showers   of  gold; 
But  when  the  fruit  of  their  affects'  appears, 
The  simple  heart  by  subtil  sleights  is  sold. 
Thus  sucks  the  yielding  ear  the  poisoned  bait, 
Thus  feeds  the  heart  upon  his  endless  harms. 
Thus   glut    the    thoughts   themselves   on    self- 
deceit. 
Thus  blind  the  eyes  their  sight  by  subtil  charms. 
The  lovely  looks,  the  sighs  that  storm  so  sore. 
The  dew  of  deep  dissembled  doubleness,  — 
These  may  attempt,  but  are  of  power  no  more, 
W^here  beauty  leans  to  wit  and  soothfastness.^ 
O  Rosader,  then  be  thou  wittiful; 
For  Rosalynde  scorns  foolish  pitiful. 

Rosader 

I  pray  thee,  Rosalynde,  by  those  sweet  eyes 
That  stain  ^   the   sun   in   shine,    the   morn   in 

clear;  * 
By  those  sweet  cheeks  where  Love  encamped 

lies 
To  kiss  the  roses  of  the  springing  year; 
I  tempt  thee,  Rosahaide,  by  ruthful  plaints. 
Not  seasoned  with  deceit  or  fraudful  guile, 
But  firm  in  pain,  far  more  than  tongue  depaints, 
Sweet  nymph,  be  kind,  and  grace  me  with  a 

smile. 
So    may   the    heavens    preserve    from    hurtful 

food 
Thy  harmless  flocks,  so  may  the  summer  yield 
The  pride  of  all  her  riches  and  her  good. 
To  fat  thy  sheep,  the  citizens  of  field. 

*  affections         ^  truth         ^  excel         *  clearness 


Oh,  leave  to  arm  thy  lovely  brows  with  scorn ! 
The  tirds  their  beak,  the  lion  hath  his  tail; 
And  lovers  nought  but  sighs  and  bitter  mourn,' 
The  spotless  fort  of  fancy  ^  to  assail. 

O  Rosalynde,  then  be  thou  })itiful; 

For  Rosalynde  is  only  beautiful. 

Rosalynde 
The  hardened  steel  by  fire  is  brought  in  frame: 

Rosader 

And  Rosalynde  my  love  than  any  wool  more 

softer; 
And  shall  not  sighs  her  tender  heart  enflame? 

Rosalynde 

Were  lovers  true,  maids  would  believe  them 
ofter. 

Rosader 
Truth  and  regard  and  honour  guide  my  love ! 

Rosalynde 
Fain  would  I  trust,  but  yet  I  dare  not  try. 

Rosader 
Oh,  pity  me,  sweet  Nymph,  and  do  but  prove. 

Rosalynde 
I  would  resist,  but  yet  I  know  not  why. 

Rosader 

O  Rosalynde,  be  kind,  for  times  will  change; 
Thy  looks  aye  nill '  be  fair  as  now  they  be. 
Thine  age  from  beauty  may  thy  looks  estrange : 
Ah,  yield  in  time,  sweet  Nymph,  and  pity  me. 

Rosalynde 

O  Rosalynde,  thou  must  be  pitiful  ; 
For  Rosader  is  young  and  beautiful. 

Rosader 
Oh,  gain  more  great  than  kingdoms  or  a  crown  ! 

Rosalynde 

Oh,  trust  betrayed  if  Rosader  abuse  me ! 

'  mourning  ^  [qvc  ^  will  not 


64 


ROBERT    GREENE 


Rosader 

First  let  the  heavens  conspire  to  pull  me  down, 
And  heaven  and  earth  as  abject  quite  refuse 

me; 
Let  sorrows  stream  about  my  hateful  bower, 
And  restless  horror  hatch  within  my  breast; 
Let  beauty's  eye  afflict  me  with  a  lour; 
Let  deep  despair  pursue  me  without  rest; 
Ere  Rosalynde  my  loyalty  disprove, 
Ere  Rosalynde  accuse  me  for  unkind. 

Rosalynde 

Then  Rosalynde  will  grace  thee  with  her  love. 
Then  Rosalynde  will  have  thee  still  in  mind. 

Rosader 

Then    let   me    triumph    more    than    Tithon's 

dear, 
Since  Rosalynde  will  Rosader  respect: 
Then  let  my  face  exile  his  sorry  cheer. 
And  frolic  in  the  comfort  of  affect;' 
And  say  that  Rosalynde  is  only  pitiful, 
Since  Rosalynde  is  only  beautiful. 

When  thus  they  had  finished  their  courting 
eglogue  in  such  a  familiar  clause,^  Ganimede  as 
augur  of  some  good  fortunes  to  light  upon  their 
affections,  began  to  be  thus  pleasant:  "How 
now,  forester,  have  I  not  fitted  your  turn? 
Have  I  not  played  the  woman  handsomely,  and 
showed  myself  as  coy  in  grants,  as  courteous  in 
desires,  and  been  as  full  of  suspicion  as  men  of 
flattery?  And  yet  to  salve  all,  jumped'  I  not 
all  up  with  the  sweet  union  of  love?  Did  not 
Rosalynde  content  her  Rosader?"  The  for- 
ester at  this  smiling,  shook  his  head,  and  folding 
his  arms  made  this  merry  reply: 

"Truth,  gentle  swain,  Rosader  hath  his 
Rosalynde;  but  as  Ixion  had  Juno,  who, 
thinking  to  possess  a  goddess,  only  embraced  a 
cloud.  In  these  imaginary  fruitions  of  fancy, 
I  resemble  the  birds  that  fed  themselves  with 
Zeuxis'  painted  grapes;  but  they  grew  so  lean 
with  pecking  at  shadows  that  they  were  glad 
with  .T.sop's  cock  to  scrape  for  a  barley  cornel ;  ^ 
so  fareth  it  with  me,  who  to  feed  myself  with  the 
hope  of  my  mistress'  favours,  soothe  myself  in 
thy  suits,  and  only  in  conceit  reap  a  wished-for 
content.  But  if  my  food  be  no  better  than  such 
amorous  dreams,  Venus  at  the  year's  end  shall 
find  me  but  a  lean  lover.  Yet  do  I  take  these 
follies  for  high  fortunes,  and  hope  these  feigned 
affections  do  divine  .some  unfeigned  end  of 
ensuing    fancies."     "And    thereupon,"    quoth 


love 


expression 


closed 


kerntl 


Aliena,  "I'll  play  the  priest.  From  this  day 
forth  Ganimede  shall  call  thee  husband,  and 
thou  shalt  call  Ganimede  wife,  and  so  we'll 
have  a  marriage."  "Content,"  quoth  Rosader, 
and  laughed.  "Content,"  quoth  Ganimede, 
and  changed  as  red  as  a  rose.  And  so  with  a 
smile  and  a  blush  they  made  up  this  jesting 
match,  that  after  proved  to  a  marriage  in  ear- 
nest; Rosader  full  little  thinking  he  had  wooed 
and  won  his  Rosalynde.  .  .  . 


ROBERT  GREENE  (i56o?-i592) 

From  A  GROAT'S  WORTH  OF  WIT,  BOUGHT 
WITH  A  MILLION  OF  REPENTANCE 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  sat  one  that 
heard  his  sorrow,  who  getting  over,  came  tow- 
ards him,  and  brake  off  his  passion.  When 
he  approached,  he  saluted  Roberto  in  this  sort. 

"Gentleman,"  quoth  he,  "(for  so  you  seem) 
I  have  by  chance  heard  you  discourse  some  part 
of  your  grief;  which  appeareth  to  be  more  than 
you  will  discover,  or  I  can  conceit.'  But  if 
you  vouchsafe^  such  simple  comfort  as  my 
ability  will  yield,  assure  yourself  that  I  will  en- 
deavour to  do  the  best,  that  either  may  pro- 
cure your  profit,  or  bring  you  pleasure:  the 
rather,  for  that  I  suppose  you  are  a  scholar, 
and  pity  it  is  men  of  learning  should  live  in 
lack." 

Roberto  wondering  to  hear  such  good  words, 
for  that  this  iron  age  affords  few  that  esteem 
of  virtue,  returned  him  thankful  gratulations, 
and  (urged  by  necessity)  uttered  his  present 
grief,  beseeching  his  advice  how  he  might  be 
employed.  "Why,  easily,"  quoth  he,  "and 
greatly  to  your  benefit:  for  men  of  my  profes- 
sion get  by  scholars  their  whole  living."  "What 
is  your  profession?"  said  Roberto.  "Truly, 
sir,"  said  he,  "I  am  a  player."  "A  player," 
quoth  Roberto,  "I  took  you  rather  for  a  gen- 
tleman of  great  living,  for  if  by  outward  habit 
men  should  be  censured,  I  tell  you  you  would  be 
taken  for  a  substantial  man."  "  So  am  I,  where 
I  dwell  (quoth  the  player),  reputed  able  at  my 
proper  cost  to  build  a  windmill.  What  though 
the  world  once  went  hard  with  me,  when  I 
was  fain  to  carry  my  playing  fardel  a  footback ; 
Tempora  mutantur,^  1  know  you  know  the  mean- 
ing of  it  better  than  I,  but  I  thus  construe 
it;  it  is  otherwise  now;  for  my  very  share  in 
playing  apparel  will  not  be  sold  for  two  hun- 
dred   pounds."     "Truly  (said  Roberto)  it    is 

'  conceive    ^  condescend  to  accept    *  times  change 


A    GROAT'S    WORTH    OF    WIT 


65 


strange,  that  you  should  so  prosper  in  that  vain 
practice,  for  that  it  seems  to  me  your  voice 
is  nothing  gracious."  "Nay  then,"  said  the 
player,  "I  mislike  your  judgment:  why,  I  am 
as  famous  for  Delphrigus,  and  the  King  of 
Fairies,  as  ever  was  any  of  my  time.  The 
Twelve  Labours  of  Hercules  have  I  terribly 
thundered  on  the  stage,  and  placed  three  scenes 
of  the  Devil  on  the  Highway  to  Heaven."  "Have 
ye  so?  (said  Roberto)  then  I  pray  you  pardon 
me."  "Nay,  more  (quoth  the  player),  I  can 
serve  to  make  a  pretty  speech,  for  I  was  a 
country  author;  passing  at  a  moral,'  for  it  was 
I  that  penned  the  Moral  of  Man's  Wit,  the 
Dialogue  of  Dives,  and  for  seven  years  space 
was  absolute  interpreter  of  the  puppets.  But 
now  my  almanac  is  out  of  date. 

The  people  make  no  estimation, 
Of  Morals  teaching  education. 

Was  not  this  pretty  for  a  plain  rhyme  ex- 
tempore? if  ye  will,  ye  shall  have  more." 
"Nay  it  is  enough,"  said  Roberto,  "but  how 
mean  you  to  use  me?"  "Why  sir,  in  making 
plays,"  said  the  other,  "for  which  you  shall  be 
well  paid,  if  you  will  take  the  pains." 

Roberto  perceiving  no  remedy,  thought  best 
in  respect  of  his  present  necessity,  to  try  his 
wit,  and  went  with  him  willingly:  who  lodged 
him  at  the  town's  end  in  a  house  of  retail, 
where  what  happened  our  poet  you  shall  here- 
after hear.  There,  by  conversing  with  bad 
company,  he  grew  A  malo  in  pciiis^  falling 
from  one  vice  to  another,  and  so  having  found 
a  vein  ^  to  finger  crowns  he  grew  cranker  *  than 
Lucanio,  who  by  this  time  began  to  droop, 
being  thus  dealt  withal  by  Lamilia.  She  hav- 
ing bewitched  him  with  her  enticing  wiles, 
caused  him  to  consume,  in  less  than  two  years, 
that  infinite  treasure  gathered  by  his  father  with 
so  many  a  poor  man's  curse.  His  lands  sold, 
his  jewels  pawned,  his  money  wasted,  he  was 
cashiered  by  Lamilia  that  had  cozened  him  of 
all.  Then  walked  he,  like  one  of  Duke  Hum- 
frey's  squires,  in  a  threadbare  cloak,  his  hose 
drawn  out  with  his  heels,  his  shoes  unseamed, 
lest  his  feet  should  sweat  with  heat:  now  (as 
witless  as  he  was)  he  remembered  his  father's 
words,  his  kindness  to  his  brother,  his  careless- 
ness of  himself.  In  this  sorrow  he  sat  down  on 
penniless  bench;  where,  when  Opus  and  Usus^ 
told  him  by  the  chimes  in  his  stomach  it  was 
time  to  fall  unto  meat,  he  was  fain  with  the 

'  Morality  Play  -  from  bad  to  worse  ^  inclination 
*  worse     '  need  and  custom 


camelion    to    feed    upon    the   air,    and    make 
patience  his  best  repast. 

While  he  was  at  his  feast,   Lamilia  came 
flaunting  by,  garnished  with  the  jewels  whereof 
she  beguiled  him :    which  sight  served  to  close 
his  stomach   after  his  cold   cheer.      Roberto, 
hearing  of  his  brother's  beggery,  albeit  he  had 
little  remorse  '  of  his  miserable  state,  yet  did 
he  seek  him  out,  to  use  him  as  a  property,^ 
whereby  Lucanio  was  somewhat  provided  for. 
But  being  of  simple  nature,  he  served  but  for 
a  block  to  whet  Roberto's  wit  on ;  which  the 
poor  fool  perceiving,  he  forsook  all  other  hopes 
of  life,  and  fell  to  be  a  notorious  pandar:    in 
which  detested  course  he  continued  till  death. 
But,  Roberto,  now  famoused  for  an  arch  play- 
making  poet,  his  purse  like  the  sea  sometime 
swelled,  anon  like  the  same  sea  fell  to  a  low  ebb; 
yet  seldom  he  wanted,  his  labours  were  so  well 
esteemed.     Marry,  this  rule  he  kept,  whatever 
he  fingered  aforehand  was  the  certain  means 
to  unbind  a  bargain,  and,  being  asked  why  he 
so  slightly  dealt  with  them  that  did  him  good, 
"It  becomes  me,"  saith  he,  "to  be  contrary  to 
the   world,   for   commonly   when   vulgar   men 
receive  earnest,  they  do  perform,  when  I  am 
paid  anything  aforehand  I  break  my  promise." 
He  had  shift  of  lodgings,  where  in  every  place 
his  hostess  writ  up  the  woeful  remembrance  of 
him,  his  laundress,  and  his  boy;   for  they  were 
ever  his  in  household,  beside  retainers  in  sundry 
other  places.     His  company  were  lightly  ^   the 
lewdest  persons  in  the  land,  apt  for  pilefrey, 
perjury,    forgery,    or    any    villany.     Of    these 
he  knew  the  casts  to  cog  *'  at  cards,  cozen  at  dice : 
by  these  he  learned  the  legerdemains  of  nips, 
foisters,   cony-catchers,   crossbiters,   lifts,   high 
lawyers,^  and  all  the  rabble  of  that  unclean 
generation  of  vipers:  and  pithily  could  he  paint 
out  their  whole  courses  of  craft:   So  cunning  he 
was  in  all  crafts,  as  nothing  rested  in  him  almost 
but   craftiness.     How  often   the  gentlewoman 
his  wife  laboured  vainly  to  recall  him,  is  lament- 
able to  note :   but  as  one  given  over  to  all  lewd- 
ness,   he    communicated    her    sorrowful    lines 
among  his  loose  trulls,  that  jested  at  her  boot- 
less laments.     If  he  could  any  way  get  credit 
on   scores,  he  would   then   brag  his  creditors 
carried  stones,   comparing    every  round  circle 
to  a  groaning  O,  procured  by  a  painful  burden. 
The    shameful    end    of    sundry    his   consorts," 
deservedly  punished  for  their  amiss,'  wrought 


'  pity        ^  tool        ^  easily        *  cheat       *  different 
kinds  of    pickpockets  and  thieves  •  companions 

^  crime 


66 


ROBERT    GREENE 


no  compunction  in  his  heart:  of  which  one, 
brother  to  a  brothel '  he  kept,  was  trussed  under 
a  tree  ^  as  round  as  a  ball.^ 

To  some  of  his  swearing  companions  thus  it 
hapi^ened:  A  crew  of  them  sitting  in  a  tavern 
carousing,  it  fortuned  an  honest  gentleman,  and 
his  friend,  to  enter  their  room :  some  of  them 
being  acquainted  with  him,  in  their  domineering 
drunken  vein,  would  have  no  nay,  but  down 
he  must  needs  sit  with  them;  being  placed,  no 
remedy  there  was,  but  he  must  needs  keep  even 
compass  with  their  unseemly  carousing.  Which 
he  refusing,  they  fell  from  high  words  to  sound 
strokes,  so  that  with  much  ado  the  gentleman 
saved  his  own,  and  shifted  from  their  company. 
Being  gone,  one  of  these  tiplers  forsooth  lacked 
a  gold  ring,  the  other  sware  they  see  ■*  the  gentle- 
man take  it  from  his  hand.  Upon  this  the 
gentleman  was  indicted  before  a  judge:  these 
honest  men  are  deposed :  whose  *  wisdom 
weighing  the  time  of  the  brawl,  gave  light  to 
the  jury  what  power  wine-washing  poison 
had:  they,  according  unto  conscience,  found 
the  gentleman  not  guilty,  and  God  released  by 
that  verdict  the  innocent. 

With  his  accusers  thus  it  fared:  one  of  them 
for  murder  was  worthily  executed:  the  other 
never  since  prospered:  the  third,  sitting  not 
long  after  upon  a  lusty  horse,  the  beast 
suddenly  died  under  him:  God  amend  the 
man! 

Roberto  every  day  acquainted  with  these 
examples,  was  notwithstanding  nothing  bet- 
tered, but  rather  hardened  in  wickedness.  At 
last  was  that  place"  justified,  "God  warneth 
men  by  dreams  and  visions  in  the  night,  and 
by  known  examples  in  the  day,  but  if  he  return 
not,  he  comes  upon  him  with  judgment  that 
shall  be  felt."  For  now  when  the  number  of 
deceits  caused  Roberto  be  hateful  almost  to 
all  men,  his  immeasurable  drinking  had  made 
him  the  perfect  image  of  the  dropsy,  and  the 
loathsome  scourge  of  lust  tyrannised  in  his 
loves:  living  in  extreme  poverty,  and  having 
nothing  to  pay  but  chalk,'  which  now  his 
host  accepted  not  for  current,  this  miserable 
man  lay  comfortlessly  languishing,  having  but 
one  groat  left  (the  just «  proportion  of  his 
father's  legacy)  which  looking  on,  he  cried: 
"  Oh  now  it  is  too  late  !  too  late  to  buy  wit  with 
thee:  and  therefore  will  I  see  if  I  can  sell  to 
careless  youth  what  I  negligently  forgot  to  buy." 

'  trull  2  hanged  ^  A  poor  pun;  the  man's  name 
lius  Ball.  *  saw  ' /.c  the  judge  *  scriptural 
passage  '  Chalk  was  used  to  keep  a  record  of  small 
debts,       *  exact 


Here  (gentlemen)  break  I  off  Roberto's 
speech;  whose  life  in  most  parts  agreeing  with 
mine,  found  one  self  punishment  as  I  have 
done.  Hereafter  suppose  me  the  said  Roberto, 
and  I  will  go  on  with  that  he  promised:  Greene 
will  send  you  now  his  groatsworth  of  wit,  that  ' 
never  showed  a  mitesworth  in  his  life:  and 
though  no  man  now  be  by  to  do  me  good,  yet, 
ere  I  die,  I  will  by  my  repentance  endeavour  to 
do  all  men  good. 

******* 

And  therefore  (while  life  gives  leave)  will 
send  warning  to  my  old  consorts,^  which  have 
lived  as  loosely  as  myself,  albeit  weakness  will 
scarce  suffer  me  to  w-rite,  yet  to  my  fellow 
scholars  about  this  City,  will  I  direct  these  few 
ensuing  lines. 

To  those  Gentlemen  his  Quondam  acquaintance, 

that  spend  their  wits  in  making  Plays, 

R.  G.  wishcth  a  better  exercise,  and 

•wisdom  to  prevent  his  extremities. 

If  woeful  experience  may  move  you  (gentle- 
men) to  beware,  or  unheard-of  w-retchedness 
entreat  you  to  take  heed,  I  doubt  not  but  you 
will  look  back  with  sorrow  on  your  time  past, 
and  endeavour  with  repentance  to  spend  that 
which  is  to  come.  Wonder  not  (for  with  thee 
will  I  first  begin),  thou  famous  gracer  of  trage- 
dians, that  Greene,  who  hath  said  with  thee  like 
the  fool  in  his  heart,  "There  is  no  God,"  should 
now  give  glory  unto  his  greatness:  for  pene- 
trating is  his  power,  his  hand  lies  heavy  upon 
me,  he  hath  spoken  unto  me  with  a  voice  of 
thunder,  and  I  have  felt  he  is  a  God  that  can 
punish  enemies.  Why  should  thy  excellent 
wit,  his  gift,  be  so  blinded,  that  thou  shouldst 
give  no  glory  to  the  giver?  Is  it  pestilent 
Machiavellian  policy  that  thou  hast  studied  ?  O 
Punish  ^  folly !  What  are  his  rules  but  mere  con- 
fused mockeries,  able  to  extirpate  in  small  time 
the  generation  of  mankind.  For  if  Sic  volo,  sic 
jubeo*  hold  in  those  that  are  able  to  command : 
and  if  it  be  lawful  Fas  et  nefas  ^  to  do  anything 
that  is  beneficial,  only  tyrants  should  possess 
the  earth,  and  they  striving  to  exceed  in  tyranny, 
should  each  to  other  be  a  slaughter  man;  till 
the  mightiest  outliving  all,  one  stroke  were  left 
for  Death,  that  in  one  age  man's  life  should 
end.  The  brother*'  of  this  Diabolical  Atheism 
is  dead,  and  in  his  life  had  never  the  felicity  he 
aimed  at:    but  as  he  began  in  craft,  lived  in 

'  who,  i.e.  Greene  ^  companions  '  Punic,  de- 
ceitful *  so  I  wish,  so  I  command  »  lawful  or 
unlawful       6  ?  brocher  =  beginner 


THE    ART    OF    CONY-CATCHING 


fear  and  ended  in  despair.  Quant  inscruta- 
bilia  sunt  Dei  judicia?}  This  murderer  of 
many  brethren  had  his  conscience  seared  Hke 
Cain:  this  betrayer  of  Him  that  gave  his  life  for 
him  inherited  the  portion  of  Judas:  this  apostata 
perished  as  ill  as  Julian:  and  wilt  thou,  my 
friend,  be  his  disciple?  Look  unto  me,  by  him 
persuaded  to  that  liberty,  and  thou  shalt  find  it 
an  infernal  bondage.  I  know  the  least  of  my 
demerits  merit  this  miserable  death,  but  willful 
striving  against  known  truth,  e.xceedeth  all 
the  terrors  of  my  soul.  Defer  not  (with  me) 
till  this  last  point  of  extremity;  for  little  know- 
est  thou  how  in  the  end  thou  shalt  be  visited. 

With  thee  I  join  young  Juvenal,  that  biting 
satirist,  that  lastly  with  me  together  writ  a 
comedy.  Sweet  boy,  might  I  advise  thee, 
be  advised,  and  get  not  many  enemies  by  bitter 
words:  inveigh  against  vain  men,  for  thou  canst 
do  it,  no  man  better,  no  man  so  well:  thou 
hast  a  liberty  to  reprove  all,  and  none  more; 
for,  one  being  spoken  to,  all  are  offended ;  none 
being  blamed,  no  man  is  injured.  Stop  shallow 
water  still  running,  it  will  rage;  tread  on  a 
worm  and  it  will  turn :  then  blame  not  scholars 
vexed  with  sharp  lines,  if  they  reprove  thy  too 
much  liberty  of  reproof. 

And  thou  no  less  deserving  than  the  other 
two,  in  some  things  rarer,  in  nothing  inferior; 
driven  (as  myself)  to  extreme  shifts,  a  little 
have  I  to  say  to  thee :  and  were  it  not  an  idola- 
trous oath,  I  would  swear  by  sweet  S.  George, 
thou  art  unworthy  better  hap,  sith  ^  thou  de- 
pendest  on  so  mean  a  stay.  Base  minded 
men  all  three  of  you,  if  by  my  misery  ye  be  not 
warned :  for  unto  none  of  you,  like  me,  sought 
those  burrs  to  cleave:  those  puppets,  I  mean, 
that  speak  from  our  mouths,  those  antics 
garnished  in  our  colours.  Is  it  not  strange  that 
I,  to  whom  they  all  have  been  beholding: 
is  it  not  like  that  you,  to  whom  they  all  have 
been  beholding,  shall,  were  ye  in  that  case  that  I 
am  now,  be  both  at  once  of  them  forsaken? 
Yes,  trust  them  not:  for  there  is  an  upstart 
Crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with 
his  Tiger's  heart  -wrapped  in  a  Player's  hide, 
supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast  out  a 
blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you:  and  being  an 
dihsoXnte  Johannes  fac  totum,  is  in  his  own  con- 
ceit the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country.  O  that 
I  might  entreat  your  rare  wits  to  be  employed 
in  more  profitable  courses:  and  let  those  Apes 
imitate  your  past  excellence,  and  never  more 


1  How    inscrutable    arc    the    Judgments    of    God 
^  since 


acquaint  them  with  your  admirefl  inventions 
I  know  the  best  husband  of  you  all  will  never 
prove  an  usurer,  and  the  kindest  of  them  all 
will  never  prove  a  kind  nurse:  yet  whilst  you 
may,  seek  you  better  masters;  for  it  is  pity 
men  of  such  rare  wits,  should  be  subject  to 
the  pleasures  of  such  rude  grooms. 

In  this  I  might  insert  two  more,  that  both  have 
writ  against  these  buckram  gentlemen:  but 
let  their  own  works  serve  to  witness  against 
their  own  wickedness,  if  they  persevere  to 
maintain  any  more  such  peasants.  For  other 
new  comers,  I  leave  them  to  the  mercy  of  these 
painted  monsters,  who  (I  doubt  not)  will  drive 
the  best  minded  to  despise  them :  for  the  rest, 
it  skills  not  though  they  make  a  jest  at  them. 

But  now  return  I  again  to  you  three,  knowing 
my  misery  is  to  you  no  news :  and  let  me  heartily 
entreat  you  to  be  warned  by  my  harms.  De- 
light not,  as  I  have  done,  in  irreligious  oaths; 
for  from  the  blasphemer's  house  a  curse  shall 
not  depart.  Despise  drunkenness,  which  wast- 
eth  the  wit,  and  maketh  men  all  equal  unto 
bea.sts.  Fly  lust,  as  the  deathsman  of  the  soul, 
and  defile  not  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Abhor  those  epicures,  whose  loose  life  hath 
made  religion  loathsome  to  your  ears:  and 
when  they  sooth  you  with  terms  of  mastershij), 
remember  Robert  Greene,  whom  they  have  so 
often  flattered,  perishes  now  for  want  of  com- 
fort. Remember,  gentlemen,  your  lives  are 
like  so  many  lighted  tapers,  that  are  with  care 
delivered  to  all  of  you  to  maintain;  these  with 
wind-pufi"ed  wrath  may  be  extinguished,  which 
drunkenness  put  out,  which  negligence  let  fall: 
for  man's  time  of  itself  is  not  so  short,  but  it  is 
more  shortened  by  sin.  The  fire  of  my  light 
is  now  at  the  last  snuff,  and  the  want  of  where- 
with to  sustain  it,  there  is  no  substance  left 
for  life  to  feed  on.  Trust  not  then,  I  beseech 
ye,  to  such  weak  stays:  for  they  are  as  change- 
able in  mind,  as  in  many  attires.  Well,  my 
hand  is  tired,  and  I  am  forced  to  leave  where 
I  would  begin;  for  a  whole  book  cannot  con- 
tain these  wrongs,  which  I  am  forced  to  knit 
up  in  some  few  fines  of  words. 

Desirous  that  you  should  live,  though 

himself  be  dying, 

Robert  Greene. 

From  THE  ART   OF   COXY-C.\TCHIXG  > 

There  be  requisite  effectually  to  act  the  Art 
of  Cony-catching,  three  several  parties:  the 
setter,    the   verser,    and   the    barnacle.      The 

'  bunco-steering 


68 


ROBERT    GREENE 


nature  of  the  setter,  is  to  draw  any  person 
familiarly  to  drink  with  him,  which  person 
they  call  the  cony,  and  their  method  is  accord- 
ing to  the  man  they  aim  at:  if  a  gentleman, 
merchant,  or  apprentice,  the  cony  is  the  more 
easily  caught,  in  that  they  are  soon  induced  to 
play^  and  therefore  I  omit  the  circumstance 
which  they  use  in  catching  of  them.  And  for 
because  the  poor  country  farmer  or  yeoman  is 
the  mark  which  they  most  of  all  shoot  at,  who 
they  know  comes  not  empty  to  the  term,^  I 
will  discover  the  means  they  put  in  practice  to 
bring  in  some  honest,  simple  and  ignorant  men 
to  their  purpose.  The  cony-catchers,  appar- 
eled like  honest  civil  gentlemen,  or  good  fel- 
lows, with  a  smooth  face,  as  if  butter  would 
not  melt  in  their  mouths,  after  dinner  when  the 
clients  are  come  from  Westminster  Hall,  and 
are  at  leisure  to  walk  up  and  down  Paul's, 
Fleet-street,  Holborn,  the  Strand,  and  such 
common  haunted  places,  where  these  cozening 
companions  attend  only  to  spy  out  a  prey: 
who  as  soon  as  they  see  a  plain  country  fellow 
well  and  cleanly  appareled,  either  in  a  coat 
of  homespun  russet,  or  of  frieze,  as  the  time 
requires,  and  a  side  ^  pouch  at  his  side,  "There 
is  a  cony,"  saith  one.  At  that  word  out  flies  the 
setter,  and  overtaking  the  man,  begins  to  salute 
him  thus:  "Sir,  God  save  you,  you  are  welcome 
to  London,  how  doth  all  our  good  friends  in  the 
country,  I  hope  they  be  all  in  health  ?  "  The 
country-man  seeing  a  man  so  courteous  he  knows 
not,  half  in  a  brown  study  at  this  strange 
salutation,  perhaps  makes  him  this  answer: 
"Sir,  all  our  friends  in  the  country  are  well, 
thanks  be  to  God,  but  truly  I  know  you  not, 
you  must  pardon  me."  "Why,  sir,"  saith  the 
setter,  guessing  by  his  tongue  what  country  man 
he  is,  "are  you  not  such  a  country  man?" 
If  he  says  yes,  then  he  creeps  upon  him  closely. 
If  he  say  no,  then  straight  the  setter  comes 
over  him  thus:  "In  good  sooth,  sir,  I  know  you 
by  your  face  and  have  been  in  your  company 
before,  I  pray  you,  if  without  offence,  let  me 
crave  your  name,  and  the  place  of  your  abode." 
The  simple  man  straight  tells  him  where  he 
dwells,  his  name,  and  who  be  his  next  neigh- 
bours, and  what  gentlemen  dwell  about  him. 
After  he  hath  learned  all  of  him,  then  he  comes 
over  his  fellow  kindly:  "Sir,  though  I  have 
been  somewhat  bold  to  be  inquisitive  of  your 
name,  yet  hold  me  excused,  for  I  took  you  for  a 
friend  of  mine,  but  since  by  mistaking  I  have 
made  you  slack  your  business,  we'll  drink  a 


quart  of  wine,  or  a  pot  of  ale  together."  If 
the  fool  be  so  ready  as  to  go,  then  the  cony  is 
caught ;  but  if  he  smack  the  setter,  and  smells  a 
rat  by  his  clawing,  and  will  not  drink  with  him, 
then  away  goes  the  setter,  and  discourseth  to 
the  verser  the  name  of  the  man,  the  parish  he 
dwells  in,  and  what  gentlemen  are  his  near 
neighbours.  With  that  away  goes  he,  and 
crossing  the  man  at  some  turning,  meets  him 
full  in  the  face,  and  greets  him  thus: 

"What,  goodman  Barton,  how  fare  all  our 
friends  about  you?  You  are  well  met,  I  have 
the  wine  for  you,  you  are  welcome  to  town." 
The  poor  countryman  hearing  himself  named 
by  a  man  he  knows  not,  marvels,  and  answers 
that  he  knows  him  not,  and  craves  pardon. 
"Not  me,  goodman  Barton,  have  you  forgot 
me?  Why  I  am  such  a  man's  kinsman,  your 
neighbour  not  far  off;  how  doth  this  or  that 
good  gentleman  my  friend?  Good  Lord  that 
I  should  be  out  of  your  remembrance,  I  have 
been  at  your  house  divers  times."  "Indeed 
sir,"  saith  the  farmer,  "are  you  such  a  man's 
kinsman  ?  Surely,  sir,  if  you  had  not  challenged 
acquaintance  of  me,  I  should  never  have  known 
you.  I  have  clean  forgot  you,  but  I  know  the 
good  gentleman  your  cousin  well,  he  is  my  very 
good  neighbour:"  "And  for  his  sake,"  saith 
the  verser,  "we'll  drink  afore  we  part."  Haply 
the  man  thanks  him,  and  to  the  wine  or  ale 
they  go.  Then  ere  they  part,  they  make  him  a 
cony,  and  so  ferret-claw  *  him  at  cards,  that  they 
leave  him  as  bare  of  money,  as  an  ape  of  a  tail. 
Thus  have  the  filthy  fellows  their  subtle  fetches 
to  draw  on  poor  men  to  fall  into  their  cozening 
practices.  Thus  like  consuming  moths  of  the 
commonwealth,  they  prey  upon  the  ignorance 
of  such  plain  souls  as  measure  all  by  their  own 
honesty,  not  regarding  either  conscience,  or  the 
fatal  revenge  that's  threatened  for  such  idle 
and  licentious  persons,  but  do  employ  all  their 
wits  to  overthrow  such  as  with  their  handy- 
thrift  satisfy  their  hearty  thirst,  they  prefer- 
ring cozenage  before  labour,  and  choosing  an 
idle  practice  before  any  honest  form  of  good 
living.  Well,  to  the  method  again  of  taking 
up  their  conies.  If  the  poor  countryman  smoke 
them  still,  and  will  not  stoop  unto  either  of  their 
lures,  then  one,  either  the  verser,  or  the  setter, 
or  some  of  their  crew,  for  there  is  a  general 
fraternity  betwixt  them,  steppeth  before  the 
cony  as  he  goeth,  and  letteth  drop  twelve  pence 
in  the  highway,  that  of  force  ^  the  cony  must 
see  it.     The  countryman  spying  the  shilling, 


'  session  of  court 


'  wide 


'  cheat     2  necessarily 


GREENE'S    NEVER   TOO    LATE 


69 


maketh  not  dainty,  for  quis  nisi  mentis  inops 
ohlatum  rrspuii  aiirum,^  but  stoopeth  very  man- 
nerly and  taketh  it  up.  Then  one  of  the  cony 
catchers  behind,  crieth  half  part,  and  so  chal- 
lengeth  half  of  his  finding.  The  countryman 
content,  olTereth  to  change  the  money.  "Nay 
faith,  friend,"  saith  the  verser,  "  'tis  ill  luck  to 
keep  found  money,  we'll  go  spend  it  in  a  pottle 
of  wine  (or  in  a  breakfast,  dinner  or  supper,  as 
the  time  of  day  requires)."  If  the  cony  say 
he  will  not,  then  answers  the  verser,  "Spend 
my  part."  If  still  the  cony  refuse,  he  taketh 
half  and  away.  If  they  spy  the  countryman 
to  be  of  a  having  and  covetous  mind,  then  have 
they  a  further  policy  to  draw  him  on:  another 
that  knoweth  the  place  of  his  abode,  mectcth 
him  and  saith,  "Sir,  well  met,  I  have  run  hastily 
to  overtake  you,  I  pray  you,  dwell  you  not  in 
Darbyshire,  in  such  a  village?"  "Yes,  marry, 
do  I,  friend,"  saith  the  cony.  Then  replies  the 
verser,  "Truly,  sir,  I  have  a  suit  to  you,  I  am 
going  out  of  town,  and  must  send  a  letter  to  the 
parson  of  your  parish.  You  shall  not  refuse  to 
do  a  stranger  such  a  favour  as  to  carry  it  him. 
Haply,  as  men  may  in  time  meet,  it  may  lie  in 
my  lot  to  do  you  as  good  a  turn,  and  for  your 
pains  I  will  give  you  twelve  pence."  The 
poor  cony  in  mere  simplicity  saith,  "Sir,  I'll 
do  so  much  for  you  with  all  my  heart;  where  is 
your  letter?"  "I  have  it  not,  good  sir,  ready 
written,  but  may  I  entreat  you  to  step  into  some 
tavern  or  alehouse?  We'll  drink  the  while, 
and  I  will  write  but  a  line  or  two."  At  this  the 
cony  stoops,  and  for  greediness  of  the  money, 
and  upon  courtesy  goes  with  the  setter  into  the 
tavern.  As  they  walk,  they  meet  the  verser, 
and  then  they  all  three  go  into  the  tavern  to- 
gether. .  .  . 

GREENE'S   NEVER   TOO    LATE 
From  THE  PALMER'S  TALE 

In  those  days  wherein  Palmerin  reigned  king 
of  Great  Britain,  famoused  for  his  deeds  of 
chivalry,  there  dwelled  in  the  city  of  Caer- 
branck  a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  house,  called 
Francesco,  a  man  whose  parentage  though  it 
were  worshipful,  yet  it  was  not  indued  with  much 
wealth,  insomuch  that  his  learning  was  better 
than  his  revenues,  and  his  wit  more  beneficial 
than  his  substance.  This  Signor  Francesco, 
desirous  to  bend  the  course  of  his  compass  to 
some  peaceable  port,  spread  no  more  cloth  in 
the  wind  than  might  make  easy  sail,  lest  hoisting 

'  Who  but  a  fool  refuses  offered  gold  ? 


up  too  hastily  above  the  main  yard,  some  sud- 
den gust  might  make  him  founder  in  the  deep. 
Though  he  were  young,  yet  he  was  not  rash 
with  Icarus  to  soar  into  the  sky,  but  to  cry  out 
with  old  Dedalus,  Medium  ienere  tutissimum,^ 
treading  his  shoe  without  any  slip.  He  was 
so  generally  k)ved  of  the  citizens,  that  the 
richest  merchant  or  gravest  burghmaster  would 
not  refuse  to  grant  him  his  daughter  in  mar- 
riage, hoj)ing  more  of  his  ensuing  fortunes, 
than  of  his  present  substance.  At  last,  casting 
his  eye  on  a  gentleman's  daughter  that  dwelt 
not  far  from  Caerbranck,  he  fell  in  love,  and 
prosecuted  his  suit  with  such  affaljle  courtesy 
as  the  maid,  considering  the  virtue  and  wit  of 
the  man,  was  content  to  set  up  her  rest  with 
him,  so  that^  her  father's  consent  might  be  at 
the  knitting  up  of  the  match.  Francesco, 
thinking  himself  cocksure,  as  a  man  that  hoped 
his  credit  in  the  city  might  carry  away  more 
than  a  country  gentleman's  daughter,  finding 
her  father  on  a  day  at  fit  opportunity,  he  made 
the  motion  about  the  grant  of  his  daughter's 
marriage.  The  old  churl,  that  listened  with 
both  ears  to  such  a  question,  did  not  in  this 
in  iitramvis  aiircm  dormire;  ^  but  leaning  on 
his  elbow,  made  present  answer,  that  her  dowry 
required  a  greater  feofment  than  his  lands  were' 
able  to  afford.  And  upon  that,  without  farther 
debating  of  the  matter,  he  rose  up,  and  hied 
him  home.  Wliither  as  soon  as  he  came,  he 
called  his  daughter  before  him,  w-hose  name  was 
Isabel,  to  whom  he  uttered  these  words:  "Why, 
housewife,"  *  quoth  he,  "are  you  so  idle 
tasked,  that  you  stand  upon  thorns  while  * 
you  have  a  husband?  Are  you  no  sooner 
hatched  with  the  Lapwing  but  you  will  run 
away  with  the  shell  on  your  head?  Soon 
pricks  the  tree  that  will  prove  a  thorn,  and  a 
girl  that  loves  too  soon  will  repent  too  late. 
What,  a  husband?  Why,  the  maids  in  Rome 
durst  not  look  at  Venus'  temple  till  they  were 
thirty,  nor  went  they  unmasked  till  they  were 
married;  that  neither  their  beauties  might 
allure  other,  nor  they  glance  their  eyes  on  every 
wanton.  I  tell  thee,  fond  girl,  when  Nilus 
overfloweth  before  his  time,  Egypt  is  plagued 
with  a  dearth;  the  trees  that  blossom  in  Feb- 
ruary are  nipped  with  the  frosts  in  May;  un- 
timely fruits  had  never  good  fortune;  and 
young  gentlewomen  that  are  wooed  and  won 
ere  they  be  wi.se,  sorrow  and  repent  before  they 
be  old.     What  seest  thou    in    Francesco    that 


'  It  is  safest  to  keep  the  middle  way.     ^  provided 
*  sleep  on  either  ear       *  huzzy       *  until 


yo 


ROBERT    GREENE 


thine  eye  must  choose,  and  thy  heart  must 
fancy  ?  Is  he  beautiful  ?  Why,  fond  girl, 
what  the  eye  liketh  at  morn,  it  hateth  at  night. 
Love  is,  like  a  bavin,'  but  a  blaze;  and  beauty, 
why  how  can  I  better  compare  it  than  to  the 
gorgeous  cedar,  that  is  only  for  show  and  noth- 
fng  for  profit;  to  the  apples  of  Tantalus,  that 
are  precious  to  the  eye,  and  dust  in  the  hand; 
to  the  star  Artophilex,  that  is  most  bright,  but 
fitteth  not  for  any  compass;  so  young  men 
that  stand  upon  their  outward  portraiture,  I 
tell  thee  they  are  prejudicial.  Demophon  was 
fair,  but  how  dealt  he  with  Phillis?  ^neas 
was  a  brave  man  but  a  dissembler.  Fond 
girl,  all  are  but  little  worth,  if  they  be  not 
wealthy.  And  I  pray  thee,  what  substance 
hath  Francesco  to  endue  thee  with?  Hast 
thou  not  heard,  that  want  breaks  amity,  that 
love  beginneth  in  gold  and  endeth  in  beggery; 
that  such  as  marry  but  to  a  fair  face,  tie  them- 
selves oft  to  a  foul  bargain?  And  what  wilt 
thou  do  with  a  husband  that  is  not  able  to  main- 
tain thee?  Buy,  forsooth,  a  dram  of  pleasure 
vi-ith  a  pound  of  sorrow,  and  a  pint  of  content 
with  a  whole  ton  of  prejudicial  displeasures? 
But  why  do  I  cast  stones  into  the  air,  or  breathe 
my  words  into  the  wind;  when  to  persuade  a 
woman  from  her  will  is  to  roll  Sisiphus'  stone; 
or  to  hale  a  headstrong  girl  from  love,  is  to  tie 
the  Furies  again  in  fetters.  Therefore,  house- 
wife, to  prevent  all  misfortunes  I  will  be  your 
jailer."  And  with  that,  he  carried  her  in  and 
shut  her  up  in  his  own  chamber,  not  giving  her 
leave  to  depart  but  when  his  key  gave  her 
license ;  yet  at  last  she  so  cunningly  dissembled, 
that  she  got  thus  far  liberty,  not  to  be  close 
prisoner,  but  to  walk  about  the  house.  Yet 
every  night  he  shut  up  her  clothes,  that  no 
nightly  fear  of  her  escape  might  hinder  his 
broken  slumbers. 

Where  leaving  her,  let  us  return  to  Francesco ; 
who  to  his  sorrow  heard  of  all  these  hard  for- 
tunes, and  being  pensive  was  full  of  many 
passions,  but  almost  in  despair,  as  a  man  that 
durst  not  come  nigh  her  father's  door,  nor  send 
any  letters  whereby  to  comfort  his  mistress,  or 
to  lay  any  plot  of  her  liberty.  For  no  sooner 
any  stranger  came  thither,  but  he,  suspicious 
they  came  from  Francesco,  first  sent  up  his 
daughter  into  her  chamber;  then  as  watchful 
as  Argus  with  all  his  eyes,  he  pried  into  every 
particular  gesture  and  behaviour  of  the  party ; 
and  if  any  jealous  humour  took  him  in  the  head, 
he  would   not  only  be  very  inquisitive  with 

^  a  dry  twig 


cutting  questions,  but  would  strain  courtesies 
and  search  them  very  narrowly,  whether  they 
had  any  letters  or  no  to  his  daughter  Isabel. 

This  narrow  inquisition  made  the  poor  gentle- 
man almost  frantic,  that  he  turned  over  Anac- 
reon,  Ovid  de  Arte  aniandi,  and  all  books  that 
might  teach  him  any  sleights  of  love;  but,  for 
all  their  principles,  his  own  wit  served  him  for 
the  best  shift,  and  that  was  haply '  begun 
and  fortunately  ended  thus.  It  chanced  that  as 
he  walked  thus  in  his  muses,  fetching  the  com- 
pass of  his  conceit  ^  beyond  the  moon,  he  met 
with  a  poor  woman  that  from  door  to  door  sought 
her  living  by  charity.  The  woman,  as  her 
custom  was,  began  her  exordium  with  'T  pray, 
good  master,"  and  so  forth,  hoping  to  find  the 
gentleman  as  liberal,  as  he  was  full  of  gracious 
favours.  Neither  did  she  miss  of  her  imagina- 
tion ;  for  he,  that  thought  her  likely  to  be  drawn 
on  to  the  executing  of  his  purpose,  conceipted  ^ 
this,  that  gold  was  as  good  as  glue  to  knit  her 
to  any  practice  whatsoever,  and  therefore  out 
with  his  purse,  and  clapped  her  in  the  hand  with 
a  French  crown.  This  unaccustomed  reward 
made  her  more  frank  of  her  curtsies,  that 
every  rag  reached  the  gentleman  a  reverence 
with  promise  of  many  prayers  for  his  health. 
He,  that  harped  on  another  string,  took  the 
woman  by  the  hand,  and  sitting  down  upon  the 
green  grass,  discoursed  unto  her  from  point  to 
point  the  beginning  and  sequel  of  his  loves, 
and  how  by  no  means,  except  by  her,  he  could 
convey  any  letter.  The  beggar,  desirous  to  do 
the  gentleman  any  pleasure,  said  she  was  ready 
to  take  any  pains  that  might  redound  to  his 
content.  Whereupon  he  replied  thus;  "Then, 
mother,  thou  shalt  go  to  yonder  abbey,  which 
is  her  father's  house;  and  when  thou  comest 
thither,  use  thy  wonted  eloquence  to  entreat 
for  thine  alms.  If  the  master  of  the  house  be 
present,  show  thy  passport,  and  seem  very 
passionate ;  *  but  if  he  be  absent  or  out  of  the 
way,  then,  oh  then,  mother,  look  about  if  thou 
seest  Diana  masking  in  the  shape  of  a  virgin, 
if  thou  spiest  Venus,  nay,  one  more  beautiful 
than  love's  goddess,  and  I  tell  thee  she  is  my 
love,  fair  Isabel,  whom  thou  shalt  discern  from 
her  other  sister,  thus:  her  visage  is  fair,  con- 
taining as  great  resemblance  of  virtue  as  linea- 
ments of  beauty,  and  yet  I  tell  thee  she  is  full 
of  favour,^  whether  thou  respects  the  outward 
portraiture  or  inward  perfection;  her  eye  like 
the  diamond,  and  so  pointed  that  it  pierceth  to 

'  by  chance  ^  range  of  his  fancy  ^  reasoned 
*  sorrowful  ^  beauty 


GREENE'S    NEVER    TOO    LATE 


71 


the  quick,  yet  so  chaste  in  the  motion  as  therein 
is  seen  as  in  a  mirror  courtesy  temj)ere(i  with  a 
virtuous  disdain;  her  countenance  is  the  very 
ma|)  of  modesty,  and,  to  give  thee  a  more  near 
mark,  if  thou  findest  her  in  the  way,  thou 
shalt  see  her  more  liberal  to  bestow,  than  thou 
pitiful  to  demand;  her  name  is  Isai)el;  to 
her  from  me  shalt  thou  carry  a  letter,  folded  up 
every  way  like  thy  passport,  with  a  greasy  back- 
side, and  a  great  seal.  If  cunningly  and  closely 
thou  canst  thus  convey  unto  her  the  tenure  '  of 
my  mind,  when  thou  bringest  me  an  answer, 
I  will  give  thee  a  brace  of  angels."  The  poor 
woman  was  glad  of  this  proffer,  and  thereupon 
promised  to  venture  a  joint,-  but  she  would 
further  him  in  his  loves;  whereupon  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  his  chamber,  and  the  whiles  ^ 
he  writ  a  letter  to  this  effect. 


Signor  Francesco  to  Fair  Isabel : 

When  I  note,  fair  Isabel,  the  extremity  of 
thy  fortunes,  and  measure  the  passions  of  my 
love,  I  find  that  Venus  hath  made  thee  constant 
to  requite  my  miseries;  and  that  where  the 
greatest  onset  is  given  by  fortune,  there  is 
strongest  defence  made  by  affection;  for  I 
heard  that  thy  father,  suspicious,  or  rather 
jealous,  of  our  late-united  sympathy,  doth  watch 
like  Argus  over  lo,  not  suffering  thee  to  pass 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  eye,  unless,^  as  he 
thinks,  thou  shouldest  overreach  thyself. 
His  mind  is  like  the  tapers  in  Janus'  temple, 
that,  set  once  on  fire,  burn  till  they  consume 
themselves;  his  thoughts  like  the  sunbeams, 
that  search  every  secret.  Thus  watching  thee 
he  overwaketh  himself;  and  yet  I  hope  pro- 
fiteth  as  little  as  they  which  gaze  on  the  flames 
of  JEtna.,  which  vanish  out  of  their  sight  in 
smoke. 

I  have  heard  them  say,  fair  Isabel,  that,  as 
the  diamonds  are  tried  by  cutting  of  glass,  the 
topaz  by  biding  the  force  of  the  anvil,  the  sethin 
wood  by  the  hardness,  so  women's  excellence 
is  discovered  in  their  constancy.  Then,  if  the 
period  of  all  their  virtues  consist  in  this,  that 
they  take  in  love  by  months,  and  let  it  slip  by 
minutes,  that,  as  the  tortoise,  they  creep  pc- 
detentim,^  and,  when  they  come  to  their  rest, 
will  hardly  be  removed,  I  hope  thou  wilt 
confirm  in  thy  loves  the  very  pattern  of  feminine 
loyalty,  having  no  motion  in  thy  thoughts, 
but  fancy,"  and  no  affection,  but  to  thy  Fran- 

'  tenor       '^  a  slang  phrase       *  meanwhile       *  lest 
'  cautiously     ^  love 


cesco.  In  that  I  am  stopped  from  thy  sight,  I 
am  deprived  of  the  chiefest  organ  of  my  life, 
having  no  sense  in  myself  perfect,  in  that  I 
want  the  view  of  thy  perfection,  ready  with  sor- 
row to  perish  in  despair,  if,  resolved  of  thy  con- 
stancy, I  did  not  triumph  in  hope.  Therefore 
now  rests  it  in  thee  to  salve  all  these  sores,  and 
provide  medicines  for  these  dangerous  maladies, 
that,  our  passions  appeased,  we  may  end  our 
harmony  in  the  faithful  union  of  two  hearts. 
Thou  seest  love  hath  his  shifts,  and  Venus' 
quiddities'  are  most  subtle  sophistry;  that  he 
which  is  touched  with  beauty,  is  ever  in  league 
with  opportunity.  These  principles  are  proved 
by  the  messenger,  whose  state  discovers  my 
restless  thoughts,  impatient  of  any  longer  re- 
pulse. I  have  therefore  sought  to  overmatch 
thy  father  in  policy,  as  he  overstrains  us  in 
jealousy,  and  seeing  he  seeks  it,  to  let  him  find 
a  knot  in  a  rush.  As  therefore  I  have  sent  thee 
the  sum  of  my  passions  in  the  form  of  a  passport, 
so  return  me  a  reply  wrapped  in  the  same  paper, 
that  as  we  are  forced  to  cover  our  deceits  in 
one  shift,  so  hereafter  we  may  unite  our  loves 
in  one  sympathy:  Appoint  w-hat  I  shall  do  to 
compass  a  private  conference.  Think  I  will 
account  of  the  seas  as  Leander,  of  the  wars  as 
Troilus,  of  all  dangers  as  a  man  resolved  to 
attempt  any  peril,  or  break  any  prejudice  for 
thy  sake.  Say  when  and  where  I  shall  meet 
thee;  and  so,  as  I  begun  passionately,  I  break 
off  abruptly.     Farewell. 

Thine  in  fatal  resolution. 

Seigneur  Francesco. 

After  he  had  written  the  letter,  and  despatched 
the  messenger,  her  mind  was  so  fixed  on  the 
brace  of  angels^  that  she  stirred  her  old  stumps 
till  she  came  to  the  house  of  Seigneur  Fregoso, 
who  at  that  instant  was  walked  abroad  to  take 
view  of  his  pastures.  She  no  sooner  began  her 
method  of  begging  with  a  solemn  prayer  and  a 
pater  noster  but  Isabel,  whose  devotion  was 
ever  bent  to  pity  the  poor,  came  to  the  door, 
to  see  the  necessity  of  the  party,  who  began  to 
salute  her  thus:  "Fair  mistress,  whose  virtues 
exceed  your  beauties  (and  yet  I  doubt  not  but 
you  deem  your  perfection  equivalent  with  the 
rarest  paragons  in  Britain),  as  your  eye  receives 
the  object  of  my  misery,  so  let  your  heart  have 
an  insight  into  my  extremities,  who  once  was 
young,  and  then  favoured  by  fortunes,  now  old 
and  crossed  by  the  destinies,  driven,  when  I  am 
weakest,  to  the  wall,  and,  when  I  am  worst, 

'  subtleties   ^  gold  coins  worth  135.  ^d.  each 


72 


ROBERT  GREENE 


forced  to  hold  the  candle.  Seeing,  then,  the 
faults  of  my  youth  hath  forced  the  fall  of  mine 
age,  and  I  am  driven  in  the  winter  of  mine  years 
to  abide  the  brunt  of  all  storms,  let  the  plenty 
of  your  youth  pity  the  want  of  my  decrepit 
state;  and  the  rather,  because  my  fortune  was 
once  as  high  as  my  fall  is  now  low.  For  proof, 
sweet  mistress,  see  my  passport,  wherein  you 
shall  find  many  passions  and  much  patience." 
At  which  period,  making  a  curtsey,  her  very 
rags  seemed  to  give  Isabel  reverence.  She, 
hearing  the  beggar  insinuate  with  such  a  sen- 
sible preamble,  thought  the  woman  had  had 
some  good  parts  in  her,  and  therefore  took  her 
certificate,  which  as  soon  as  she  had  opened,  and 
that  she  perceived  it  was  Francesco's  hand,  she 
smiled,  and  yet  bewrayed'  a  passion  with  a 
blush.  So  that,  stepping  from  the  woman,  she 
went  into  her  chamber,  where  she  read  it  over 
with  such  patheticaP  impressions  as  every 
motion  was  intangled  with  a  dilemma;  for, 
on  the  one  side,  the  love  of  Francesco,  grounded 
more  on  his  interior  virtues  than  his  exterior 
beauties,  gave  such  fierce  assaults  to  the  bul- 
wark of  her  affection,  as  the  fort  was  ready  to 
be  yielded  up,  but  that  the  fear  of  her  father's 
displeasure  armed  with  the  instigations  of 
nature  drave  her  to  meditate  thus  with  her- 
self: 

"Now,  Isabel,  Love  and  Fortune  hath 
brought  thee  into  a  labyrinth;  thy  thoughts 
are  like  to  Janus'  pictures,  that  present  both 
peace  and  war,  and  thy  mind  like  Venus' 
anvil,  whereon  is  hammered  both  fear  and 
hope.  Sith,^  then,  the  chance  lieth  in  thine 
own  choice,  do  not  with  Medea  see  and  allow 
of  the  best,  and  then  follow  the  worst:  but  of 
two  extremes,  if  they  be  Immediala,  choose 
that  *  may  have  least  prejudice  and  most  profit. 
Thy  father  is  aged  and  wise,  and  many  years 
hath  taught  him  much  experience.  The  old 
fox  is  more  subtil  than  the  young  cub,  the  buck 
more  skilful  to  choose  his  food  than  the  young 
fawns.  Men  of  age  fear  and  foresee  that 
which  youth  leapeth  at  with  repentance.  If, 
then,  his  grave  wisdom  exceeds  thy  green  wit, 
and  his  ripened  fruits  thy  sprouting  blossoms, 
think  if  he  speak  for  thy  avail,  as  his  principles 
are  perfect,  so  they  are  grounded  on  love  and 
nature.  It  is  a  near  collop,"^  says  he,  is  cut  out 
of  the  own  flesh ;  and  the  stay  of  thy  fortunes, 
is  the  staff  of  his  life.  No  doubt  he  sees  with 
a  more  piercing  judgment  into  the  life  of  Fran- 
cesco; for  thou,  overcome  with  fancy,  censurest 

•  disclosed    ^  emotional    ^  since    *  that  which    "  slice 


of  all  his  actions  with  partiality.  Francesco, 
though  he  be  young  and  beautiful,  yet  his 
revenues  are  not  answerable  to  his  favours: 
the  cedar  is  fair,  but  unfruitful;  the  Volgo  a 
bright  stream,  but  without  fish;  men  covet 
rather  to  plant  the  olive  for  profit,  than  the 
alder  for  beauty;  and  young  gentlewomen 
should  rather  fancy  to  live,  than  affect  to  lust, 
for  love  without  lands  is  like  to  a  fire  without 
fuel,  that  for  a  while  showeth  a  bright  blaze 
and  in  a  moment  dieth  in  his  own  cinders. 
Dost  thou  think  this,  Isabel,  that  thine  eye 
may  not  surfeit  so  with  beauty,  that  the  mind 
shall  vomit  up  repentance?  Yes,  for  the  fair- 
est roses  have  pricks,  the  purest  lawns  their 
moles,  the  brightest  diamonds  their  cracks, 
and  the  most  beautiful  men  of  the  most  imper- 
fect conditions;  for  Nature,  having  care  to 
polish  the  body  so  far,  overweens  herself  in 
her  excellency,  that  she  leaves  their  minds  im- 
perfect. Whither  now,  Isabel;  into  absurd 
aphorisms?  What,  can  thy  father  persuade 
thee  to  this,  that  the  most  glorious  shells  have 
not  the  most  orient  margarites,'  that  the  purest 
flowers  have  not  the  most  perfect  favours,^  that 
men,  as  they  excel  in  proportion  of  body,  so 
they  exceed  in  perfection  of  mind?  Is  not 
nature  both  curious  and  absolute,  hiding  the 
most  virtuous  minds  in  the  most  beautiful 
covertures?  Why,  what  of  this,  fond  girl? 
Suppose  these  premises  be  granted,  yet  they 
infer  no  conclusion ;  for  suppose  he  be  beauti- 
ful and  virtuous,  and  his  wit  is  equal  with  his 
parentage,  yet  he  wants  wealth  to  maintain 
love,  and  therefore,  says  old  Fregoso,  not 
worthy  of  Isabel's  love.  Shall  I,  then,  tie  my 
affection  to  his  lands  or  to  his  lineaments? 
to  his  riches  or  his  qualities?  Are  Venus' 
altars  to  be  filled  with  gold  or  loyalty  of  hearts? 
Is  the  S}Tnpathy  of  Cupid's  consistory  ^  united 
in  the  abundance  of  coin?  Or  the  absolute 
perfection  of  constancy?  Ah,  Isabel,  think 
this,  that  love  brooketh  no  exception  of  want, 
that  where  Fancy  *  displays  her  colour  there 
always  either  plenty  keeps  her  court,  or  else 
Patience  so  tempers  every  extreme,  that  all 
defects  are  supplied  with  content."  Upon 
this,  as  having  a  farther  reach,  and  a  deeper 
insight,  she  stepped  hastily  to  her  standish,* 
and  writ  him  this  answer: 

Isabel  to  Francesco,  Health  1 

Although  the  nature  of  a  father,  and  the  duty 
of  a  child  might  move  me  resolutely  to  reject 

'  pearls    =  beauties    ^  assembly   *  love    ^  inkstand 


GREENE'S  NEVER  TOO  LATE 


73 


thy  letters,  yet  I  received  them,  for  that  thou 
art  Francesco  and  I  Isabel,  who  were  once  pri- 
vate in  affection,  as  now  we  are  distant  in  places. 
But  know  my  father,  whose  command  to  me 
is  a  law  of  constraint,  sets  down  this  censure, 
that  love  without  wealth  is  like  to  a  cedar  tree 
without  fruit,  or  to  com  sown  in  the  sands,  that 
withereth   for  want  of   moisture;    and  I  have 
reason,   Francesco,   to   deem  of  snow  by  the 
whiteness,  and  of  trees  by  the  blossoms.     The 
old  man,  whose  words  are  oracles,  tells  me  that 
love  that  entereth  in  a  moment,  fiieth  out  in  a 
minute,  that  men's  affections  is  hke  the  dew 
upon  a  crystal,  which  no  sooner  lighteth  on, 
but  it  leapeth  off;   their  eyes  with  every  glance 
make  a  new  choice,  and  every  look  can  com- 
mand a  sigh,  having  their  hearts  like  saltpeter, 
that  fireth   at   the   first,   and  yet  proveth   but 
a  flash;    their  thoughts    reaching   as   high    as 
cedars,  but  as  brittle  as  rods  that  break  with 
every  blast.     Had  Carthage  been  bereft  of  so 
famous  a  virago,'  if  the  beauteous  Trojan  had 
been   as   constant   as   he   was   comely  ?_  Had 
the   Queen   of  Poetry  been   pinched  with  so 
many  passions,   if  the  wanton  ferryman  had 
been  as  faithful  as  he  was  fair?     No,  Fran- 
cesco, and  therefore,  seeing  the  brightest  blos- 
soms are  pestered  with  most  caterpillars,  the 
sweetest   roses  with   the   sharpest   pricks,   the 
fairest  cambrics  with  the   foulest  stains,   and 
men  with  the  best  proportion  have  commonly 
least  perfection,  I  may  fear  to  swallow  the  hook, 
lest  I  find  more  bane  in  the  confection  than 
pleasure  in  the  bait.     But  here  let  me  breathe, 
and  with  sighs  foresee  mine  own  folly.     Women, 
poor  fools,  are  like  to  the  harts  in  Calabria, 
that   knowing   Dictannum   to   be   deadly,   yet 
browse  on  it  with  greediness;    resembling  the 
fish   Mugra,    that   seeing   the   hook    bare,   yet 
swallows  it  with  delight;    so  women  foresee, 
yet  do  not  prevent,  knowing  what  is  profitable, 
yet  not  eschewing  the  prejudice.     So,  Fran- 
cesco, I  see  thy  beauties,  I  know  thy  want, 
and  I  fear  thy  vanities,  yet  can  I  not  but  allow 
of  all,  were  they  the  worst  of  all,  because  I 
find  in  my  mind  this  principle:  "  in  Love  is  no 
lack."     What^  should  I,  Francesco,  covet  to 
dally  with  the  mouse  when  the  cat  stands  by, 
or  fill  my  letter  full  of  needless  ambages  ^  when 
my  father,  like  Argus,  setteth  a  hundred  eyes 
to  overpry  my  actions.     While  I  am  writing, 
thy   messenger   stands   at   the   door   praying. 
Therefore,  lest  I  should  hold  her  too  long  in 
her  orisons,  or  keep  thee,  poor  man,  too  long 

'  woman      ^  why     '  circumlocutions 


in  suspen.se;  thus,  briefly:  Be  upon  Thursday 
ne.xt  at  night  hard  by  the  orchard  under  the 
greatest  oak,  where  expect  my  coming,  and 
provide  for  our  safe  passage;  for  stood  all  the 
world  on  the  one  side,  and  thou  on  the  other, 
Francesco  should  be  my  guide  to  direct  me 
whither  he  pleased.  Fail  not,  then,  unless 
thou  be  false  to  her  that  would  have  life  fail, 
ere  she  falsify  faith  to  thee. 

Not  her  own,  becau.se  thine, 

Isabel. 

As  soon  as  she  had  despatched  her  letter,  she 
came  down,  and  delivered  the  letter  folded  in 
form  of  a  passport  to  the  messenger,  giving 
her   after   her   accustomed   manner   an    alms, 
and  closely  clapped  her  in  the  fist  with  a  brace 
of  angels.     The   woman,    thanking   her  good 
master  and  her  good  mistress,  giving  the  house 
her  benison,  hied  her  back  again  to  Francesco, 
whom  she  found  sitting  solitary'  in  his  chamber. 
No  sooner  did  he  spy  her  but,  flinging  out  of 
his  chair,  he  changed  colour  as  a  man  in  a 
doubtful  ecstasy  what  should  betide;   yet  con- 
ceiving good  hope  by  her  countenance,  who 
smiled  more  at  the  remembrance  of  her  reward 
than  at  any  other  conceit,  he  took  the  letter 
and  read  it,  wherein  he  found  his  humour  so 
fitted  that  he  not  only  thanked  the  messenger 
but  gave  her  all  the  money  in  his  purse,  so  that 
she  returned  so  highly  gratified  as  never  after 
she  vv'as  found  to  exercise  her  old  occupation. 
But,  leaving  her  to  the  hope  of  her  housewifery, 
again  to  Francesco,  who,  seeing  the  constant 
affection  of  his  mistress,  that  neither  the  sour 
looks  of  her  father,  nor  his  hard  threats  could 
affright  her  to  make  change  of  her  fancy,  that 
no  disaster  of  fortune  could  drive  her  to  make 
shipwreck  of  her  fixed  affection,  that  the  blus- 
tering storms  of  adversity  might  assault,  but 
not  sack,  the  fort  of  her  constant  resolution, 
he  fell  into  this  pleasing  passion:    "Women," 
quoth  he,  "why,  as  they  are  heaven's  wealth, 
so  they  are  earth's  miracles,  framed  by  nature 
to  despite  beauty;  adorned  with  the  singularity 
of  proportion,  to  shroud  the  excellence  of  all 
perfection ;    as  far  exceeding  men  in  virtues  as 
they  excel  them  in  beauties ;  resembling  angels 
in  qualities,  as  they  are  like  to  gods  in  per- 
fectness,  being  purer  in  mind  than  in  mould, 
and  yet  made  of  the  purity  of  man ;   just  they 
are,  as  giving  love  her  due;   constant,  as  hold- 
ing loyalty  more  precious  than  life;    as  hardly 
to  be  drawn  from  united  affection  as  the  sala- 
manders from  the  caverns  of  .^tna.     Tush," 
quoth  Francesco,  "what  should  I  say?     They 


74 


FRANCIS    BACON 


be  women,  and  therefore  the  continents '  of 
all  excellence."  In  this  pleasant  humour  he 
passed  away  the  time,  not  slacking  his  business 
for  provision  against  Thursday  at  night;  to 
the  care  of  which  affairs  let  us  leave  him  and 
return  to  Isabel,  who,  after  she  had  sent  her 
letter,  fell  into  a  great  dump,  entering  into 
the  consideration  of  men's  inconstancy,  and 
of  the  fickleness  of  their  fancies,  but  all  these 
meditations  did  sort  to  no  effect;  whereupon 
sitting  down,  she  took  her  lute  in  her  hand,  and 
sung  this  Ode:  .  .  . 


FRANCIS  BACON   (1561-1626) 

ESSAYS 

I.   OF  TRUTH 

What  is  Truth?  said  jesting  Pilate;  and 
would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  Certainly  there 
be  that  delight  in  giddiness,  and  count  it  a 
bondage  to  fix  a  belief;  affecting  free-will  in 
thinking,  as  well  as  in  acting.  And  though 
the  sects  of  philosophers  of  that  kind  be  gone, 
yet  there  remain  certain  discoursing  wits  which 
are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  be  not  so 
much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of  the 
ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  the  difiliculty  and 
labour  which  men  take  in  finding  out  of  truth; 
nor  again  that  when  it  is  found  it  imposeth 
upon  men's  thoughts;  that  doth  bring  lies  in 
favour;  but  a  natural  though  corrupt  love  of 
the  lie  itself.  One  of  the  later  school  of  the 
Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and  is  at  a 
stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it,  that  men 
should  love  lies,  where  neither  they  make  for 
pleasure,  as  with  poets,  nor  for  advantage,  as 
with  the  merchant;  but  for  the  lie's  sake.  But 
I  cannot  tell :  this  same  truth  is  a  naked  and 
open  day-light,  that  doth  not  show  the  masks 
and  mummeries  and  triumphs  of  the  world, 
half  so  stately  and  daintily  as  candle-lights! 
Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the  price  of  a 
pearl,  that  showeth  best  by  day;  but  it  will 
not  rise  to  the  price  of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle, 
that  showeth  best  in  varied  lights.  A  mixture 
of  a  lie  doth  ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any 
man  doubt,  that  if  there  were  taken  out  of 
men's  minds  vain  opinions,  flattering  hopes, 
false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one  would, 
and  the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the  minds  of  a 
number  of  men  poor  shrunken  things,  full  of 
melancholy  and  indisposition,  and  unpleasing 


to  themselves?  One  of  the  Fathers,  in  great 
severity,  called  poesy  vinum  dcBinonum,'^  be- 
cause it  filleth  the  imagination;  and  yet  it 
is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it  is  not 
the  lie  that  passeth  through  the  mind,  but  the 
lie  that  sinketh  in  and  settleth  in  it,  that  doth 
the  hurt;  such  as  we  spake  of  before.  But 
howsoever  these  things  are  thus  in  men's  de- 
praved judgments  and  affections,  yet  truth, 
which  only  doth  judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the 
inquiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making  or 
wooing  of  it,  the  knowledge  of  truth,  which  is 
the  presence  of  it,  and  the  belief  of  truth,  which 
is  the  enjoying  of  it,  is  the  sovereign  good  of 
human  nature.  The  first  creature  of  God, 
in  the  works  of  the  days,  was  the  light  of  the 
sense ;  the  last  was  the  light  of  reason ;  and  his 
Sabbath  work  ever  since,  is  the  illumination  of 
his  Spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the 
face  of  the  matter  or  chaos;  then  he  breathed 
light  into  the  face  of  man ;  and  still  he  breatheth 
and  inspireth  light  into  the  face  of  his  chosen. 
The  poet  ^  that  beautified  the  sect  ^  that  was 
otherwise  inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excel- 
lently well:  It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the 
shore,  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon  the  sea;  a 
pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  castle,  and 
to  see  a  battle  and  the  adventures  thereof  below: 
but  no  pleasure  is  comparable  to  the  standing 
upon  the  vantage  ground  of  Truth,  (a  hill  not 
to  be  commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always 
clear  and  serene,)  and  to  see  the  errors,  and 
wanderings,  and  mists,  and  tempests,  in  the 
vale  below;  so  always  that  this  prospect  be 
with  pity,  and  not  with  swelling  or  pride. 
Certainly,  it  is  heaven  upon  earth,  to  have  a 
man's  mind  move  in  charity,  rest  in  provi- 
dence, and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosophical 
truth,  to  the  truth  of  civil  business;  it  will  be 
acknowledged  even  by  those  that  practise  it 
not,  that  clear  and  round  dealing  is  the  honour 
of  man's  nature;  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood 
is  like  allay  *  in  coin  of  gold  and  silver,  which 
may  make  the  metal  work  the  better,  but  it 
embaseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked 
courses  are  the  goings  of  the  serpent;  which 
goeth  basely  upon  the  belly,  and  not  upon  the 
feet.  There  is  no  vice  that  doth  so  cover  a 
man  with  shame  as  to  be  found  false  and  per- 
fidious. And  therefore  Montaigne  saith  pret- 
tily, when  he  inquired  the  reason,  why  the 
word  of  the  lie  should  be  such  a  disgrace  and 
such  an  odious  charge?     Saith  he,  If  it  be  well 


containers 


1  devil's-wine      2  Lucretius     ^  Epicureans     ^  alloy 


ESSAYS 


/3 


weighed,  to  say  thai  a  man  lieth,  is  as  much  to 
say,  as  that  he  is  brave  towards  God  and  a 
coward  towards  men.  For  a  lie  faces  God, 
and  shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the  wickedness 
of  falsehood  and  breach  of  faith  cannot  possibly 
be  so  highly  expressed,  as  in  that  it  shall  be 
the  last  peal  to  call  the  judgments  of  God  upon 
the  generations  of  men ;  it  being  foretold,  that 
when  Christ  cometh,  he  slfall  not  find  faith 
upon  the  earth. 

II.     OF   DEATH 

Men  fear  Death,  as  children  fear  to  go  in  the 
dark;  and  as  that  natural  fear  in  children  is 
increased  with  tales,  so  is  the  other.  Certainly, 
the  contemplation  of  death,  as  the  wages  of 
sin  and  passage  to  another  world,  is  holy  and 
religious;  but  the  fear  of  it,  as  a  tribute  due 
unto  nature,  is  weak.  Yet  in  religious  medi- 
tations there  is  sometimes  mi.xture  of  vanity 
and  of  superstition.  You  shall  read  in  some 
of  the  friars'  books  of  mortification,  that  a 
man  should  think  with  himself  what  the  pain 
is  if  he  have  but  his  finger's  end  pressed  or 
tortured,  and  thereby  imagine  what  the  pains 
of  death  are,  when  the  whole  body  is  corrupted 
and  dissolved;  when  many  times  death  pass- 
eth  with  less  pain  than  the  torture  of  a  limb: 
for  the  most  vital  parts  are  not  the  quickest 
of  sense.*  And  by  him  that  spake  only  as  a 
philosopher  and  natural  man,  it  was  well  said, 
Pompa  mortis  magis  terret,  quam  mors  ipsa} 
Groans  and  convulsions,  and  a  discoloured  face, 
and  friends  weeping,  and  blacks,  and  obsequies, 
and  tlie  like,  show  cleath  terrible.  It  is  worthy 
the  observing,  that  there  is  no  passion  in  the 
mind  of  man  so  weak,  but  it  mates  ^  and  mas- 
ters the  fear  of  death;  and  therefore  death  is 
no  such  terrible  enemy  when  a  man  hath  so 
many  attendants  about  him  that  can  win  the 
combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over  death ; 
Love  slights  it;  Honour  aspireth  to  it;  Grief 
flieth  to  it;  Fear  pre-occupateth  it;  nay  we 
read,  after  Otho  the  emperor  had  slain  him- 
self, Pity  (which  is  the  tenderest  of  affections) 
provoked  many  to  die,  out  of  mere  compassion 
to  their  sovereign,  and  as  the  truest  sort  of 
followers.  Nay  Seneca  adds  niceness  and 
satiety:  Cogita  quamdiu  eadem  feceris ;  mori 
velle,  non  tantum  fortis,  aut  miser,  sed  ctiam 
fastidiosus  potest.  A  man  would  die,  though 
he  were  neither  valiant  nor  miserable,  only 
upon  a  weariness  to  do  the  same  thing  so  oft 

'  sensation     ^  It  is  the  accompaniments  of  death 
that  are  frightful  rather  than  death  itself.     ^  conquers 


over  and  over.  It  is  no  less  worthy  to  observe, 
how  little  alteration  in  good  spirits  the  ap- 
proaches of  death  make;  for  they  appear  to 
be  the  same  men  till  the  last  instant.  Augustus 
Cajsar  died  in  a  compliment;  Livia,  conjugii 
nostri  memor,  vive  et  vale: '  Tiberius  in  dis- 
simulation; as  Tacitus  saith  of  him.  Jam 
Tiberium  vires  ct  corpus,  non  dissimulatio, 
dcserebant:  ^  Vespasian  in  a  jest:  Ut  piito 
Deus  fio:^  Galba  with  a  sentence;  Feri,  si 
ex  re  sit  populi  Romani;*  holding  forth  his 
neck:  Septimius  Scverus  in  despatch;  Adeste 
si  quid  milii  rcstat  agendum :  ^  and  the  like. 
Certainly  the  Stoics  bestowed  too  much  cost 
upon  death,  and  by  their  great  preparations 
made  it  appear  more  fearful.  Better  saith  hc,° 
qui  finem  viicB  extremicm  inter  munera  ponat 
naturcE.''  It  is  as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  born; 
and  to  a  little  infant,  perhaps,  the  one  is  as 
painful  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  in  an  earn- 
est pursuit,  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot 
blood;  who,  for  the  time,  scarce  feels  the  hurt; 
and  therefore  a  mind  fixed  and  bent  upon 
somewhat  that  is  good  doth  avert  the  dolours 
of  death.  But  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweet- 
est canticle  is.  Nunc  dimiltis;^  when  a  man 
hath  obtained  worthy  ends  and  expectations. 
Death  hath  this  also;  that  it  openeth  the  gate 
to  good  fame,  and  extinguisheth  envy.  Ex- 
tinctus  amabitur  idcm.^ 

IV.     OF    REVENGE 

Revenge  is  a  kind  of  wild  justice;  which  the 
more  man's  nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought 
law  to  weed  it  out.  For  as  for  the  first  wrong, 
it  doth  but  offend  the  law;  but  the  revenge  of 
that  wrong  putteth  the  law  out  of  office.  Cer- 
tainly, in  taking  revenge,  a  man  is  but  even 
with  his  enemy;  but  in  passing  it  over,  he  is 
superior;  for  it  is  a  prince's  part  to  pardon. 
And  Salomon,  I  am  sure,  saith,  It  is  the  glory 
of  a  man  to  pass  by  an  offence.  That  which  is 
past  is  gone,  and  irrevocable;  and  wise  men 
have  enough  to  do  with  things  present  and  to 
come;  therefore  they  do  but  trifle  with  them- 
selves, that  labour  in  past  matters.     There  is 

>  Farewell,  Livia,  and  forget  not  the  days  of  our 
marriage.  ^  His  powers  of  body  were  gone,  but  his 
power  of  dissimulation  still  remained.  ^  I  think  I  am 
becoming  a  god.  *  Strike,  if  it  be  for  the  good  of  Rome. 
6  Make  haste,  if  there  is  anything  more  for  me  to  do. 
6  Juvenal  "  Who  accounts  the  close  of  life  as  one 

of  the  benefits  of  nature.  *  See  Luke,  2  :  29.  *  The 
same  man  that  was  envied  while  he  lived,  shall  be 
loved  when  he  is  gone. 


76 


FRANCIS    BACON 


no  man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's  sake; 
but  thereby  to  purchase  himself  profit,  or 
pleasure,  or  honour,  or  the  like.  Therefore 
why  should  I  be  angry  with  a  man  for  loving 
himself  better  than  me?  And  if  any  man 
should  do  wrong  merely  out  of  ill-nature,  why, 
yet  it  is  but  like  the  thorn  or  briar,  which 
prick  and  scratch,  because  they  can  do  no 
other.  The  most  tolerable  sort  of  revenge  is 
for  those  wrongs  which  there  is  no  law  to 
remedy;  but  then  let  a  man  take  heed  the 
revenge  be  such  as  there  is  no  law  to  punish; 
else  a  man's  enemy  is  still  before  hand,  and  it 
is  two  for  one.  Some,  when  they  take  revenge, 
are  desirous  the  party  should  know  whence 
it  Cometh.  This  is  the  more  generous.  For 
the  delight  seemeth  to  be  not  so  much  in  doing 
the  hurt  as  in  making  the  party  repent.  But 
base  and  crafty  cowards  are  like  the  arrow  that 
flieth  in  the  dark.  Cosmus,  duke  of  Florence, 
had  a  desperate  saying  against  perfidious  or 
neglecting  friends,  as  if  those  wrongs  were  un- 
pardonable; You  shall  read  (saith  he)  that  we 
are  commanded  to  forgive  our  enemies;  but  you 
never  read  that  we  are  commanded  to  forgive 
our  friends.  But  yet  the  spirit  of  Job  was  in 
a  better  tune:  Shall  we  (saith  he)  take  good 
at  God's  hands,  and  not  be  content  to  take  evil 
also  ?  And  so  of  friends  in  a  proportion.  This 
is  certain,  that  a  man  that  studieth  revenge 
keeps  his  own  wounds  green,  which  otherwise 
would  heal  and  do  well.  Public  revenges  are 
for  the  most  part  fortunate;  as  that  for  the 
death  of  Caesar;  for  the  death  of  Pertinax; 
for  the  death  of  Henry  the  Third  of  France; 
and  many  more.  But  in  private  revenges  it  is 
not  so.  Nay  rather,  vindictive  persons  live 
the  life  of  witches;  who,  as  they  are  mischiev- 
ous, so  end  they  infortunate. 

V.     OF   ADVERSITY    " 

It  was  an  high  speech  of  Seneca  (after  the 
manner  of  the  Stoics),  that  the  good  things 
which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be  wished; 
but  the  good  things  that  belong  to  adversity  are 
to  be  admired.  Bona  rerum  secimdarum  op- 
tabilia;  adversarum  mirabilia.  Certainly  if 
miracles  be  the  command  over  nature,  they 
appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a  higher 
speech  of  his  than  the  other  (much  too  high 
for  a  heathen),  It  is  true  greatness  to  have  in 
one  the  frailty  of  a  man,  and  the  security  of  a 
God.  Vere  magnum  habere  fragilitatem  homi- 
nis,  seciiritatem  Dei.  This  would  have  done 
better    in    poesy,    where    transcendences    are 


more  allowed.  And  the  poets  indeed  have 
been  busy  with  it;  for  it  is  in  effect  the  thing 
which  is  figured  in  that  strange  fiction  of  the 
ancient  poets,  which  seemeth  not  to  be  with- 
out mystery;  nay,  and  to  have  some  approach 
to  the  state  of  a  Christian;  that  Hercules, 
when  he  went  to  unbind  Prometheus,  (by  whom 
human  nature  is  represented),  sailed  the  length 
of  the  great  ocean  in  an  earthen  pot  or  pitcher ; 
lively  describing  Christian  resolution,  that  sail- 
eth  in  the  frail  bark  of  the  flesh  thorough  the 
waves  of  the  world.  But  to  speak  in  a  mean.' 
The  virtue  of  Prosperity  is  temperance;  the 
virtue  of  Adversity  is  fortitude ;  which  in  morals 
is  the  more  heroical  virtue.  Prosperity  is  the 
blessing  of  the  Old  Testament;  Adversity  is 
the  blessing  of  the  New;  which  carrieth  the 
greater  benediction,  and  the  clearer  revelation 
of  God's  favour.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall 
hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols;  and 
the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  laboured 
more  in  describing  the  afilictions  of  Job  than 
the  felicities  of  Salomon.  Prosperity  is  not 
without  many  fears  and  distastes;  and  Adver- 
sity is  not  without  comforts  and  hopes.  We 
see  in  needle-works  and  embroideries,  it  is 
more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a 
sad  and  solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark 
and  melancholy  work  upon  a  lightsome  ground: 
judge  therefore  of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart  by 
the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is 
like  precious  odours,  most  fragrant  when  they 
are  incensed  or  crushed:  for  Prosperity  doth 
best  discover  vice,  but  Adversity  doth  best 
discover  virtue. 

VIII.     OF    MARRIAGE    AND    SINGLE    LIFE 

He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given 
hostages  to  fortune;  for  they  are  impediments 
to  great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  mis- 
chief. Certainly  the  best  works,  and  of  great- 
est merit  for  the  public,  have  proceeded  from 
the  unmarried  or  childless  men;  which  both 
in  affection  and  means  have  married  and  en- 
dowed the  public.  Yet  it  were  great  reason 
that  those  that  have  children  should  have 
greatest  care  of  future  times;  unto  which  they 
know  they  must  transmit  their  dearest  pledges. 
Some  there  are,  who  though  they  lead  a  single 
life,  yet  their  thoughts  do  end  with  themselves, 
and  account  future  times  impertinences.  Nay, 
there  are  some  other  that  account  wife  and 
children  but  as  bills  of  charges.     Nay  more, 

'  a  moderate  fashion 


ESSAYS 


77 


there  are  some  foolish  rich  covetous  men,  that 
take  a  pride  in  having  no  cliildren,   because 
they  may  be  thought  so  much  the  richer.     For 
perhaps  they  have  heard  some  talk,  Such  an 
one  is  a  great  rich  man,  and  another  except  to 
it,  Vea,  but  lie  hath  a  great  charge  of  children; 
as  if  it  were  an  abatement  to  his  riches.     But 
the  most  ordinary  cause  of  a  single  life  is  lib- 
erty,   especially    in    certain    self-pleasing    and 
humorous^   minds,   which   are   so  sensible   of 
every  restraint,  as  they  will  go  near  to  think 
their   girdles    and    garters    to    be    bonds    and 
shackles.     Unmarried    men   are    best    friends, 
best  masters,  best  servants;    but  not  always 
best  subjects;   for  they  are  light  to  run  away; 
and  almost  all  fugitives  are  of  that  condition. 
A  single  life  dotli  well  with  churchmen;    for 
charity  will  hardly  water  the  ground  where  it 
must  first  fill  a  pool.     It  is  indifferent  for  judges 
and  magistrates;   for  if  they  be  facile  and  cor- 
rupt, you  shall  have  a  servant  five  times  worse 
than  a  wife.     For  soldiers,  I  find  the  generals 
commonly  in  their  hortatives  put  men  in  mind 
of  their  wives  and  children;    and  I  think  the 
despising    of    marriage    amongst    the    Turks 
maketh   the  vulgar  soldier  more   base.  _  Cer- 
tainly wife  and  children  are  a  kind  of  discipline 
of   humanity;     and   single   men,    though   they 
may  be  many  times  more  charitable,  because 
their  means  are  less  exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other 
side,    they   are    more    cruel    and    hardhearted 
(good    to    make    severe    inquisitors),    because 
their   tenderness   is   not   so   oft   called   upon. 
Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore 
constant,  are  commonly  loving  husbands;    as 
was  said  of    Ulysses,  vctulam  suam  prcetulit 
immortalitati}     Chaste  women  are  often  proud 
and  froward,  as  presuming  upon  the  merit  of 
their  chastity.     It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds  both 
of  chastity  and  obedience  in  the  wife,  if  she 
think  her  husband  wise;   which  she  will  never 
do  if  she  find  him  jealous.     Wives  are  young 
men's  mistresses;   companions  for  middle  age; 
and  old  men's  nurses.     So  as  a  man  may  have 
a  quarreP  to  marry  when  he  will.     But  yet 
he  was  reputed  one  of  the  wise  men,  that  made 
answer  to  the  question,  when  a  man  should 
marry?     A  young  man  not  yet,  an  elder  man 
not  at  all.     It  is  often  seen  that  bad  husbands 
have  very  good  wives;    whether  it  be  that  it 
raiseth  the  price  of  their  husband's  kindness 
when  it  comes;   or  that  the  wives  take  a  pride 
in  their  patience.     But  this  never  fails,  if  the 

'  notionato      ^  jje  preferred  his  old  wife  to  immor- 
tality.       ^  reason 


bad  husbands  were  of  their  own  choosing, 
against  their  friends'  consent;  for  then  they 
will  be  sure  to  make  good  their  own  folly. 

X.     OF   LOVE 

The  stage  is  more  beholding  to  Love,  than 
the  life  of  man.     For  as  to  the  stage,  love  is 
ever  matter  of  comedies,  and  now  and  then  of 
tragedies;    but  in  life  it  doth  much  mischief; 
sometimes  like  a  syren,  sometimes  like  a  fury. 
You  may  observe,  that  amongst  all  the  great 
and  worthy  persons  (whereof  the  memory  re- 
maineth,  either  ancient  or  recent)  there  is  not 
one  that  hath   been   transported  to  the  mad 
degree  of  love:    which  shows  that  great  spirits 
and  great  business  do  keep  out  this  weak  j)as- 
sion.     You  must  except,  nevertheless,  Marcus 
Antonius,   the  half  partner  of  the  empire  of 
Rome,    and    Appius    Claudius,    the    decemvir 
and  law-giver ;   whereof  the  former  was  indeed 
a  voluptuous  man,   and   inordinate;    but  the 
latter  was  an  austere  and  wise  man :  and  there- 
fore it  seems  (though  rarely)  that  love  can  find 
entrance  not  only  into  an  open  heart,  but  also 
into  a  heart  well  fortified,  if  watch  be  not  well 
kept.     It  is  a  poor  saying  of  Epicurus,  Satis 
magnum  alter   alteri  thealrum   sumus;  ^    as   if 
man,  made  for  the  contemplation  of  heaven 
and  all  noble  objects,  should  do  nothing  but 
kneel  before  a  little  idol,  and  make  himself  a 
subject,  though  not  of  the  mouth  (as  beasts 
are),  yet  of  the  eye;   which  was  given  him  for 
higher  purposes.     It  is  a  strange  thing  to  note 
the  excess  of  this  passion,  and  how  it  braves 
the  nature  and  value  of  things,  by  this;    that 
the  speaking  in  a  perpetual  hyperbole  is  comely 
in  nothing  but  in  love.     Neither  is  it  merely 
in  the  phrase;    for  whereas  it  hath  been  well 
said  that  the  arch-flatterer,  with  whom  all  the 
petty   flatterers  have  intelligence,   is  a  man's 
self;    certainly  the  lover  is  more.     For  there 
was  never  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well 
of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of  the  person  loved; 
and  therefore  it  was  well  said.  That  it  is  im- 
possible to  love  and  to  be  wise.     Neither  doth 
this  weakness  appear  to  others  only,  and  not 
to  the  party  loved ;  but  to  the  loved  most  of  all, 
except   the   love   be   reciproque.     For  it   is  a 
true  rule,  that  love  is  ever  rewarded  either  with 
the  reciproque  or  with  an  inward  and  secret 
contempt.     By  how  much  the  more  m,en  ought 
to  beware  of'  this  passion,   which   loseth   not 
only  other  things,  but  itself.     As  for  the  other 

'  Each  is  to  other  a  theater  large  enough. 


78 


FRANCIS    BACON 


losses,  the  poet's  relation  doth  well  figure  them ; 
That  he  that  preferred  Helena,  quitted  the  gifts 
of  Juno  and  Pallas.  For  whosoever  esteemeth 
too  much  of  amorous  affection  quitteth  both 
riches  and  wisdom.  This  passion  hath  his 
floods  in  the  very  times  of  weakness;  which 
are  great  prosperity  and  great  adversity;  though 
tliis  latter  hath  been  less  observed :  both  which 
times  kindle  love,  and  make  it  more  fervent, 
and  therefore  show  it  to  be  the  child  of  folly. 
They  do  best,  who  if  they  cannot  but  admit 
love,  yet  make  it  keep  quarter;  and  sever  it 
wholly  from  their  serious  affairs  and  actions 
of  life;  for  if  it  check  once  with  business,  it 
troubleth  men's  fortunes,  and  maketh  men  that 
they  can  no  ways  be  true  to  their  own  ends.  I 
know  not  how,  but  martial  men  are  given  to 
love:  I  think  it  is  but  as  they  are  given  to  wine ; 
for  perils  commonly  ask  to  be  paid  in  pleasures. 
There  is  in  man's  nature  a  secret  inclination 
and  motion  towards  love  of  others,  which  if  it 
be  not  spent  upon  some  one  or  a  few,  doth 
naturally  spread  itself  towards  many,  and 
maketh  men  become  humane  and  charitable; 
as  it  is  seen  sometime  in  friars.  Nuptial  love 
maketh  mankind;  friendly  love  perfecteth 
it;  but  wanton  love  corrupteth  and  embaseth 
it. 

XI.     OF    GREAT    PLACE 

Men  in  great  place  are  thrice  servants:  ser- 
vants of  the  sovereign  or  state;  servants  of 
fame;  and  servants  of  business.  So  as  they 
have  no  freedom;  neither  in  their  persons, 
nor  in  their  actions,  nor  in  their  times.  It  is 
a  strange  desire,  to  seek  power  and  to  lose 
liberty:  or  to  seek  power  over  others  and  to 
lose  power  over  a  man's  self.  The  rising  unto 
place  is  laborious;  and  by  pains  men  come  to 
greater  pains;  and  it  is  sometimes  base;  and 
by  indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The 
standing  is  slippery,  and  the  regress  is  either 
a  downfall,  or  at  least  an  eclipse,  which  is  a 
melancholy  thing.  Cum  non  sis  qui  fucris, 
non  esse  cur  velis  vivere}  Nay,  retire  men 
cannot  when  they  would,  neither  will  they 
when  it  were  reason;  but  are  impatient  of 
privateness,  even  in  age  and  sickness,  which 
require  the  shadow;  like  old  townsmen,  that 
will  be  still  sitting  at  their  street  door,  though 
thereby  they  offer  age  to  scorn.  Certainly 
great  persons  had  need  to  borrow  other  men's 
opinions,   to  think  themselves  happy;    for  if 

'  When  you  are  no  longer  what  you  were,  there  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  wish  to  live. 


they  judge  by  their  own  feeling,  they  cannot 
find  it :  but  if  they  think  with  themselves  what 
other  men  think  of  them,  and  that  other  men 
would  fain  be  as  they  are,  then  they  are  happy 
as  it  were  by  report;  when  perhaps  they  find 
the  contrary  within.  For  they  are  the  first 
that  find  their  own  griefs,  though  they  be  the 
last  that  find  their  own  faults.  Certainly  men 
in  great  fortunes  are  strangers  to  themselves, 
and  while  they  are  in  the  puzzle  of  business 
they  have  no  time  to  tend  their  health  either  of 
body  or  mind.  Illi  mors  gravis  inciibat,  qui 
notus  nimis  omnibus,  ignotus  moritur  sibi} 
In  place  there  is  license  to  do  good  and  evil; 
whereof  the  latter  is  a  curse:  for  in  evil  the 
best  condition  is  not  to  will;  the  second  not 
to  can.  But  power  to  do  good  is  the  true  and 
lawful  end  of  aspiring.  For  good  thoughts 
(though  God  accept  them)  yet  towards  men 
are  litile  better  than  good  dreams,  except  they 
be  put  in  act;  and  that  cannot  be  without  power 
and  place,  as  the  vantage  and  commanding 
ground.  Merit  and  good  works  is  the  end  of 
man's  motion;  and  conscience  of  the  same  is 
the  accomplishment  of  man's  rest.  For  if  a 
man  can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre,  he  shall 
likewise  be  partaker  of  God's  rest.  Et  con- 
versus  Dcus,  ut  aspiceret  opera  quce  fecerunt 
manus  sua,  vidit  quod  omnia  essent  bona 
nimis, -"^  and  then  the  Sabbath.  In  the  dis- 
charge of  thy  place  set  before  thee  the  best 
examples;  for  imitation  is  a  globe  ^  of  precepts. 
And  after  a  time  set  before  thee  thine  own 
example ;  and  examine  thyself  strictly  whether 
thou  didst  not  best  at  first.  Neglect  not  also 
the  examples  of  those  that  have  carried  them- 
selves ill  in  the  same  place;  not  to  set  oflf  thy- 
self by  taxing  their  memory,  but  to  direct  thy- 
self what  to  avoid.  Reform  therefore,  without 
bravery  or  scandal  of  former  times  and  persons; 
but  yet  set  it  down  to  thyself  as  well  to  create 
good  precedents  as  to  follow  them.  Reduce 
things  to  the  first  institution,  and  observe 
wherein  and  how  they  have  degenerate;  but 
yet  ask  counsel  of  both  times;  of  the  ancient 
time,  what  is  best;  and  of  the  latter  time, 
what  is  fittest.  Seek  to  make  thy  course  regu- 
lar, that  men  may  know  beforehand  what  they 
may  expect ;  but  be  not  too  positive  and  peremp- 
tory; and  express  thyself  well  when  thou  di- 
gressest  from  thy  rule.     Preserve  the  right  of 

'  It  is  a  sad  fate  for  a  man  to  die  too  well  known  to 
everybody  else,  and  still  unknown  to  himself.  ^  And 
God  turned  to  look  upon  the  works  which  his  hands 
had  made,  and  saw  that  all  were  very  good.       ^  world 


ESSAYS 


79 


thy  place;    but  stir  not  questions  of  jurisdic- 
tion:   and  rather  assume  thy  right  in  silence 
and  de  facto,  than  voice  it  with  claims  and  chal- 
lenges.    Preserve  likewise  the  rights  of  inferior 
places;    and  think  it  more  honour  to  direct  in 
chief  than  to  be  busy  in  all.     f^mbrace  and 
invite  helps  and  advices  touching  the  execu- 
tion of  thy  place ;   and  do  not  drive  away  such 
as  bring  thee  information,  as  meddlers;    but 
accept  of  them  in  good  part.     The  vices  of 
authority  are  chiefly  four;    delays,  corruption, 
roughness,    and    facility.     For    delays;     give 
easy  access;  keep  times  appointed;  go  through 
with  that  which  is  in  hand,  and  interlace  not 
business    but    of    necessity.     For    corruption; 
do  not  only  bind  thine  own  hands  or  thy  ser- 
vants' hands  from  taking,  but  bind  the  hands 
of  suitors   also   from   offering.     For   integrity 
used  doth  the  one;    but  integrity  professed, 
and   with   a  manifest   detestation  of   bribery, 
doth  the  other.     And  avoid  not  only  the  fault, 
but  the  suspicion.     Whosoever  is  found  vari- 
able, and  changeth  manifestly  without  manifest 
cause,  giveth  suspicion  of  corruption.     There- 
fore always  when  thou  changest  thine  opinion 
or  course,   profess  it  plainly,   and  declare  it, 
together  with  the  reasons  that  move  thee  to 
change;    and  do  not  think  to  steal  it.     A  ser- 
vant or  a  favourite,  if  he  be  inward,'  and  no 
other  apparent  cause  of  esteem,  is  commonly 
thought  but  a  by-way  to  close  corruption.     For 
roughness ;  it  is  a  needless  cause  of  discontent : 
severity  breedeth  fear,  but  roughness  breedeth 
hate.     Even  reproofs  from  authority  ought  to 
be  grave,  and  not  taunting.     As  for  facility;   it 
is  worse  than  bribery.     For  bribes  come  but 
.now  and  then;    but  if  importunity  or  idle  re- 
spects lead  a  man,  he  shall  never  be  without. 
As  Salomon   saith.    To  respect  persons  is  not 
good;  for  such  a  man  will  transgress  for  a  piece 
of  bread.     It  is  most  true  that  was  anciently 
spoken,   A    place  showeth   the  man.     And   it 
showeth  some  to  the  better,  and  some  to  the 
worse.     Omnium  consensu  capax  imperii,  nisi 
imperasset^   saith  Tacitus  of  Galba;    but  of 
Vespasian  he  saith.  Solus  impcrantium,   Ves- 
pasianus  mutatus  in  melius:^  though  the  one 
was  meant  of  sufficiency,  the  other  of  manners 
and    affection.     It   is   an    assured   sign   of   a 
worthy    and    generous    spirit,    whom    honour 
amends.     For   honour   is,    or   should   be,    the 
place  of  virtue ;    and  as  in  nature  things  move 

1  intimate  ^  A  man  whom  everybody  would  have 
thought  fit  for  empire  if  he  had  not  been  emperor. 
'  He  was  the  only  emperor  whom  the  possession  of 
power  changed  for  the  better. 


violently  to  their  place  and  calmly  in  their 
place,  so  virtue  in  ambition  is  violent,  in  author- 
ity settled  and  calm.  All  rising  to  great  place 
is  by  a  winding  stair;  and  if  there  be  factions, 
it  is  good  to  side  a  man's  self  whilst  he  is  in  the 
rising,  and  to  l)alancc  himself  when  he  is  placed. 
Use  the  memory  of  thy  predecessor  fairly  and 
tenderly;  for  if  thou  dost  not,  it  is  a  debt  will 
sure  be  paid  when  thou  art  gone.  If  thou  have 
colleagues,  resp>ect  them,  and  rather  call  them 
when  they  look  not  for  it,  than  exclude  them 
when  they  have  reason  to  look  to  be  called. 
Be  not  too  sensible  or  too  remembering  of  thy 
place  in  conversation  and  private  answers  to 
suitors;  but  let  it  rather  be  said,  When  he  sits 
in  place  he  is  another  man. 

XVI.     OF    ATHEISM 

I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the 
Legend,  and  the  Talmud,  and  the  Alcoran, 
than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without  a 
mind.  And  therefore  God  never  wrought 
miracle  to  convince  atheism,  because  his  ordi- 
nary works  convince  it.  It  is  true,  that  a  little 
philosophy  inclineth  man's  mind  to  atheism; 
but  depth  in  philosophy  bringeth  men's  minds 
about  to  religion.  For  while  the  mind  of  man 
looketh  upon  second  causes  scattered,  it  may 
sometimes  rest  in  them,  and  go  no  further; 
but  when  it  beholdeth  the  chain  of  them,  con- 
federate and  linked  together,  it  must  needs 
fly  to  Providence  and  Deity.  Nay,  even  that 
school  which  is  most  accused  of  atheism  doth 
most  demonstrate  religion;  that  is,  the  school 
of  Leucippus  and  Democritus  and  Epicurus. 
For  it  is  a  thousand  times  more  credible,  that 
four  mutable  elements,  and  one  immutable 
fifth  essence,  duly  and  eternally  placed,  need 
no  God,  than  that  an  army  of  infinite  small 
portions  or  seeds  unplaced,  should  have  pro- 
duced this  order  and  beauty  without  a  divine 
marshal.  The  Scripture  saith.  The  fool  hath 
said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God;  it  is  not  said. 
The  fool  hath  thought  in  his  heart;  so  as  he 
rather  saith  it  by  rote  to  himself,  as  that  he 
would  have,  than  that  he  can  throughly  believe 
it,  or  be  persuaded  of  it.  For  none  deny  there 
is  a  God,  but  those  for  whom  it  maketh '  that 
there  were  no  God.  It  appeareth  in  nothing 
more,  that  atheism  is  rather  in  the  lip  than  in 
the  heart  of  man,  than  by  this;  that  atheists 
will  ever  be  talking  of  that  their  opinion,  as 
if  they  fainted   in   it  within   themselves,   and 

'  would  be  advantageous 


8o 


FR.\NCIS    BACON 


would  be  glad  to  be  strengthened  by  the  consent 
of  others.  Nay  more,  you  shall  have  atheists 
strive  to  get  disciples,  as  it  fareth  witla  other 
sects.  And,  which  is  mo^t  of  all,  you  shall 
have  of  them  that  will  suffer  for  atheism,  and 
not  recant;  whereas  if  they  did  truly  think 
that  there  were  no  such  thing  as  God,  why 
should  they  trouble  themselves?  Epicurus 
is  charged  that  he  did  but  dissemble  for  his 
credit's  sake,  when  he  affirmed  there  were 
blessed  natures,  but  such  as  enjoyed  themselves 
without  having  respect  to  the  government  of 
the  world.  Wherein  they  say  he  did  tempo- 
rise; though  in  secret  he  thought  there  was 
no  God.  But  certainly  he  is  traduced;  for 
his  words  are  noble  and  divine:  K'on  Deos 
vulgi  iifgare  profanum ;  sed  vidgi  opiniones 
Diis  applkare  profanum}  Plato  could  have 
said  no  more.  And  although  he  had  the  con- 
fidence to  deny  the  administration,  he  had  not 
the  power  to  deny  the  nature.  The  Indians 
of  the  west  have  names  for  their  particular  gods, 
though  they  have  no  name  for  God:  as  if  the 
heathens  should  have  had  the  names  Jupiter, 
Apollo,  Mars,  etc.,  but  not  the  word  Dens ; 
which  shows  that  even  those  barbarous  people 
have  the  notion,  though  they  have  not  the  lati- 
tude and  extent  of  it.  So  that  against  atheists  . 
the  ver}'  savages  take  part  with  the  ven,-  subtlest 
philosophers.  The  contemplative  atheist  is 
rare:  a  Diagoras,  a  Bion,  a  Lucian  perhaps, 
and  some  others ;  and  yet  they  seem  to  be  more 
than  they  are;  for  that  all  that  impugn  a  re- 
ceived religion  or  superstition  are  by  the  ad- 
verse part  branded  with  the  name  of  atheists. 
But  the  great  atheists  indeed  are  hypocrites; 
which  are  ever  handling  holy  things,  but  with- 
out feeling;  so  as  they  must  needs  be  cauterised 
in  the  end.  The  causes  of  atheism  are:  divi- 
sions in  religion,  if  they  be  many;  for  any  one 
main  division  addeth  zeal  to  both  sides;  but 
many  divisions  introduce  atheism.  Another  is, 
scandal  of  priests;  when  it  is  come  to  that 
which  St.  Bernard  saith,  Non  est  jam  dkere,  ut 
popidus  sic  sacerdos;  quia  nee  sic  populus  ut 
saeerdos?  A  third  is,  custom  of  profane  scof- 
fing in  holy  matters;  which  doth  by  little  and 
little  deface  the  reverence  of  religion.  And 
lastly,  learned  times,  specially  with  peace  and 
prosperity;     for   troubles   arid   adversities   do 


*  There  is  no  profanity  in  refusing  to  believe  in  the 
Gods  of  the  vulgar;  the  profanity  is  in  believing  of 
the  Gods  what  the  ^^llgar  believe  of  them.  2  Qj,g 
cannot  now  say,  the  priest  is  as  the  people,  for  the 
truth  is  that  the  people  are  not  so  bad  as  the  priest. 


more  bow  men's  minds  to  religion.  They  that 
denv  a  God  destroy  man's  nobility;  for  cer- 
tainly man  is  of  kin  to  the  beasts  by  his  body; 
and,  if  he  be  not  of  kin  to  God  by  his  spirit, 
he  is  a  base  and  ignoble  creature.  It  destroys 
likewise  magnanimity,  and  the  raising  of  human 
nature;  for  take  an  example  of  a  dog,  and  mark 
what  a  generosity  and  courage  he  will  put  on 
when  he  finds  himself  maintained  by  a  man; 
who  to  him  is  instead  of  a  God,  oxmeliornatura  ,■' 
which  courage  is  manifestly  such  as  that  crea- 
ture, without  that  confidence  of  a  better  nature 
than  his  own,  could  never  attain.  So  man, 
when  he  resteth  and  assureth  himself  upon 
divine  protection  and  favour,  gathereth  a  force 
and  faith  which  human  nature  in  itself  could 
not  obtain.  Therefore,  as  atheism  is  in  all 
respects  hateful,  so  in  this,  that  it  depriveth 
human  nature  of  the  means  to  exalt  itself  above 
human  frailty.  As  it  is  in  particular  persons, 
so  it  is  in  nations.  Never  was  there  such  a 
state  for  magnanimity  as  Rome.  Of  this  state 
hear  what  Cicero  saith:  Qiiam  volumus  licet, 
patres  conscripti,  nos  amemus,  iamen  nee  nu- 
mero  Hispanos,  ncc  robore  Gallos,  nee  ealli- 
ditate  Poenos,  nee  artibus  Grceeos,  nee  denique 
hoc  ipso  hiijiis  gentis  et  terrce  domestico  nati- 
voque  sensu  I  talcs  ipsos  et  Latinos;  sed  pictate, 
ac  religione,  atque  hac  unn  sapientia,  quod  De- 
orum  immortalium  nuniin^  omnia  regi  guber- 
narique  perspeximus,  omnes  gentes  nationesque 
superavimus? 


XXIII.     OF   WISDOM    FOR   A    MAX'S    SELF 

An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but  it  is 
a  shrewd  ^  thing  in  an  orchard  or  garden.  And 
certainly  men  that  are  great  lovers  of  them- 
selves waste  the  public.  Divide  with  reason 
between  self-love  and  society;  and  be  so  true 
to  thyself,  as  thou  be  not  false  to  others;  spe- 
cially to  thy  king  and  country.  It  is  a  poer 
centre  of  a  man's  actions,  himself.     It  is  right  * 


'  a  higher  being  2  priJe  ourselves  as  we  may 

upon  our  country,  yet  are  we  not  in  number  superior 
to  the  Spaniards,  nor  in  strength  to  the  Gauls,  nor  in 
cunning  to  the  Carthaginians,  nor  to  the  Greeks  in 
arts,  nor  to  the  Italians  and  Latins  themselves  in 
the  homely  and  native  sense  which  belongs  to  this 
nation  and  land;  it  is  in  piety  only  and  religion,  and 
the  wisdom  of  regarding  the  providence  of  the  Im- 
mortal Gods  as  that  which  rules  and  governs  all 
things,  that  we  have  surpassed  all  nations  and 
peoples.       « bad       *  very 


ESSAYS 


earth.  For  that '  only  stands  fast  u[X)n  his 
own  centre;  whereas  all  things  that  have  affin- 
ity with  the  heavens,  move  upon  the  centre  of 
another,  which  they  benefit.  The  referring  of 
all  to  a  man's  self  is  more  tolerable  in  a  sover- 
eign prince;  because  themselves  are  not  only 
themselves,  but  their  good  and  evil  is  at  the 
peril  of  the  public  fortune.  But  it  is  a  des- 
perate evil  in  a  servant  to  a  prince,  or  a  citizen 
in  a  republic.  For  whatsoever  affairs  pass 
such  a  man's  hands,  he  crooketh  them  to  his 
own  ends;  which  must  needs  be  often  eccen- 
tric to  ^  the  ends  of  his  master  or  state.  There 
fore  let  princes,  or  states,  choose  such  servants 
as  have  nf)t  this  mark;  except  they  mean  their 
service  should  be  made  but  the  accessary. 
That  which  maketh  the  effect  more  pernicious 
is  that  all  proportion  is  lost.  It  were  dispro- 
portion enough  for  the  servant's  good  to  be 
preferred  before  the  master's;  but  yet  it  is  a 
greater  extreme,  when  a  little  good  of  the  ser- 
vant shall  carry  things  against  a  great  good  of 
the  master's.  And  yet  that  is  the  case  of  bad 
officers,  treasurers,  ambassadors,  generals,  and 
other  false  and  corrupt  servants;  which  set  a 
bias '  upon  their  bowl,  of  their  own  petty  ends 
and  envies,  to  the  overthrow  of  their  master's 
great  and  important  affairs.  And  for  the  most 
part,  the  good  such  servants  receive  is  after  the 
model  of  their  own  fortune;  but  the  hurt  they 
sell  for  that  good  is  after  the  model  of  their 
master's  fortune.  And  certainly  it  is  the  nature 
of  extreme  self-lovers,  as  they  will  set  an  house 
on  fire,  and  it  were  but  to  roast  their  eggs;  and 
yet  these  men  many  times  hold  credit  with 
their  masters,  because  their  study  is  but  to 
please  them  and  profit  themselves;  and  for 
either  respect  they  will  abandon  the  good  of 
their  affairs. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many  branches 
thereof,  a  depraved  thing.  It  is  the  wisdom  of 
rats,  that  will  be  sure  to  leave  a  house  some- 
what before  it  fall.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  the  fox, 
that  thrusts  out  the  badger,  who  digged  and 
made  room  for  him.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  croco- 
diles, that  shed  tears  when  they  would  devour. 
But  that  which  is  specially  to  be  noted  is,  that 
those  which  (as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey)  are 
siii  amantes,  sine  rivali,''  are  many  times  un- 
fortunate. And  whereas  they  have  all  their 
time  sacrificed  to  themselves,  they  become  in 


^  the  earth,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic  theory 
2  not  having  the  same  center  as  ''a  weight  placed 
on  a  howl  to  make  it  take  a  curved  course  *  lovers  of 
themselves  without  rival 


the  end  themselves  sacrifices  to  the  inconstancy 
of  fortune;  whose  wings  they  thought  by  their 
self-wisdom  to  have  pinioned. 

XXV.     OF    DISPATCH 

Affected  dispatch  is  one  of  the  most  danger- 
ous things  to  business  that  can  be.  It  is  like 
that  which  the  physicians  call  predigestion,  or 
hasty  digestion;  which  is  sure  to  fill  the  body 
full  of  crudities  and  secret  seeds  of  diseases. 
Therefore  measure  not  dispatch  by  the  times  of 
sitting,  but  by  the  advancement  of  the  business. 
And  as  in  races  it  is  not  the  large  stride  or  high 
lift  that  makes  the  speed;  so  in  business,  the 
keeping  close  to  the  matter,  and  not  taking  of 
it  too  much  at  once,  procureth  dispatch.  It 
is  the  care  of  some  only  to  come  off  speedily 
for  the  time;  or  to  contrive  some  false  periods 
of  business,  because  '  they  may  seem  men  of 
dispatch.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  abbreviate 
by  contracting,  another  by  cutting  off.  And 
business  so  handled  at  several  sittings  or  meet- 
ings goeth  commonly  backward  and  forward 
in  an  unsteady  manner.  I  knew  a  wise  man 
that  had  it  for  a  by-word,  when  he  saw  men 
hasten  to  a  conclusion,  Stay  a  Utile,  that  we 
may  make  an  end  the  sooner. 

On  the  other  side,  true  dispatch  is  a  rich 
thing.  For  time  is  the  measure  of  business,  as 
money  is  of  wares;  and  business  is  bought  at 
a  dear  hand  where  there  is  small  dispatch. 
The  Spartans  and  Spaniards  have  been  noted 
to  be  of  small  dispatch;  Mi  venga  la  niuerte 
de  Spagna;  Let  my  death  come  from  Spain; 
for  then  it  will  be  sure  to  be  long  in  coming. 

Give  good  hearing  to  those  that  give  the  first 
information  in  business;  and  rather  direct 
them  in  the  beginning,  than  interrupt  them  in 
the  continuance  of  their  speeches;  for  he  that 
is  put  out  of  his  own  order  will  go  forward  and 
backward,  and  be  more  tedious  while  he  waits 
upon  his  memory,  than  he  could  have  been  if 
he  had  gone  on  in  his  own  course.  But  some- 
times it  is  seen  that  the  moderator^  is  more 
troublesome  than  the  actor.^ 

Iterations  are  commonly  loss  of  time.  But 
there  is  no  such  gain  of  time  as  to  iterate  often 
the  state  of  the  question;  for  it  chaseth  away 
many  a  frivolous  speech  as  it  is  coming  forth. 
Long  and  curious ''  speeches  are  as  fit  for  dis- 
patch, as  a  robe  or  mantle  with  a  long  train  is 
for  race.     Prefaces  and  passages,  and  excusa- 

>  in  order  that  ^  the  director  of  the  talk  °  the 
speaker     ^  elaborate 


82 


FRANCIS    BACON 


tions,  and  other  speeches  of  reference  to  the 
person,  are  great  wastes  of  time;  and  though 
they  seem  to  proceed  of  modesty,  they  are  brav- 
ery.' Yet  beware  of  lieing  too  material  ^  when 
there  is  any  impediment  or  obstruction  in  men's 
wills;  for  pre-occupation  of  mind  ever  re- 
quireth  preface  of  speech ;  like  a  fomentation 
to  make  the  unguent  enter. 

Above  all  things,  order,  and  distribution, 
and  singling  out  of  parts,  is  the  life  of  dispatch ; 
so  as  the  distribution  be  not  too  subtle:  for 
he  that  doth  not  divide  will  never  enter  well 
into  business;  and  he  that  divideth  too  much 
will  never  come  out  of  it  clearly.  To  choose 
time  is  to  save  time;  and  an  unseasonable 
motion  is  but  beating  the  air.  There  be  three 
parts  of  business;  the  preparation,  the  debate 
or  examination,  and  the  perfection.  Whereof, 
if  you  look  for  dispatch,  let  the  middle  only 
be  the  work  of  many,  and  the  first  and  last  the 
work  of  few.  The  proceeding  upon  somewhat 
conceived  in  writing  doth  for  the  most  part 
facilitate  dispatch:  for  though  it  should  be 
wholly  rejected,  yet  that  negative  is  more  preg- 
nant of  direction  than  an  indefinite;  as  ashes 
are  more  generative  than  dust. 

XXVII.     OF    FRIENDSHIP 

It  had  been  hard  for  him  that  spake  it  to 
have  put  more  truth  and  untruth  together  in 
few  words,  than  in  that  speech.  Whosoever  is 
delighted  in  solitude  is  either  a  wild  beast  or  a 
god.  For  it  is  most  true  that  a  natural  and 
secret  hatred  and  aversation  towards  society  in 
any  man,  hath  somewhat  of  the  savage  beast; 
but  it  is  most  untrue  that  it  should  have  any 
character  at  all  of  the  divine  nature;  except  it 
proceed,  not  out  of  a  pleasure  in  solitude,  but 
out  of  a  love  and  desire  to  sequester  a  man's 
self  for  a  higher  conversation:  such  as  is  found 
to  have  been  falsely  and  feignedly  in  some 
of  the  heathen;  as  Epimenides  the  Candian, 
Numa  the  Roman,  Empedocles  the  Sicihan, 
and  Apollonius  of  Tyana;  and  truly  and  really 
in  divers  of  the  ancient  hermits  and  holy  fa- 
thers of  the  church.  But  little  do  men  perceive 
what  solitude  is,  and  how  far  it  extendeth. 
For  a  crowd  is  not  company;  and  faces  are  but 
a  gallery  of  pictures;  and  talk  but  a  tinkling 
cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love.  The  Latin 
adage  meeteth  with  it  a  little:  Magna  civitas, 
magna solitudo,^  because  in  a  great  town  friends 

»  ostentation  2  insistent  upon  the  business  s  ^ 
great  town  is  a  great  solitude. 


are  scattered;  so  that  there  is  not  that  fellow- 
ship, for  the  most  part,  which  is  in  less  neigh- 
bourhoods. But  we  may  go  further,  and  affirm 
most  truly  that  it  is  a  mere  and  miserable  soli- 
tude to  want  true  friends;  without  which  the 
world  is  but  a  wilderness;  and  even  in  this 
sense  also  of  solitude,  whosoever  in  the  franie 
of  his  nature  and  affections  is  unfit  for  friend- 
ship, he  taketh  it  of  the  beast,  and  not  from 
humanity. 

A  principal  fruit  of  friendship  is  the  ease 
and  discharge  of  the  fulness  and  swellings  of 
the  heart,  which  passions  of  all  kinds  do  cause 
and  induce.  We  know  diseases  of  stoppings 
and  suffocations  are  the  most  dangerous  in 
the  body;  and  it  is  not  much  otherwise  in  the 
mind;  you  may  take  sarza  to  open  the  liver, 
steel  to  open  the  spleen,  flowers  of  sulphur  for 
the  lungs,  castoreum  for  the  brain;  but  no 
receipt '  openeth  the  heart,  but  a  true  friend ; 
to  whom  you  may  impart  griefs,  joys,  fears, 
hopes,  suspicions,  counsels,  and  whatsoever 
lieth  upon  the  heart  to  oppress  it,  in  a  kind 
of  civil  ^  shrift  or  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  observe  how  high  a 
rate  great  kings  and  monarchs  do  set  upon 
this  fruit  of  friendship  whereof  we  speak:  so 
great,  as  they  purchase  it  many  times  at  the 
hazard  of  their  own  safety  and  greatness. 
For  princes,  in  regard  of  the  distance  of  their 
fortune  from  that  of  their  subjects  and  ser\'ants, 
cannot  gather  this  fruit,  except  (to  make  them- 
selves capable  thereof)  they  raise  some  persons 
to  be  as  it  were  companions  and  almost  equals 
to  themselves,  which  many  times  sorteth  to^ 
inconvenience.  The  modern  languages  give 
unto  such  persons  the  name  of  favourites,  or 
privadoes;^  as  if  it  were  matter  of  grace,  or 
conversation.  But  the  Roman  name  attaineth 
the  true  use  and  cause  thereof,  naming  them 
participes  cur  arum;  ^  for  it  is  that  which  tieth 
the  knot.  And  we  see  plainly  that  this  hath 
been  done,  not  by  weak  and  passionate  princes 
only,  but  by  the  wisest  and  most  politic  that 
ever  reigned;  who  have  oftentimes  joined  to 
themselves  some  of  their  servants;  whom  both 
themselves  have  called  friends,  and  allowed 
others  likewise  to  call  them  in  the  same  manner; 
using  the  word  which  is  received  between  pri- 
vate men. 

L.  Sylla,  when  he  commanded  Rome,  raised 
Pompey  (after  surnamed  the  Great)  to  that 
height,    that    Pompey    vaunted    himself    for 

■  recipe  2  non-religious  ^  results  in  *  intimates 
*  sharers  of  cares 


ESSAYS 


83 


Sylla's  over-match.  For  when  he  had  carried 
the  consulship  for  a  friend  of  his,  against  the 
pursuit  of  Sylla,  and  that  Sylla  did  a  htde 
resent  thereat,  and  began  to  speak  great, 
Pompey  turned  upon  him  again,  and  in  effect 
bade  him  be  quiet;  for  that  more  men  adored 
the  sun  rising  than  the  sun  setting.  With 
JuHus  Caesar,  Decimus  Brutus  had  obtained 
that  interest,  as  he  set  him  down  in  his  testa- 
ment for  heir  in  remainder  after  his  nephew. 
And  this  was  the  man  that  had  power  with 
him  to  draw  him  forth  to  his  death.  For  when 
Caesar  would  have  discharged  the  senate,  in 
regard  of  some  ill  presages,  and  specially  a 
dream  of  Calpurnia;  this  man  lifted  him  gently 
by  the  arm  out  of  his  chair,  telling  him  he  hoped 
he  would  not  dismiss  the  senate  till  his  wife 
had  dreamt  a  better  dream.  And  it  seemeth 
his  favour  was  so  great,  as  Antonius,  in  a  letter 
which  is  recited  verbatim  in  one  of  Cicero's 
Philippics,  calleth  him  venefica,  witch;  as  if 
he  had  enchanted  Caesar.  Augustus  raised 
Agrippa  (though  of  mean  birth)  to  that  height, 
as  when  he  consulted  with  Maecenas  about  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter  Julia,  Maecenas  took 
the  liberty  to  tell  him,  that  he  must  either  marry 
his  daughter  to  Agrippa,  or  take  away  his  life: 
there  was  no  third  way,  he  had  made  him  so 
great.  With  Tiberius  Caesar,  Sejanus  had 
ascended  to  that  height,  as  they  two  were 
termed  and  reckoned  as  a  pair  of  friends. 
Tiberius  in  a  letter  to  him  saith,  hac  pro 
amiciiia  nostra  non  occultavi;  ^  and  the  whole 
senate  dedicated  an  altar  to  Friendship,  as  to 
a  goddess,  in  respect  of  the  great  dearness  of 
friendship  between  them  two.  The  like  or 
more  was  between  Septimius  Severus  and 
Plautianus.  For  he  forced  his  eldest  son  to 
marry  the  daughter  of  Plautianus;  and  would 
often  maintain  Plautianus  in  doing  affronts  to 
his  son;  and  did  write  also  in  a  letter  to  the 
senate,  by  these  words:  /  love  the  man  so  well, 
as  I  wish  he  may  over-live  me.  Now  if  these 
princes  had  been  as  a  Trajan  or  a  Marcus 
Aurelius,  a  man  might  have  thought  that  this 
had  proceeded  of  an  abundant  goodness  of 
nature;  but  being  men  so  wise,  of  such  strength 
and  severity  of  mind,  and  so  extreme  lovers  of 
themselves,  as  all  these  were,  it  proveth  most 
plainly  that  they  found  their  own  felicity 
(though  as  great  as  ever  happened  to  mortal 
men)  but  as  an  half  piece,  except  they  mought 
have  a  friend  to  make  it  entire;  and  yet,  which 


'  These  things,  because  of  our  friendship,  I  have  not 
concealed  from  you. 


is  more,  they  were  princes  that  had  wives,  sons, 
nephews;  and  yet  all  these  could  not  supply 
the  comfort  of  friendship. 

It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  what  Commineus  ' 
observeth  of  his  first  master,  Duke  Charles  the 
Hardy;  namely,  that  he  would  communicate 
his  secrets  with  none;  and  least  of  all,  those 
secrets  which  troubled  him  most.  Whereupon 
he  goeth  on  and  saith  that  towards  his  lat- 
ter time  that  closeness  did  impair  and  a  little 
perish  his  understanding.  Surely  Commineus 
mought  have  made  the  same  judgment  also, 
if  it  had  pleased  him,  of  his  second  master, 
Lewis  the  Eleventh,  whose  closeness  was  indeed 
his  tormentor.  The  parable  of  Pythagoras  is 
dark,  but  true;  Cor  ne  edito:  Eat  not  the  heart. 
Certainly,  if  a  man  would  give  it  a  hard  phrase, 
those  that  want  friends  to  open  themselves  unto 
are  cannibals  of  their  own  hearts.  But  one 
thing  is  most  admirable  (wherewith  I  will 
conclude  this  first  fruit  of  friendship),  which 
is,  that  this  communicating  of  a  man's  self 
to  his  friend  works  two  contrary  effects;  for 
it  redoubleth  joys,  and  cutteth  griefs  in  halfs. 
For  there  is  no  man  that  imparteth  his  joys 
to  his  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  more:  and  no 
man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but 
he  grieveth  the  less.  So  that  it  is  in  truth  of 
operation  upon  a  man's  mind,  of  like  virtue 
as  the  alchemists  use  to  attribute  to  their  stone 
for  man's  body;  that  it  worketh  all  contrary 
effects,  but  still  to  the  good  and  benefit  of  nature. 
But  yet  without  praying  in  aid  '  of  alchemists, 
there  is  a  manifest  image  of  this  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature.  For  in  bodies,  union  strength- 
eneth  and  cherisheth  any  natural  action;  and 
on  the  other  side  weakeneth  and  dulleth  any 
violent  impression :   and  even  so  is  it  of  minds. 

The  second  fruit  of  friendship  is  healthful 
and  sovereign  for  the  understanding,  as  the 
first  is  for  the  affections.  For  friendship 
maketh  indeed  a  fair  day  in  the  affections,  from 
storm  and  tempests;  but  it  maketh  daylight 
in  the  understanding,  out 'of  darkness  and  con- 
fusion of  thoughts.  Neither  is  this  to  be  under- 
stood only  of  faithful  counsel,  which  a  man 
receiveth  from  his  friend;  but  before  you  come 
to  that,  certain  it  is  that  whosoever  hath  his 
mind  fraught  with  many  thoughts,  his  wits  and 
understanding  do  clarify  and  break  up,  in  the 
communicating  and  discoursing  with  another; 
he  to.sseth  his  thoughts  more  easily;  he  mar- 
shalleth  them  more  orderly;  he  seeth  how  they 
look  when  they  are  turned  into  words:   finally, 

'  Philippe  de  Commines      -  calling  in  as  advocates 


84 


FRANCIS   BACON 


he  waxeth  wiser  than  himself;  and  that  more 
by  an  hour's  discourse  than  by  a  day's  medi- 
tation. It  was  well  said  by  Themistocles  to 
the  king  of  Persia,  That  speech  was  like  cloth 
of  Arras,  opened  and  put  abroad;  whereby  the 
imagery  doth  appear  in  figure;  whereas  in 
thoughts  they  lie  but  as  in  packs.  Neither  is 
this  second  fruit  of  friendship,  in  opening  the 
understanding,  restrained  only  to  such  friends 
as  are  able  to  give  a  man  counsel;  (they  indeed 
are  best);  but  even  without  that,  a  man 
leameth  of  himself,  and  bringeth  his  own 
thoughts  to  light,  and  whetteth  his  wits  as 
against  a  stone,  which  itself  cuts  not.  In  a 
word,  a  man  were  better  relate  himself  to  a 
statua^  or  picture,  than  to  suffer  his  thoughts 
to  pass  in  smother. 

Add  now,  to  make  this  second  fruit  of  friend- 
ship complete,  that  other  point  which  lieth 
more  open  and  falleth  within  vulgar  observa- 
tion; which  is  faithful  counsel  from  a  friend. 
Heraclitus  saith  well  in  one  of  his  enigmas. 
Dry  light  is  ever  the  best.  And  certain  it  is, 
that  the  light  that  a  man  receiveth  by  counsel 
from  another,  is  drier  and  purer  than  that 
which  Cometh  from  his  own  understanding 
and  judgment;  which  is  ever  infused  and 
drenched  in  his  affections  and  customs.  So  as 
there  is  as  much  difference  between  the  counsel 
that  a  friend  giveth,  and  that  a  man  giveth 
himself,  as  there  is  between  the  counsel  of  a 
friend  and  of  a  flatterer.  For  there  is  no  such 
flatterer  as  is  a  man's  self;  and  there  is  no  such 
remedy  against  flattery  of  a  man's  self,  as  the 
liberty  of  a  friend.  Counsel  is  of  two  sorts: 
the  one  concerning  manners,  the  other  concern- 
ing business.  For  the  first,  the  best  preser- 
vative to  keep  the  mind  in  health  is  the  faith- 
ful admonition  of  a  friend.  The  calling  of  a 
man's  self  to  a  strict  account  is  a  medicine, 
sometime,  too  piercing  and  corrosive.  Read- 
ing good  books  of  morality  is  a  little  flat  and 
dead.  Observing  our  faults  in  others  is  some- 
times unproper  for  our  case.  But  the  best 
receipt  (best,  I  say,  to  work,  and  best  to  take) 
is  the  admonition  of  a  friend.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  to  behold  what  gross  errors  and  extreme 
absurdities  many  (especially  of  the  greater 
sort)  do  commit,  for  want  of  a  friend  to  tell 
them  of  them ;  to  the  great  damage  both  of  their 
fame  and  fortune:  for,  as  St.  James  saith, 
they  are  as  men  that  look  sometimes  into  a  glass, 
and  presently  forget  their  own  shape  and  favour. 
As  for  business,  a  man  may  think,  if  he  will, 

'  statue 


that  two  eyes  see  no  more  than  one;  or  that  a 
gamester  seeth  always  more  than  a  looker-on; 
or  that  a  man  in  anger  is  as  wise  as  he  that  hath 
said  over  the  four  and  twenty  letters;  or  that 
a  musket  may  be  shot  oflf  as  well  upon  the  arm 
as  upon  a  rest;  and  such  other  fond  and  high 
imaginations,  to  think  himself  all  in  all.  But 
when  all  is  done,  the  help  of  good  counsel  is 
that  which  setteth  business  straight.  And  if 
any  man  think  that  he  will  take  counsel,  but  it 
shall  be  by  pieces;  asking  counsel  in  one  busi- 
ness of  one  man,  and  in  another  business  of 
another  man ;  it  is  well,  (that  is  to  say,  better 
perhaps  than  if  he  asked  none  at  all;)  but  he 
runneth  two  dangers :  one,  that  he  shall  not  be 
faithfully  counselled;  for  it  is  a  rare  thing, 
except  it  be  from  a  perfect  and  entire  friend, 
to  have  counsel  given,  but  such  as  shall  be 
bowed  and  crooked  to  some  ends  which  he 
hath  that  giveth  it.  The  other,  that  he  shall 
have  counsel  given,  hurtful  and  unsafe,  (though 
with  good  meaning,)  and  mixed  partly  of 
mischief  and  partly  of  remedy;  even  as  if  you 
would  call  a  physician  that  is  thought  good 
for  the  cure  of  the  disease  you  complain  of, 
but  is  unacquainted  with  your  body;  and  there- 
fore may  put  you  in  way  for  a  present  cure, 
but  overthroweth  your  health  in  some  other 
kind;  and  so  cure  the  disease  and  kill  the 
patient.  But  a  friend  that  is  wholly  acquainted 
with  a  man's  estate  will  beware,  by  furthering 
any  present  business,  how  he  dasheth  upon 
other  inconvenience.  And  therefore  rest  not 
upon  scattered  counsels;  they  will  rather  dis- 
tract and  mislead,  than  settle  and  direct. 

After  these  two  noble  fruits  of  friendship 
(peace  in  the  affections,  and  support  of  the 
judgment)  followeth  the  last  fruit;  which 
is  like  the  pomegranate,  full  of  many  kernels; 
I  mean  aid  and  bearing  a  part  in  all  actions 
and  occasions.  Here  the  best  way  to  repre- 
sent to  life  the  manifold  use  of  friendship,  is 
to  cast  and  see  how  many  things  there  are  which 
a  man  cannot  do  himself;  and  then  it  will 
appear  that  it  was  a  sparing  speech  of  the  an- 
cients, to  say,  that  a  friend  is  another  himself; 
for  that  a  friend  is  far  more  than  himself. 
Men  have  their  time,  and  die  many  times  in 
desire  of  some  things  which  they  principally 
take  to  heart;  the  bestowing  of  a  child,  the 
finishing  of  a  work,  or  the  like.  If  a  man  have 
a  true  friend,  he  may  rest  almost  secure  that 
the  care  of  those  things  will  continue  after  him. 
So  that  a  man  hath,  as  it  were,  two  lives  in  his 
desires.  A  man  hath  a  body,  and  that  body 
is  confined  to  a  place;    but  where  friendship 


ESSAYS 


85 


is,  all  offices  of  life  are  as  it  were  granted  to  him 
and  his  deputy.  For  he  may  exercise  them 
by  his  friend.  How  many  things  are  there 
which  a  man  cannot,  with  any  face  or  comeli- 
ness, say  or  do  himself?  A  man  can  scarce 
allege  his  own  merits  with  modesty,  much  less 
extol  them ;  a  man  cannot  sometimes  brook 
to  supplicate  or  beg ;  and  a  number  of  the  like. 
But  all  these  things  are  graceful  in  a  friend's 
mouth,  which  are  blushing  in  a  man's  own. 
So  again,  a  man's  person  hath  many  proper 
relations  which  he  cannot  put  off.  A  man 
cannot  speak  to  his  son  but  as  a  father;  to  his 
wife  but  as  a  husband ;  to  his  enemy  but  upon 
terms:  whereas  a  friend  may  speak  as  the 
case  requires,  and  not  as  it  sorteth'  with  the 
person.  But  to  enumerate  these  things  were 
endless;  I  have  given  the  rule,  where  a  man 
cannot  fitly  play  his  own  part;  if  he  have  not 
a  friend,  he  may  quit  the  stage. 

XLII.     OF    YOUTH    AND    AGE 

A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in 
hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time.  But  that  hap- 
peneth  rarely.  Generally,  youth  is  like  the 
first  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as  the  second. 
For  there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts,  as  well  as  in 
ages.  And  yet  the  invention  of  young  men 
is  more  lively  than  that  of  old;  and  imagina- 
tions stream  into  their  minds  better,  and  as  it 
were  more  divinely.  Natures  that  have  much 
heat  and  great  and  violent  desires  and  pertur- 
bations, are  not  ripe  for  action  till  they  have 
passed  the  meridian  of  their  years;  as  it  was 
with  Julius  Caesar,  and  Septimius  Severus. 
Of  the  latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  Juventukm 
egit  errorihus,  imo  furoribus,  plenainr  And 
yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor,  almost,  of  all 
the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in 
youth.  As  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Caesar, 
Cosmus  Duke  of  Florence,  Gaston  de  Fois, 
and  others.  On  the  other  side,  heat  and  vivac- 
ity in  age  is  an  excellent  composition  for  busi- 
ness. Young  men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to 
judge;  fitter  for  execution  than  for  counsel; 
and  fitter  for  new  projects  than  for  settled  busi- 
ness. For  the  experience  of  age,  in  things  that 
fall  within  the  compass  of  it,  directeth  them; 
but  in  new  things,  abuseth  them.  The  errors 
of  young  men  are  the  ruin  of  business ;  but  the 
errors  of  aged  men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more 
might  have  been  done,  or  sooner.  Young 
men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage  of  actions, 

•  agrees      =  He  passed  a  youth  full  of  errors;  yea, 
of  madnesses. 


embrace  more  than  they  can  hold;  stir  more 
than  they  can  quiet;  fly  to  the  end,  without 
consideration  of  the  means  and  degrees;  pur- 
sue some  few  principles  which  they  have 
chanced  upon  absurdly;  care'  not  to  innovate, 
which  draws  unknown  inconveniences;  use 
extreme  remedies  at  first;  and,  that  which 
doubleth  all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or 
retract  them;  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will 
neither  stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  object  too 
much,  consult  too  long,  adventure  too  little, 
repent  too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business 
home  to  the  full  period,  but  content  themselves 
with  a  mediocrity  of  success.  Certainly  it  is 
good  to  compound  employinents  of  both;  for 
that  will  be  good  for  the  present,  because  the 
virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects 
of  both  ;  and  good  for  succession,  that  young 
men  may  be  learners,  while  men  in  age  are 
actors;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern  accidents, 
because  authority  foUoweth  old  men,  and 
favour  and  popularity  youth.  But  for  the 
moral  part,  perhaps  youth  will  have  the  pre- 
eminence, as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  cer- 
tain rabbin,  upon  the  text,  Yoiir  young  men 
shall  see  visions,  and  your  old  men  shall  dream 
dreams,  inferreth  that  young  men  are  admitted 
nearer  to  God  than  old,  because  vision  is  a 
clearer  revelation  than  a  dream.  And  cer- 
tainly, the  more  a  man  drinketh  of  the  world, 
the  more  it  intoxicateth :  and  age  doth  profit 
rather  in  the  powers  of  understanding,  than 
in  the  virtues  of  the  will  and  affections. 
There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness  in 
their  }'ears,  which  fadeth  betimes.  These  are, 
first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits,  the  edge  whereof 
is  soon  turned;  such  as  was  Hermogenes  the 
rhetorician,  whose  books  are  exceeding  subtle; 
who  afterwards  waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort 
is  of  those  that  have  some  natural  dispositions 
which  have  better  grace  in  youth  than  in  age; 
such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant  speech;  which 
becomes  youth  well,  but  not  age:  so  Tully 
saith  of  Hortensius,  Idem  manebat,  neqiie  idem 
decebat?  The  third  is  of  such  as  take  too  high 
a  strain  at  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous  more 
than  tract  of  years  can  uphold.  As  was  Scipio 
Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in  effect.  Ultima 
primis  cedcbant.^ 

XLHI.     OF    BEAUTY 

Virtue  is  like  a  rich  stone,  best  plain  set; 
and  surely  virtue  is  best  in  a  body  that  is  comely, 

»  hesitate  ^  He  continued  the  same,  when  the  same 
was  not  becoming.  ^  His  last  actions  were  not  equal 
to  his  first. 


86 


THOMAS    NASHE 


though  not  of  delicate  features;  and  that  hath 
rather  dignity  of  presence,  than  beauty  of  aspect. 
Neither  is  it  almost  seen,'  that  very  beautiful 
persons  are  otherwise  of  great  virtue;  as  if 
nature  were  rather  busy  not  to  err,  than  in 
labour  to  produce  excellency.  And  therefore 
they  prove  accomplished,  but  not  of  great 
spirit ;  and  study  rather  behaviour  than  virtue. 
But  this  holds  not  always :  for  Augustus  Cassar, 
Titus  Vespasianus,  Philip  le  Bel  of  France, 
Edward  the  Fourth  of  England,  Alcibiades  of 
Athens,  Ismael  the  Sophy  of  Persia,  were  all 
high  and  great  spirits ;  and  yet  the  most  beau- 
tiful men  of  their  times.  In  beauty,  that  of 
favour  is  more  than  that  of  colour;  and  that 
of  decent  and  gracious  motion  more  than  that 
of  favour.  That  is  the  best  part  of  beauty, 
which  a  picture  cannot  express ;  no  nor  the  first 
sight  of  the  life.  There  is  no  excellent  beauty 
that  hath  not  some  strangeness  in  the  propor- 
tion. A  man  cannot  tell  whether  Apelles  or 
Albert  Durer  were  the  more  trifler;  whereof 
the  one  would  make  a  personage  by  geometrical 
proportions;  the  other,  by  taking  the  best  parts 
out  of  divers  faces,  to  make  one  excellent. 
Such  personages,  I  think,  would  please  nobody 
but  the  painter  that  made  them.  Not  but  I 
think  a  painter  may  make  a  better  face  than 
ever  was;  but  he  must  do  it  by  a  kind  of  fe- 
licity (as  a  musician  that  maketh  an  excellent 
air  in  music),  and  not  by  rule.  A  man  shall 
see  faces,  that  if  you  examine  them  part  by 
part,  you  shall  find  never  a  good;  and  yet 
altogether  do  well.  If  it  be  true  that  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  beauty  is  in  decent  motion,  cer- 
tainly it  is  no  marvel  though  persons  in  years 
seem  many  times  more  amiable;  piilchrorum 
aiitumnus  pidchcr;  ^  for  no  youth  can  be  comely 
but  by  pardon,  and  considering  the  youth  as  to 
make  up  the  comeliness.  Beauty  is  as  summer 
fruits,  which  are  easy  to  corrupt,  and  cannot 
last ;  and  for  the  most  part  it  makes  a  dissolute 
youth,  and  an  age  a  little  out  of  countenance; 
but  yet  certainly  again,  if  it  light  well,  it  maketh 
virtues  shine,  and  vices  blush. 

THOMAS  NASHE   (i  567-1601) 

THE   UNFORTUNATE   TRAVELLER 

About  that  time  that  the  terror  of  the  world 
and  fever  quartan  of  the  French,  Henry  the  Eight 
(the  only  true  subject  of  chronicles),  advanced 
his  standard  against  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 


'  it  is  scarcel}'  ever  seen 
have  a  beautiful  autumn. 


^  Beautiful   persons 


towers  of  Toumay  and  Terouenne,  and  had 
the  Emperor  and  all  the  nobility  of  Flanders, 
Holland,  and  Brabant  as  mercenary  attendants 
on  his  full-sailed  fortune,  I,  Jack  Wilton,  (a 
gentleman  at  least,)  was  a  certain  kind  of 
an  appendix  or  page,  belonging  or  appertain- 
ing in  or  unto  the  confines  of  the  English  court; 
where  what  my  credit  was,  a  number  of  my 
creditors  that  I  cozened  can  testify:  Ccelum 
petimiis  stultitia,  which  of  us  all  is  not  a  sinner? 
Be  it  known  to  as  many  as  will  pay  money 
enough  to  peruse  my  story,  that  I  followed  the 
court  or  the  camp,  or  the  camp  and  the  court. 
There  did  I  (Soft,  let  me  drink  before  I  go  any 
further!)  reign  sole  king  of  the  cans  and  black 
jacks,  prince  of  the  pygmies,  county  palatine  of 
clean  straw  and  provant,  and,  to  conclude, 
lord  high  regent  of  rashers  of  the  coals  and  red 
herring  cobs.  Paulo  majora  canamus.  Weil,  to 
the  purpose.  What  stratagemical  acts  and  mon- 
uments do  you  think  an  ingenious  infant  of  my 
years  might  enact  ?  You  will  say,  it  were  sufficient 
if  he  slur  a  die,  pawn  his  master  to  the  utmost 
penny,  and  minister  the  oath  of  the  pantofie  arti- 
ficially. These  are  signs  of  good  education,  I 
must  confess,  and  arguments  of  In  grace  and  vir- 
tue to  proceed.  Oh,  but  Aliqiiid  laid  quod  nan 
patct,  there's  a  further  path  I  must  trace: 
examples  confirm;  list,  lordings,  to  my  pro- 
ceedings. Whosoever  is  acquainted  with  the 
state  of  a  camp  understands  that  in  it  be  many 
quarters,  and  yet  not  so  many  as  on  London 
bridge.  In  those  quarters  are  many  companies : 
Much  company,  much  knavery,  as  true  as  that 
old  adage,  "Much  courtesy,  much  subtilty." 
Those  companies,  like  a  great  deal  of  com, 
do  yield  some  chaff;  the  com  are  cormorants, 
the  chaff  are  good  fellows,  which  are  quickly 
blown  to  nothing  with  bearing  a  light  heart  in  a 
light  purse.  Amongst  this  chaff  was  I  winnow- 
ing my  wits  to  live  merrily,  and  by  my  troth  so 
I  did:  the  prince  could  but  command  men 
spend  their  blood  in  his  service,  I  could  make 
them  spend  all  the  money  they  had  for  my 
pleasure.  But  poverty  in  the  end  parts  friends ; 
though  I  was  prince  of  their  purses,  and  exacted 
of  my  unthrift  subjects  as  much  liquid  alle- 
giance as  any  kaiser  in  the  world  could  do,  yet 
where  it  is  not  to  be  had  the  king  must  lose  his 
right :  want  cannot  be  withstood,  men  can  do 
no  more  than  they  can  do :  what  remained  then, 
but  the  fox's  case  must  help,  when  the  lion's 
skin  is  out  at  the  elbows? 

There  was  a  lord  in  the  camp,  let  him  be 
a  Lord  of  Misrule  if  you  will,  for  he  kept  a 
plain  alehouse  without  welt  or  guard  of  any 


THE    UNFORTUNATE    TRAVELLER 


87 


ivy  bush,  and  sold  cider  and  cheese  by  pint  and 
by  pound  to  all  that  came,  (at  the  very  name  of 
cider  I  can  but  sigh,  there  is  so  much  of  it  in 
Rhenish  wine  nowadays).  Well,  Tcndit  ad 
sidera  virtus,  there's  great  virtue  belongs  (I 
can  tell  you)  to  a  cup  of  cider,  and  very  good 
men  have  sold  it,  and  at  sea  it  is  Aqua  ccelestis; 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  if  it  had  no 
other  patron  but  this  peer  of  quart  pots  to 
authorise  it,  it  were  sufficient.  This  great 
lord,  this  worthy  lord,  this  noble  lord,  thought 
no  scorn  (Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us !)  to  have 
his  great  velvet  breeches  larded  with  the  drop- 
pings of  this  dainty  liquor,  and  yet  he  was  an  old 
servitor,  a  cavalier  of  an  ancient  house,  as  might 
appear  by  the  arms  of  his  ancestors,  drawn  very 
amiably  in  chalk  on  the  inside  of  his  tent  door. 
He  and  no  other  was  the  man  I  chose  out  to 
damn  with  a  lewd  moneyless  device ;  for  coming 
to  him  on  a  day,  as  he  was  counting  his  barrels 
and  setting  the  price  in  chalk  on  the  head  of 
them,  I  did  my  duty  very  devoutly,  and  told 
his  ale-y  honour  I  had  matters  of  some  secrecy 
to  impart  unto  him,  if  it  pleased  him  to  grant  me 
private  audience.  "With  me,  young  Wilton?" 
quod  he;  " marry,  and  shalt !  Bring  us  a  pint 
of  cider  of  a  fresh  tap  into  the  Three  Cups  here ; 
wash  the  pot."  So  into  a  back  room  he  led 
me,  where  after  he  had  spit  on  his  finger,  and 
picked  off  two  or  three  moats  of  his  old  moth- 
eaten  velvet  cap,  and  sponged  and  wrung  all 
the  rheumatic  drivel  from  his  ill-favoured  goat's 
beard,  he  bade  me  declare  my  mind,  and  there- 
upon he  drank  to  me  on  the  same.  I  up  with  a 
long  circumstance,  alias,  a  cunning  shift  of  the 
seventeens,  and  discoursed  unto  him  what  en- 
tire affection  I  had  borne  him  time  out  of  mind, 
partly  for  the  high  descent  and  lineage  from 
whence  he  sprung,  and  partly  for  the  tender  care 
and  provident  respect  he  had  of  poor  soldiers, 
that,  whereas  the  vastity  of  that  place  (which 
afforded  them  no  indifferent  supply  of  drink 
or  of  victuals)  might  humble  them  to  some 
extremity,  and  so  weaken  their  hands,  he 
vouchsafed  in  his  own  person  to  be  a  victualler 
to  the  camp  (a  rare  example  of  magnificence 
and  honourable  courtesy),  and  diligently  pro- 
vided that  without  far  travel  every  man  might 
for  his  money  have  cider  and  cheese  his  belly 
full;  nor  did  he  sell  his  cheese  by  the  wey  only, 
or  his  cider  by  the  great,  but  abased  himself 
with  his  own  hands  to  take  a  shoemaker's 
knife  (a  homely  instrument  for  such  a  high 
personage  to  touch)  and  cut  it  out  equally, 
like  a  true  justiciary,  in  little  pennworths  that 
it  would  do  a  man  good  for  to  look  upon.     So 


likewise  of  his  cider,  the  poor  man  might  have 
his  moderate  draught  of  it  (as  there  is  a  moder- 
ation in  all  things)  as  well  for  his  doit  or  his 
dandiprat  as  the  rich  man  for  his  half  sous  or  his 
denier.  "Not  so  much,"  quoth  I,  "but  this 
tapster's  linen  apron  which  you  wear  to  protect 
your  apparel  from  the  imperfections  of  the 
spigot,  most  amply  bewrays  your  lowly  mind. 
I  speak  it  with  tears,  too  few  such  noble  men 
have  we,  that  will  draw  drink  in  linen  aprons. 
Why,  you  are  every  child's  fellow;  any  man 
that  comes  under  the  name  of  a  soldier  and  a 
good  fellow,  you  will  sit  and  bear  company  to 
the  last  pot,  yea,  and  you  take  in  as  good  part 
the  homely  phrase  of  'Mine  host,  here's  to 
you,'  as  if  one  saluted  you  by  all  the  titles 
of  your  barony.  These  considerations,  I  say, 
which  the  world  suffers  to  slip  by  in  the  channel 
of  forgetfulness,  have  moved  me,  in  ardent  zeal 
of  your  welfare,  to  forewarn  you  of  some  dangers 
that  have  beset  you  and  your  barrels."  At 
the  name  of  dangers  he  start  up,  and  bounced 
with  his  fist  on  the  board  so  hard  that  his 
tapster  overhearing  him,  cried,  "Anon,  anon, 
sir!  by  and  by!"  and  came  and  made  a  low 
leg  and  asked  him  what  he  lacked.  He  was 
ready  to  have  striken  his  tapster  for  interrupt- 
ing him  in  attention  of  this  his  so  much  desired 
relation,  but  for  fear  of  displeasing  me  he  mod- 
erated his  fury,  and  only  sending  for  the  other 
fresh  pint,  willed  him  look  to  the  bar,  and  come 
when  he  is  called,  "with  a  devil's  name!" 
Well,  at  his  earnest  importunity,  after  I  had 
moistened  my  lips  to  make  my  lie  run  glib  to 
his  journey's  end,  forward  I  went  as  followeth. 
"It  chanced  me  the  other  night,  amongst  other 
pages,  to  attend  where  the  King,  with  his  lords 
and  many  chief  leaders,  sat  in  counsel :  there, 
amongst  sundry  serious  matters  that  were 
debated,  and  intelligences  from  the  enemy 
given  up,  it  was  privily  informed  (No  villains 
to  these  privy  informers !)  that  you,  even  3'ou 
that  I  now  speak  to,  had  —  (O  would  I  had  no 
tongue  to  tell  the  rest;  by  this  drink,  it  grieves 
me  so  I  am  not  able  to  repeat  it !) "  Now  was 
my  drunken  lord  ready  to  hang  himself  for  the 
end  of  the  full  point,  and  over  my  neck  he 
throws  himself  very  lubberly,  and  entreated  me, 
as  I  was  a  proper  young  gentleman  and  ever 
looked  for  pleasure  at  his  hands,  soon  to  rid 
him  out  of  this  hell  of  suspense,  and  resolve 
him  of  the  rest:  then  fell  he  on  his  knees, 
wrung  his  hands,  and  I  think  on  my  conscience, 
wept  out  all  the  cider  that  he  had  drunk  in  a 
week  before:  to  move  me  to  have  pity  on  him, 
he  rose  and  put  his  rusty  ring  on  my  finger,  gave 


THOMAS   NASHE 


me  his  greasy  purse  with  that  single  money  that 
was  in  it,  promised  to  make  me  his  heir,  and  a 
thousand  more  favours,  if  I  would  expire  the 
misery  of  his  unspeakable  tormenting  un- 
certainty. I,  being  by  nature  inclined  to 
Mercie  (for  indeed  I  knew  two  or  three  good 
wenches  of  that  name),  bade  him  harden  his 
ears,  and  not  make  his  eyes  abortive  before 
their  time,  and  he  should  have  the  inside  of 
my  breast  turned  outward,  hear  such  a  tale  as 
would  tempt  the  utmost  strength  of  life  to 
attend  it  and  not  die  in  the  midst  of  it.  "Why 
(quoth  I)  myself  that  am  but  a  poor  childish 
well-willer  of  yours,  with  the  very  thought  that 
a  man  of  your  desert  and  state  by  a  number  of 
peasants  and  varlets  should  be  so  injuriously 
abused  in  hugger  mugger,  have  wept.  The 
wheel  under  our  city  bridge  carries  not  so  much 
water  over  the  city,  as  my  brain  hath  welled 
forth  gushing  streams  of  sorrow.  My  eyes  have 
been  drunk,  outrageously  drunk,  with  giving 
but  ordinary  intercourse  through  their  sea- 
circled  islands  to  my  distilling  dreariment. 
What  shall  I  say?  that  which  malice  hath  said 
is  the  mere  overthrow  and  murder  of  your 
days.  Change  not  your  colour,  none  can  slander 
a  clear  conscience  to  itself;  receive  all  your 
fraught  of  misfortune  in  at  once. 

"It  is  buzzed  in  the  King's  head  that  you  are 
a  secret  friend  to  the  enemy,  and  under  pre- 
tence of  getting  a  license  to  furnish  the  camp 
with  cider  and  such  like  provant,  you  have 
furnished  the  enemy,  and  in  empty  barrels 
sent  letters  of  discovery  and  corn  innumerable." 

I  might  well  have  left  here,  for  by  this  time 
his  white  liver  had  mi.xed  itself  with  the  white 
of  his  eye,  and  both  were  turned  upwards,  as 
if  they  had  offered  themselves  a  fair  white  for 
death  to  shoot  at.  The  truth  was,  I  was  very 
loth  mine  host  and  I  should  part  with  dry  lips: 
wherefore  the  best  means  that  I  could  imagine 
to  wake  him  out  of  his  trance,  was  to  cry  loud 
in  his  ear,  "Ho,  host,  what's  to  pay?  will  no 
man  look  to  the  reckoning  here?"  And  in 
plain  verity  it  took  expected  effect,  for  with 
the  noise  he  started  and  bustled,  like  a  man 
that  had  been  scared  with  fire  out  of  his  sleep, 
and  ran  hastily  to  his  tapster,  and  all  to  be- 
laboured him  about  the  ears,  for  letting  gentle- 
men call  so  long  and  not  look  in  to  them. 
Presently  he  remembered  himself,  and  had  like 
to  fall  into  his  memento  again,  but  that  I  met 
him  half  ways  and  asked  his  lordship  what  he 
meant  to  slip  his  neck  out  of  the  collar  so  sud- 
denly, and,  being  revived,  strike  his  tapster  so 
hastily. 


"Oh  (quoth  he),  I  am  bought  and  sold  for 
doing  my  country  such  good  service  as  I  have 
done.  They  are  afraid  of  me,  because  my 
good  deeds  have  brought  me  into  such  esti- 
mation with  the  commonalty.  I  see,  I  see,  it 
is  not  for  the  lamb  to  live  with  the  wolf." 

"The  world  is  well  amended  (thought  I) 
with  your  cidership;  such  another  forty  years' 
nap  together  as  Epimenides  had,  would  make 
you  a  perfect  wise  man."  "Answer  me  (quoth 
he),  my  wise  young  Wilton,  is  it  true  that  I 
am  thus  underhand  dead  and  buried  by  these 
bad  tongues?" 

"Nay  (quoth  I),  you  shall  pardon  me,  for 
I  have  spoken  too  much  already;  no  definitive 
sentence  of  death  shall  march  out  of  my  well- 
meaning  lips;  they  have  but  lately  sucked  milk, 
and  shall  they  so  suddenly  change  their  food 
and  seek  after  blood?" 

"Oh,  but  (quoth  he)  a  man's  friend  is  his 
friend;  fill  the  other  pint,  tapster:  what  said 
the  King?  did  he  believe  it  when  he  heard  it? 
I  pray  thee  say ;  I  swear  by  my  nobility,  none 
in  the  world  shall  ever  be  made  privy  that  I 
received  any  light  of  this  matter  by  thee." 

"That  firm  afliance  (quoth  I)  had  I  in  you  be- 
fore, or  else  I  would  never  have  gone  so  far  over 
the  shoes,  to  pluck  you  out  of  the  mire.  Not  to 
make  many  words,  (since  you  will  needs  know,) 
the  King  says  flatly,  you  are  a  miser  and  a 
snudge,  and  he  never  hoped  better  of  you." 
"Nay,  then  (quoth  he)  questionless  some 
planet  that  loves  not  cider  hath  conspired 
against  me."  "Moreover,  which  is  worse, 
the  King  hath  vowed  to  give  Terouenne  one 
hot  breakfast  only  with  the  bungs  that  he  will 
pluck  out  of  your  barrels.  I  cannot  stay  at 
this  time  to  report  each  circumstance  that 
passed,  but  the  only  counsel  that  my  long 
cherished  kind  inclination  can  possibly  con- 
trive, is  now  in  your  old  days  to  be  liberal: 
such  victuals  or  provision  as  you  have,  presently 
distribute  it  frankly  amongst  poor  soldiers;  I 
would  let  them  burst  their  bellies  with  cider 
and  bathe  in  it,  before  I  would  run  into  my 
prince's  ill  opinion  for  a  whole  sea  of  it.  If 
greedy  hunters  and  hungry  tale-tellers  pursue 
you,  it  is  for  a  little  pelf  that  you  have ;  cast  it 
behind  you,  neglect  it,  let  them  have  it,  lest 
it  breed  a  farther  inconvenience.  Credit  my 
advice,  you  shall  find  it  prophetical:  and  thus 
have  I  discharged  the  part  of  a  poor  friend." 
With  some  few  like  phrases  of  ceremony, 
"Your  Honour's  poor  suppliant,"  and  so  forth, 
and  "Farewell,  my  good  youth,  I  thank  thee 
and  will  remember  thee,"  we  parted. 


THOMAS    DEKKER 


89 


But  the  next  day  I  think  we  had  a  dole  of 
cider,  cider  in  bowls,  in  scuppets,  in  helmets; 
and  to  conclude,  if  a  man  would  have  filled  his 
boots  full,  there  he  might  have  had  it:  provant 
thrust  itself  into  poor  soldiers'  pockets  whether 
they  would  or  no.  We  made  five  peals  of  shot 
into  the  town  together  of  nothing  but  spiggots 
and  faucets  of  discarded  empty  barrels:  every 
under-foot  soldier  had  a  distenanted  tun,  as 
Diogenes  had  his  tub  to  sleep  in.  I  myself  got 
as  many  confiscated  tapster's  aprons  as  made 
me  a  tent  as  big  as  any  ordinary  commander's 
in  the  field.  But  in  conclusion,  my  well- 
beloved  baron  of  double  beer  got  him  humbly 
on  his  mary-bones  to  the  king,  and  complained 
he  was  old  and  stricken  in  years,  and  had  never 
an  heir  to  cast  at  a  dog,  wherefore  if  it  might 
please  his  Majesty  to  take  his  lands  into  his 
hands,  and  allow  him  some  reasonable  pension 
to  live,  he  should  be  marvellously  well  pleased : 
as  for  wars,  he  was  weary  of  them ;  yet  as  long 
as  his  Highness  ventured  his  own  person,  he 
would  not  flinch  a  foot,  but  make  his  withered 
body  a  buckler  to  bear  off  any  blow  advanced 
against  him. 

The  King,  marsTlling  at  this  alteration  of 
his  cider  merchant  (for  so  he  often  pleasantly 
termed  him),  with  a  little  farther  talk  bolted 
out  the  whole  complotment.  Then  was  I 
pitifully  whipped  for  my  holiday  lie,  though 
they  made  themselves  merry  with  it  many  a 
winter's  evening  after. 

THOMAS   DEKKER    (i57o?-i64i  ?) 

THE   GULL'S   HORNBOOK 

CHAPTER  VI 

How  A  Galltwt  should    behave  himself   in 
A  Play-House 

The  theatre  is  your  poets'  royal  exchange, 
upon  which  their  muses  (that  are  now  turned 
to  merchants)  meeting,  barter  away  that  light 
commodity  of  words  for  a  lighter  ware  than 
words,  plauditie.'',  and  the  breath  of  the  great 
beast;  which  (like  the  threatenings  of  two 
cowards)  vanish  all  into  air.  Players  and  their 
factors,  who  put  away  the  stuff,  and  make  the 
best  of  it  they  possibly  can  (as  indeed  'tis  their 
parts  so  to  do),  your  gallant,  your  courtier, 
and  your  captain,  had  wont  to  be  the  soundest 
paymasters;  and  I  think  are  still  the  surest 
chapmen;  and  these,  by  means  that  their  heads 
are  well  stocked,  deal  upon  this  comical  freight 
by  the  gross:  when  your  groundling,  and  gal- 
lery-commoner buys  his  sport  by  the  penny, 


and,  like  a  haggler,  is  glad  to  utter  it  again  by 
retailing. 

Since  then  the  place  is  so  free  in  entertain- 
ment, allowing  a  stool  as  well  to  the  farmer's 
son  as  to  your  templer:  '  that  your  stinkard 
has  the  selfsame  liberty  to  be  there  in  his  to- 
bacco fumes,  which  your  sweet  courtier  hath: 
and  that  your  carman  and  tinker  claim  as 
strong  a  voice  in  their  suffrage,  and  sit  to  give 
judgment  on  the  play's  life  and  death,  as  well 
as  the  proudest  mom  us  among  the  tribes  of 
critic:  it  is  fit  that  he,  whom  the  most  tailors' 
bills  do  make  room  for,  when  he  comes,  should 
not  be  basely  (like  a  viol)  cased  up  in  a  corner. 

Whether  therefore  the  gatherers  -  of  the  pub- 
lic or  private  playhouse  stand  to  receive  the 
afternoon's  rent,  let  our  gallant  (having  paid 
it)  presently  advance  himself  up  to  the  throne 
of  the  stage.  I  mean  not  into  the  lord's  room 
(which  is  now  but  the  stage's  suburbs) :  no, 
those  boxes,  by  the  iniquity  of  custom,  con- 
spiracy of  waiting  women  and  gentlemen  ush- 
ers, that  there  sweat  together,  and  the  covetous- 
ness  of  sharers,  are  contemptibly  thrust  into 
the  rear,  and  much  new  satin  is  there  damned, 
by  being  smothered  to  death  in  darkness.  But 
on  the  very  rushes  where  the  comedy  is  to 
dance,  yea,  and  under  the  state  ^  of  Cambises 
himself  must  our  feathered  estridge,"*  like  a  piece 
of  ordnance,  be  planted,  valiantly  (because  im- 
pudently) beating  down  the  mewes  and  hisses 
of  the  opposed  rascality. 

For  do  but  cast  up  a  reckoning,  what  large 
comings-in  are  pursed  up  by  sitting  on  the 
stage.  First  a  conspicuous  eminence  is  got; 
by  which  means,  the  best  and  most  essential 
parts  of  a  gallant  (good  clothes,  a  proportion- 
able leg,  white  hand,  the  Persian  lock,  and  a 
tolerable  beard)  are  perfectly  revealed. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  have  a  signed 
patent  to  engross  the  whole  commodity  of  cen- 
sure; may  lawfully  presume  to  be  a  girder; 
and  stand  at  the  helm  to  steer  the  passage  of 
scenes;  yet  no  man  shall  once  offer  to  hinder 
you  from  obtaining  the  title  of  an  insolent, 
overweening  coxcomb. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  may  (without 
travelling  for  it)  at  the  very  next  door  ask  whose 
play  it  is:  and,  by  that  quest  of  inquiry,  the 
law  warrants  you  to  avoid  much  mistaking:  if 
you  know  not  the  author,  you  may  rail  against 
him:  and  peradventure  so  behave  yourself, 
that  you  may  enforce  the  author  to  know  you. 


>  a  resident  of  one  of  the  inns  of  court 
keepers     ^  canopy    *  ostrich 


-  door- 


90 


THOMAS    DEKKER 


By  sitting  on  the  stage,  if  you  be  a  knight, 
you  may  happily'  get  you  a  mistress:  if  a  mere 
Fleet-street  gentleman,  a  wife:  but  assure 
yourself,  by  continual  residence,  you  are  the 
iirst  and  principal  man  in  election  to  begin 
the  number  of  We  Three.^ 

By  spreading  your  body  on  the  stage,  and 
by  being  a  justice  in  examining  of  plays,  you 
shall  put  yourself  into  such  true  scenical  au- 
thority, that  some  poet  shall  not  dare  to  present 
his  muse  rudely  upon  your  eyes,  without  hav- 
ing first  unmasked  her,  rifled  her,  and  dis- 
covered all  her  bare  and  most  mystical  parts 
before  you  at  a  tavern,  when  you  most  knightly 
shall,  for  his  pains,  pay  for  both  their  sup- 
pers. 

By  sitting  on  the  stage,  you  may  (with  small 
cost)  purchase  the  dear  acquaintance  of  the 
boys:  have  a  good  stool  for  sixpence:  at  any 
time  know  what  particular  part  any  of  the  in- 
fants present:  get  your  match  lighted,  examine 
the  play-suits'  lace,  and  perhaps  win  wagers 
upon  laying  'tis  copper,  etc.  And  to  conclude, 
whether  you  be  a  fool  or  a  justice  of  peace,  a 
cuckold,  or  a  captain,  a  lord-mayor's  son,  or 
a  dawcock,  a  knave,  or  an  under-sheriff;  of 
what  stamp  soever  you  be,  current,  or  counter- 
feit, the  stage,  like  time,  will  bring  you  to  most 
perfect  light  and  lay  you  open :  neither  are  you 
to  be  hunted  from  thence,  though  the  scare- 
crows in  the  yard  hoot  at  you,  hiss  at  you,  spit 
at  you,  yea,  throw  dirt  even  in  your  teeth:  'tis 
most  gentlemanlike  patience  to  endure  all  this, 
and  to  laugh  at  the  silly  animals:  but  if  the 
rabble,  with  a  full  throat,  cry,  "  Away  with  the 
fool,"  you  were  worse  than  a  madman  to  tarry 
by  it:  for  the  gentleman  and  the  fool  should 
never  sit  on  the  stage  together. 

Marry,  let  this  observation  go  hand  in  hand 
with  the  rest:  or  rather,  like  a  country  serv- 
ing-man, some  five  yards  before  them.  Pre- 
sent not  yourself  on  the  stage  (especially  at  a 
new  play)  until  the  quaking  prologue  hath  (by 
rubbing)  got  colour  into  his  cheeks,  and  is 
ready  to  give  the  trumpets  their  cue,  that  he's 
upon  point  to  enter:  for  then  it  is  time,  as 
though  you  were  one  of  the  properties,  or  that 
you  dropped  out  of  the  hangings,  to  creep  from 
behind  the  arras,  with  your  tripos  or  three- 
footed  stool  in  one  hand,  and  a  teston  mounted 
between  a  forefinger  and  a  thumb  in  the  other: 
for  if  you  should  bestow  your  person  upon  the 
vulgar,  when  the  belly  of  the  house  is  but  half 

>  haply,  by  chance      2  ^  j^^^  th^j.  g^j]!  survives,  — 
a  picture  of  two  fools  or  asses  with  this  inscription. 


full,  your  apparel  is  quite  eaten  up,  the  fashion 
lost,  and  the  proportion  of  your  body  in  more 
danger  to  be  devoured  than  if  it  were  served 
up  in  the  counter  amongst  the  poultry:  avoid 
that  as  you  would  the  bastome.^  It  shall  crown 
you  with  rich  commendation  to  laugh  aloud 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  serious  and  saddest 
scene  of  the  terriblest  tragedy:  and  to  let  that 
clapper  (your  tongue)  be  tossed  so  high,  that 
all  the  house  may  ring  of  it:  your  lords  use  it; 
your  knights  are  apes  to  the  lords,  and  do  so 
too :  your  in-a-court-man  is  zany  ^  to  the  knights, 
and  (marry  very  scurvily)  comes  likewise  limp- 
ing after  it:  be  thou  a  beagle  to  them  all,  and 
never  lin  ^  snuffing,  till  you  have  scented  them : 
for  by  talking  and  laughing  (like  a  ploughman 
in  a  morris)  you  heap  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  glory 
upon  glory:  as  first,  all  the  eyes  in  the  galleries 
will  leave  walking  after  the  players,  and  only 
follow  you:  the  simplest  dolt  in  the  house 
snatches  up  your  name,  and  when  he  meets 
you  in  the  streets,  or  that  you  fall  into  his 
hands  in  the  middle  of  a  watch,  his  word  shall 
be  taken  for  you:  he'll  cry  "He's  such  a  gal- 
lant," and  you  pass.  Secondly,  you  publish 
your  temperance  to  the  world,  in  that  you  seem 
not  to  resort  thither  to  taste  vain  pleasures 
with  a  hungry  appetite:  but  only  as  a  gentle- 
man to  spend  a  foolish  hour  or  two,  because 
you  can  do  nothing  else:  thirdly,  you  mightily 
disrelish  the  audience,  and  disgrace  the  author: 
marry,  you  take  up  (though  it  be  at  the  worst 
hand)  a  strong  opinion  of  your  own  judgment, 
and  enforce  the  poet  to  take  pity  of  your  weak- 
ness, and,  by  some  dedicated  sonnet,  to  bring 
you  into  a  better  paradise,  only  to  stop  your 
mouth. 

If  you  can  (either  for  love  or  money),  provide 
yourself  a  lodging  by  the  water  side:  for, 
above  the  convenience  it  brings  to  shun  shoul- 
der-clapping,^ and  to  ship  away  your  cocka- 
trice betimes  in  the  morning,  it  adds  a  kind  of 
state  unto  you,  to  be  carried  from  thence  to  the 
stairs  of  your  play-house:  hate  a  sculler  (re- 
member that)  worse  than  to  be  acquainted 
with  one  o'  th'  scullery.  No,  your  oars  are 
your  only  sea-crabs,  board  them,  and  take  heed 
you  never  go  twice  together  with  one  pair: 
often  shifting  is  a  great  credit  to  gentlemen; 
and  that  dividing  of  your  fare  will  make  the 
poor  watersnakes  be  ready  to  pull  you  in  pieces 
to  enjoy  your  custom :  no  matter  whether  upon 
landing,  you  have  money  or  no :  you  may  swim 
in  twenty  of  their  boats  over  the  river  upon 

*  cudgel      2  ape      ^  cease     *  by  a  constable 


THE    GULL'S    HORNBOOK 


91 


ticket:  marry,  when  silver  comes  in,  remember 
to  pay  treble  their  fare,  and  it  will  make  your 
flounder-catchers  to  send  more  thanks  after 
you,  when  you  do  not  draw,  than  when  you 
do ;  for  they  know,  it  will  be  their  own  another 
day. 

Before  the  play  begins,  fall  to  cards:  you 
may  win  or  lose  (as  fencers  do  in  a  prize)  and 
beat  one  another  by  confederacy,  yet  share  the 
money  when  you  meet  at  supper:  notwith- 
standing, to  gull  the  ragamuffins  that  stand 
aloof  gaping  at  you,  throw  the  cards  (having 
first  torn  four  or  five  of  them)  round  about  the 
stage,  just  upon  the'  third  sound,'  as  though 
you  had  lost:  it  skills  not  if  the  four  knaves 
lie  on  their  backs,  and  outface  the  audience; 
there's  none  such  fools  as  dare  take  exceptions 
at  them,  because,  ere  the  play  go  off,  better 
knaves  than  they  will  fall  into  the  company. 

Now,  sir,  if  the  writer  be  a  fellow  that  hath 
either  epigrammed  you,  or  hath  had  a  flirt  at 
your  mistress,  or  hath  brought  either  your 
feather,  or  your  red  beard,  or  your  little  legs, 
etc.,  on  the  stage,  you  shall  disgrace  him  worse 
than  by  tossing  him  in  a  blanket,  or  giving  him 
the  bastinado  in  a  tavern,  if,  in  the  middle  of 
his  play  (be  it  pastoral  or  comedy,  moral  or 
tragedy),  you  rise  with  a  screwed  and  dis- 
contented face  from  your  stool  to  be  gone :  no 
matter  whether  the  scenes  be  good  or  no;  the 
better  they  are  the  worse  do  you  distaste  them : 
and,  being  on  your  feet,  sneak  not  away  like  a 
coward,  but  salute  all  your  gentle  acquaintance, 
that  are  spread  either  on  the  rushes,  or  on 
stools  about  you,  and  draw  what  troop  you  can 
from  the  stage  after  you:  the  mimics  are  be- 
holden to  you,  for  allowing  them  elbow  room: 
their  poet  cries,  perhaps,  "  a  pox  go  with  you," 
but  care  not  for  that,  there's  no  music  without 
frets. 

IVIarry,  if  either  the  company,  or  indisposi- 
tion of  the  weather  bind  you  to  sit  it  out,  my 
counsel  is  then  that  you  turn  plain  ape,  take 
up  a  rush,  and  tickle  the  earnest  ears  of  your 
fellow  gallants,  to  make  other  fools  fall  a-laugh- 
ing:  mew  at  passionate  speeches,  blare  at 
merry,  find  fault  with  the  music,  whew  at  the 
children's  action,  whistle  at  the  songs:  and 
above  all,  curse  the  sharers,  that  whereas  the 
same  day  you  had  bestowed  forty  shillings 
on  an  embroidered  felt  and  feather  (Scotch- 
fashion)  for  your  mistress  in  the  court,  or  your 
punk  in  the  city,  within  two  hours  after,  you 
encounter  with  the  very  same  block  -  on  the 


stage,  when  the  haberdasher  swore  to  you  the 
impression  was  extant  but  that  morning. 

To  conclude,  hoard  up  the  finest  play-scraps 
you  can  get,  upon  which  your  lean  wit  may 
most  savourly  feed,  for  want  of  other  stuff,  when 
the  Arcadian  and  Euphuised  gentlewomen  have 
their  tongues  sharpened  to  set  upon  you :  that 
quality  (next  to  your  shuttlecock)  is  the  only 
furniture  to  a  courtier  that's  but  a  new  beginner, 
and  is  but  in  his  A  B  C  of  compliment.  The 
next  places  that  are  filled,  after  the  playhouses 
be  emptied,  are  (or  ought  to  be)  taverns:  into 
a  tavern  then  let  us  next  march,  where  the 
brains  of  one  hogshead  must  be  beaten  out  to 
make  up  another. 

CHAPTER  VII 

How    A   GALL.A.NT   SHOULD    BEHAVE    HIMSELF    IN 

A  Tavern 

Whosoever  desires  to  be  a  man  of  good  reck- 
oning in  the  city,  and  (like  your  French  lord) 
to  have  as  many  tables  furnished  as  lackeys 
(who,  when  they  keep  least,  keep  none), 
whether  he  be  a  young  quat '  of  the  first  year's 
revenue,  or  some  austere  and  sullen-faced 
steward,  who  (in  despite  of  a  great  beard,  a 
satin  suit,  and  a  chain  of  gold  wrapped  in  cy- 
press) proclaims  himself  to  any  (but  to  those 
to  whom  his  lord  owes  money)  for  a  rank  cox- 
comb, or  whether  he  be  a  country  gentleman, 
that  brings  his  wife  up  to  learn  the  fashion,  see 
the  tombs  at  Westminster,  the  lions  in  the 
Tower,  or  to  take  physic ;  or  else  is  some  young 
farmer,  who  many  times  makes  his  wife  (in  the 
country)  believe  he  hath  suits  in  law,  because 
he  wiU  come  up  to  his  lechery:  be  he  of  what 
stamp  he  will  that  hath  money  in  his  purse,  and 
a  good  conscience  to  spend  it,  my  counsel  is 
that  he  take  his  continual  diet  at  a  tavern, 
which  (out  of  question)  is  the  only  rcndez-voiis 
of  boon  company;  and  the  drawers-  the  most 
nimble,  the  most  bold,  and  most  sudden  pro- 
claimers  of  your  largest  bounty. 

Having  therefore  thrust  yourself  into  a  case  ^ 
most  in  fashion  (how  coarse  soever  the  stuff  be, 
'tis  no  matter  so  it  hold  fashion),  your  oflke  is 
(if  you  mean  to  do  your  judgment  right)  to 
inquire  out  those  taverns  which  are  best  cus- 
tomed, whose  masters  are  oftenest  drunk  (for 
that  confirms  their  taste,  and  that  they  choose 
wholesome  wines),  and  such  as  stand  furthest 
from   the    counters;     where,    landing    yourself 


'  i.e.  for  the  play  to  begin       -  style  of  hat 


pimple,  young  fellow     -  waiters     ^  sl 


92 


THOMAS    DEKKER 


and  your  followers,  your  first  compliment  shall 
be  to  grow  most  inwardly  acquainted  with  the 
drawers,  to  learn  their  names,  as  Jack,  and 
Will,  and  Tom,  to  dive  into  their  inclinations, 
as  whether  this  fellow  useth  to  the  fencing 
school,  this  to  the  dancing  school;  whether 
that  young  conjurer  (in  hogsheads)  at  midnight 
keeps  a  gelding  now  and  then  to  visit  his  cocka- 
trice, or  whether  he  love  dogs,  or  be  addicted 
to  any  other  eminent  and  citizen-like  quality: 
and  protest  yourself  to  be  extremely  in  love, 
and  that  you  spend  much  money  in  a  year,  upon 
any  one  of  those  exercises  which  you  perceive 
is  followed  by  them.  The  use  which  you  shall 
make  of  this  familiarity  is  this:  if  you  want 
money  five  or  six  days  together,  you  may  still 
pav  the  reckoning  with  this  most  gentlemanlike 
language,  "Boy,  fetch  me  money  from  the  bar," 
and  keep  yourself  most  providently  from  a  hun- 
gry melancholy  in  your  chamber.  Besides,  you 
shall  be  sure  (if  there  be  but  one  faucet  that  can 
betray  neat  wine  to  the  bar)  to  have  that  ar- 
raigned before  you,  sooner  than  a  better  and 
worthier  person. 

The  first  question  you  are  to  make  (after 
the  discharging  of  your  pocket  of  tobacco  and 
pipes,  and  the  household  stuff  thereto  belong- 
ing) shall  be  for  an  inventory  of  the  kitchen: 
for  it  were  more  than  most  tailor-like,  and  to 
be  suspected  you  were  in  league  with  some 
kitchen-wench,  to  descend  yourself,  to  offend 
your  stomach  with  the  sight  of  the  larder,  and 
happily  '  to  grease  your  accoutrements.  Hav- 
ing therefore  received  this  bill,  you  shall  (like 
a  captain  putting  up  dear  pays)  have  many 
salads  stand  on  your  table,  as  it  were  for  blanks 
to  the  other  more  serviceable  dishes:  and  ac- 
cording to  the  time  of  the  year,  vary  your  fare, 
as  capon  is  a  stirring  meat  sometime,  oysters 
are  a  swelling  meat  sometimes,  trout  a  tickling 
meat  sometimes,  green  goose  and  woodcock  a 
delicate  meat  sometimes,  especially  in  a  tav- 
ern, where  you  shall  sit  in  as  great  state  as  a 
church-warden  amongst  his  poor  parishioners, 
at  Pentecost  or  Christmas. 

For  your  drink,  let  not  your  physician  con- 
fine you  to  any  one  particular  liquor:  for  as  it 
is  requisite  that  a  gentleman  should  not  always 
be  plodding  in  one  art,  but  rather  be  a  general 
scholar  (that  is,  to  have  a  lick  at  all  sorts  of 
learning,  and  away)  so  'tis  not  fitting  a  man 
should  trouble  his  head  with  sucking  at  one 
grape,  but  that  he  may  be  able  (now  there  is  a 
general  peace)  to  drink  any  stranger  drunk  in 


his  own  element  of  drink,  or  more  properly  in 
his  own  mist  language. 

Your  discourse  at  the  table  must  be  such  as 
that  which  you  utter  at  your  ordinary:  your 
behaviour  the  same,  but  somewhat  more  care- 
less: for  where  your  expense  is  great,  let  your 
modesty  be  less:  and,  though  you  should  be 
mad  in  a  tavern,  the  largeness  of  the  items  will 
bear  with  your  incivility:  you  may,  without 
prick  to  your  conscience,  set  the  want  of  your 
wit  against  the  superfluity  and  sauciness  of 
their  reckonings. 

If  you  desire  not  to  be  haunted  with  fiddlers 
(who  by  the  statute  have  as  much  liberty  as 
rogues  to  travel  into  any  place,  having  the  pass- 
port of  the  house  about  them)  bring  then  no 
women  along  with  you:  but  if  you  love  the 
company  of  all  the  drawers,  never  sup  without 
your  cockatrice:  for,  having  her  there,  you 
shall  be  sure  of  most  officious  attendance.  In- 
quire what  gallants  sup  in  the  next  room,  and 
if  they  be  any  of  your  acquaintance,  do  not 
you  (after  the  city  fashion)  send  them  in  a  pottle 
of  wine,  and  your  name,  sweetened  in  two 
pitiful  papers  of  sugar,  with  some  filthy  apol- 
ogy crammed  into  the  mouth  of  a  drawer;  but 
rather  keep  a  boy  in  fee,  who  underhand  shall 
proclaim  you  in  every  room,  what  a  gallant 
fellow  you  are,  how  much  you  spend  yearly  in 
taverns,  what  a  great  gamester,  what  custom 
you  bring  to  the  house,  in  what  witty  discourse 
you  maintain  a  table,  what  gentlewomen  or 
citizens'  wives  you  can  with  a  wet  finger'  have 
at  any  time  to  sup  with  you,  and  such  like.  By 
which  encomiastics  of  his,  they  that  know  you 
shall  admire  you,  and  think  themselves  to  be 
brought  into  a  paradise  but  to  be  meanly  in 
your  acquaintance;  and  if  any  of  your  en- 
deared friends  be  in  the  house,  and  beat  the 
same  ivy  bush^  that  yourself  does,  you  may  join 
companies  and  be  drunk  together  most  publicly. 

But  in  such  a  deluge  of  drink,  take  heed  that 
no  man  counterfeit  himself  drunk,  to  free  his 
purse  from  the  danger  of  the  shot:  ^  'tis  a  usual 
thing  now  among  gentlemen;  it  had  wont  be 
the  quality  of  cockneys:  I  would  advise  you  to 
leave  so  much  brains  in  your  head  as  to  pre- 
vent this.  When  the  terrible  reckoning  (like 
an  indictment)  bids  you  hold  up  your  hand, 
and  that  you  must  answer  it  at  the  bar,  you 
must  not  abate  one  penny  in  any  particular,  no, 
though  they  reckon  cheese  to  you,  when  you 
have  neither  eaten  any,  nor  could  ever  abide  it, 
raw  or  toasted:    but  cast  your  eye  only  upon 


'  haply,  perchance 


'  easily     ^  tavern  sign     ^  score,  bill 


THE    GULL'S    HORNBOOK 


93 


the  totalis/  and  no  further;  for  to  traverse 
the  bill  would  betray  you  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  rates  of  the  market,  nay  more,  it 
would  make  the  vintners  believe  you  were 
paler  familias,  and  kept  a  house;  which,  I 
assure  you,  is  not  now  in  fashion. 

If  you  fall  to  dice  after  supper,  let  the  drawers 
be  as  familiar  with  you  as  your  barber,  and 
venture  their  silver  amongst  you;  no  matter 
where  they  had  it:  you  are  to  cherish  the  un- 
thriftiness  of  such  young  tame  pigeons,  if  you 
be  a  right  gentleman:  for  when  two  are  yoked 
together  by  the  purse  strings,  and  draw  the 
chariot  of  Aladam  Prodigality,  when  one  faints 
in  the  way  and  slips  his  horns,  let  the  other 
rejoice  and  laugh  at  him. 

At  your  departure  forth  the  house,  to  kiss 
mine  hostess  over  the  bar,  or  to  accept  of  the 
courtesy  of  the  cellar  when  'tis  offered  you  by 
the  drawers,  and  you  must  know  that  kindness 
never  creeps  upon  them,  but  when  they  see  you 
almost  cleft  to  the  shoulders,  or  to  bid  any  of 
the  vintners  good  night,  is  as  commendable, 
as  for  a  barber  after  trimming  to  lave  your 
face  with  sweet  water. 

To  conclude,  count  it  an  honour,  either  to 
invite  or  be  invited  to  any  rifling:^  for  com- 
monly, though  you  find  much  satin  there,  yet 
you  shall  likewise  find  many  citizens'  sons,  and 
heirs,  and  younger  brothers  there,  who  smell 
out  such  feasts  more  greedily  than  tailors  hunt 
upon  Sundays  after  weddings.  And  let  any 
hook  draw  you  either  to  a  fencer's  supper,  or 
to  a  player's  that  acts  such  a  part  for  a  wager ; 
for  by  this  means  you  shall  get  experience,  by 
being  guilty  to  their  abominable  shaving. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

How  A  GALL.4NT  IS  TO  BEHAVE    HIMSELF   PASSING 

THROUGH    THE    CiTY,    AT    ALL    HOURS    OF   THE 

NIGHT,    .AND    HOW   TO   PASS    BY    .ANY   WATCH 

After  the  sound  of  pottle-pots  is  out  of  your 
ears,  and  that  the  spirit  of  wine  and  tobacco 
walks  in  your  brain,  the  tavern  door  being  shut 
upon  your  back,  cast  about  to  pass  through 
the  widest  and  goodliest  streets  in  the  city. 
And  if  your  means  cannot  reach  to  the  keeping 
of  a  boy,  hire  one  of  the  drawers,  to  be  as  a 
lanthorne  unto  your  feet,  and  to  light  you  home: 
and,  still  ^  as  you  approach  near  any  night- 
walker  that  is  up  as  late  as  yourself  curse  and 
swear  (like  one  that  speaks  High  Dutch)  in  a 


lofty  voice,  because  your  men  have  used  you 
so  like  a  rascal  in  not  waiting  upon  you,  and 
vow  the  ne.xt  morning  to  pull  their  blue  cases  ' 
over  their  ears,  though,  if  your  chamber  were 
well  searched,  you  give  only  sixpence  a  week 
to  some  old  woman  to  make  your  bed,  and 
that  she  is  all  the  serving-creatures  you  give 
wages  to.  If  you  smell  a  watch  (and  that  you 
may  easily  do,  for  commonly  they  eat  onions  to 
keep  them  in  sleeping,  which  they  account  a 
medicine  against  cold)  or,  if  you  come  within 
danger  of  their  brown  bills,  let  him  that  is 
your  candlestick,  and  holds  up  your  torch  from 
dropping  (for  to  march  after  a  link  is  shoe- 
maker-like), let  Ignis  Fatuus,  I  say,  being 
within  the  reach  of  the  constable's  staff,  ask 
aloud,  "Sir  Giles,"  or  "Sir  Abram,  will  you 
turn  this  way,  or  down  that  street?"  It  skills 
not,  though  there  be  none  dubbed  in  your 
bunch;  the  watch  will  wink  at  you,  only  for 
the  love  they  bear  to  arms  and  knighthood: 
marry,  if  the  sentinel  and  his  court  of  guard 
stand  strictly  upon  his  martial  law  and  cry 
"  Stand,"  commanding  you  to  give  the  word,  and 
to  show  reason  why  your  ghost  walks  so  late, 
do  it  in  some  jest  (for  that  will  show  you  have 
a  desperate  wit,  and  perhaps  make  him  and 
his  halberdiers  afraid  to  lay  foul  hands  upon 
you)  or,  if  you  read  a  mittimus  ^  in  the  con- 
stable's book,  counterfeit  to  be  a  Frenchman, 
a  Dutchman,  or  any  other  nation  whose  coun- 
try is  in  peace  with  your  own;  and  you  may 
pass  the  pikes:  for  being  not  able  to  under- 
stand you,  they  cannot  by  the  customs  of  the 
city  take  your  examination,  and  so  by  conse- 
quence they  have  nothing  to  say  to  you. 

All  the  way  as  you  pass  (especially  being 
approached  near  some  of  the  gates)  talk  of 
none  but  lords,  and  such  ladies  with  whom  you 
have  played  at  primero,  or  danced  in  the  pres- 
ence the  very  same  day.  It  is  a  chance  to 
lock  up  the  lips  of  an  inquisitive  bell-man: 
and  being  arrived  at  your  lodging  door,  which 
I  would  counsel  you  to  choose  in  some  rich 
citizen's  house,  salute  at  parting  no  man  but 
by  the  name  of  Sir  (as  though  you  had  supped 
with  knights)  albeit  you  had  none  in  your 
company  but  your  Perinado,  or  your  ingle.^ 

Happily  it  will  be  blown  abroad,  that  you 
and  your  shoal  of  gallants  swum  through  such 
an  ocean  of  wine,  that  you  danced  so  much 
money  out  at  heels,  and  that  in  wild  fowl  there 
flew  away  thus  much:  and  I  assure  you,  to 
have  the  bill  of  your  reckoning  lost  of  purpose, 


'  summa  totalis,  total       ^  raffling       ^  always 


'  coats       ^  a  warrant  for  arrest       ^  chum 


94 


BEN    JONSON 


so  that  it  may  be  published,  will  make  you  to 
be  held  in  dear  estimation:  only  the  danger 
is,  if  you  owe  money,  and  that  your  revealing 
gets  your  creditors  by  the  ears;  for  then  look 
to  have  a  peal  of  ordnance  thundering  at  your 
chamber  door  the  next  morning.  But  if  either 
your  tailor,  mercer,  haberdasher,  silkman, 
cutter,  linen  draper,  or  sempster,  stand  like  a 
guard  of  Switzers  about  your  lodging,  watch- 
ing your  uprising,  or,  if  they  miss  of  that, 
your  down  lying  in  one  of  the  counters,  you 
have  no  means  to  avoid  the  galling  of  their 
small  shot,  than  by  sending  out  a  light-horse- 
man to  call  your  apothecary  to  your  aid,  who, 
encountering  this  desperate  band  of  your 
creditors,  only  with  two  or  three  glasses  in  his 
hand,  as  though  that  day  you  purged,  is  able 
to  drive  them  all  to  their  holes  like  so  many 
foxes:  for  the  name  of  taking  physic  is  a  suffi- 
cient quietus  est  to  any  endangered  gentleman, 
and  gives  an  acquittance  (for  the  time)  to  them 
all,  though  the  twelve  companies  stand  with 
their  hoods  to  attend  your  coming  forth  and 
their  officers  with  them. 

I  could  now  fetch  you  about  noon  (the  hour 
which  I  prescribed  you  before  to  rise  at)  out 
of  your  cliamber,  and  carry  you  with  me  into 
Paul's  Churchyard;  where  planting  yourself 
in  a  stationer's  shop,  many  instructions  are  to 
be  given  you,  what  books  to  call  for,  how  to 
censure  of  new  books,  how  to  mew  at  the  old, 
how  to  look  in  your  tables  and  inquire  for  such 
and  such  Greek,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish 
authors,  whose  names  you  have  there,  but 
whom  your  mother  for  pity  would  not  give 
you  so  much  wit  as  to  understand.  From 
thence  you  should  blow  yourself  into  the  tobacco- 
ordinary,  where  you  are  likewise  to  spend  your 
judgment  (like  a  quack-salver)  upon  that  mys- 
tical wonder,  to  be  able  to  discourse  whether 
your  cane '  or  your  pudding  ^  be  sweetest,  and 
which  pipe  has  the  best  bore,  and  which  burns 
black,  which  breaks  in  the  burning,  etc.  Or, 
if  you  itch  to  step  into  the  barber's,  a  whole 
dictionary  cannot  afford  more  words  to  set 
down  notes  what  dialogues  you  are  to  maintain 
whilst  you  are  doctor  of  the  chair  there.  After 
your  shaving,  I  could  breathe  you  in  a  fence- 
school,  and  out  of  that  cudgel  you  into  a  danc- 
ing school,  in  both  which  I  could  weary  you, 
by  showing  you  more  tricks  than  are  in  five 
galleries,  or  fifteen  prizes.  And,  to  close  up 
the  stomach  of  this  feast,  I  could  make  cock- 

'  tobacco  in  rolls,  like  cigars  2  tobacco  put  up  in 
a  bag 


neys,  whose  fathers  have  left  them  well,  acknow- 
ledge themselves  infinitely  beholden  to  me,  for 
teaching  them  by  familiar  demonstration  how 
to  spend  their  patrimony  and  to  get  themselves 
names,  when  their  fathers  are  dead  and  rotten. 
But  lest  too  many  dishes  should  cast  into  a 
surfeit,  I  will  now  take  away;  yet  so  that,  if 
I  perceive  you  relish  this  well,  the  rest  shall  be 
(in  time)  prepared  for  you.     Farewell. 

BEN  JONSON   (i573?-i637) 

TIMBER:  OR  DISCOVERIES  MADE  UPON 
MEN   AND   MATTER 

LXIV.     DE    SHAKESPEARE    NOSTRATI 1 

I  remember  the  players  have  often  mentioned 
it  as  an  honour  to  Shakespeare,  that  in  his 
writing  (whatsoever  he  penned)  he  never  blotted 
out  a  line.  My  answer  hath  been,  "Would  he 
had  blotted  a  thousand,"  which  they  thought  a 
malevolent  speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity 
this  but  for  their  ignorance  who  chose  that  cir- 
cumstance to  commend  their  friend  by  wherein 
he  most  faulted;  and  to  justify  mine  own  can- 
dour, for  I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honour  his 
memory  on  this  side  idolatry  as  much  as  any. 
He  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free 
nature;  had  an  excellent  phantasy,  brave  no- 
tions, and  gentle  expressions,  wherein  he 
flowed  with  that  facility  that  sometimes  it  was 
necessary  he  should  be  stopped.  "Sufflaminan- 
dus  erat,'"  as  Augustus  said  of  Haterius.  His 
wit  was  in  his  own  power;  would  the  rule  of 
it  had  been  so,  too !  Many  times  he  fell  into 
those  things,  could  not  escape  laughter,  as 
when  he  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar,  one 
speaking  to  him,  "Caesar,  thou  dost  me  wrong." 
He  replied,  "Caesar  did  never  wrong  but  with 
just  cause";  and  such  like,  which  were  ridicu- 
lous. But  he  redeemed  his  vices  with  his  vir- 
tues. There  was  ever  more  in  him  to  be 
praised  than  to  be  pardoned. 

LXXI.     DOMINUS   VERULAMIUS2 

One,  though  he  be  excellent  and  the  chief,  is 
not  to  be  imitated  alone;  for  never  no  imitator 
ever  grew  up  to  his  author;  likeness  is  always 
on  this  side  truth.  Yet  there  happened  in  my 
time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity 
in  his  speaking  ;  his  language,  where  he  could 
spare  or  pass  by  a  jest,  was  nobly  censorious. 

'  on  our  fellow-countryman,  Shakespeare  ^  Lord 
Verulam  (Francis  Bacon) 


TIMBER:    OR    DISCOVERIES    MADE    UPON    MEN    AND    MATTER 


95 


No  man  ever  spake  more  neatly,  more  pressly,' 
more  weightily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness,  less 
idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  member  of 
his  sj^eech  but  consisted  of  his  own  graces.  His 
hearers  could  not  cough,  or  look  aside  from  him, 
witliout  loss.  He  commanded  where  he  spoke, 
and  had  his  judges  angry  and  pleased  at  his 
devotion.  No  man  had  their  affections  more 
in  his  power.  The  fear  of  every  man  that 
heard  him  was  lest  he  should  make  an  end. 

C.  DE  BONIS  ET  MALIS;    DE  INNOCENTIA^ 

A  good  man  will  avoid  the  spot  of  any  sin. 
The  very  aspersion  is  grievous,  which  makes 
him  choose  his  way  in  his  life  as  he  would  in 
his  journey.  The  ill  man  rides  through  all 
confidently;  he  is  coated  and  booted  for  it. 
The  oftener  he  offends,  the  more  openly,  and 
the  fouler,  the  fitter  in  fashion.  His  modesty, 
like  a  riding-coat,  the  more  it  is  worn  is  the  less 
cared  for.  It  is  good  enough  for  the  dirt  still, 
and  the  ways  he  travels  in.  An  innocent  man 
needs  no  eloquence,  his  innocence  is  instead  of 
it,  else  I  had  never  come  off  so  many  times  from 
these  precipices,  whither  men's  malice  hath 
pursued  me.  It  is  true  I  have  been  accused 
to  the  lords,  to  the  king,  and  by  great  ones,  but 
it  happened  my  accusers  had  not  thought  of 
the  accusation  with  themselves,  and  so  were 
driven,  for  want  of  crimes,  to  use  invention, 
which  was  found  slander,  or  too  late  (being 
entered  so  far)  to  seek  starting-holes  for  their 
rashness,  which  were  not  given  them.  And 
then  they  may  think  what  accusation  that  was 
like  to  prove,  when  they  that  were  the  engineers 
feared  to  be  the  authors.  Nor  were  they  con- 
tent to  feign  things  against  me,  but  to  urge 
things,  feigned  by  the  ignorant,  against  my 
profession,  which  though,  from  their  hired  and 
mercenary  impudence,  I  might  have  passed  by 
as  granted  to  a  nation  of  barkers  that  let  out 
their  tongues  to  lick  others'  sores;  yet  I  durst 
not  leave  myself  undefended,  having  a  pair  of 
ears  unskilful  to  hear  lies,  or  have  those  things 
said  of  me  which  I  could  truly  prove  of  them. 
They  objected  making  of  verses  to  me,  when  I 
could  object  to  most  of  them,  their  not  being 
able  to  read  them,  but  as  worthy  of  scorn.  Nay, 
they  would  offer  to  urge  mine  own  writings 
against  me,  but  by  pieces  (which  was  an  excel- 
lent way  of  malice),  as  if  any  man's  context 
might  not  seem  dangerous  and  offensive,  if  that 
which  was  knit  to  what  went  before  were  de- 


'  compactly 
cence 


'  on  good  things  and  bad,  on  inno- 


frauded  of  his  beginning;  or  that  things  by 
themselves  uttered  might  not  seem  subject  to 
calumny,  which  read  entire  would  appear  most 
free.  At  last  they  upbraided  my  poverty:  I 
confess  she  is  my  domestic;  sober  of  diet, 
simple  of  habit,  frugal,  painful,  a  good  coun- 
seller  to  me,  that  keeps  me  from  crueltv,  pride, 
or  other  more  delicate  impertinences,  which  are 
the  nurse-children  of  riches.  But  let  them  look 
over  all  the  great  and  monstrous  wickednesses, 
they  shall  never  find  those  in  poor  families. 
They  are  the  issue  of  the  wealthy  giants  and  the 
mighty  hunters,  whereas  no  great  work,  or 
worthy  of  praise  or  memory,  but  came  out  of 
poor  cradles.  It  was  the  ancient  poverty  that 
founded  commonweals,  built  cities,  in\-cntcd 
arts,  made  wholesome  laws,  armed  men  against 
vices,  rewarded  them  with  their  own  virtues, 
and  preserved  the  honour  and  state  of  nations, 
till  they  betrayed  themselves  to  riches. 

CXV.     DE   STILO,  ET  OPTIMO  SCRIBENDI 
GENERE' 

For  a  man  to  write  well,  there  are  required 
three  necessaries  —  to  read  the  best  authors, 
observe  the  best  speakers,  and  much  exercise 
of  his  own  style.  In  style,  to  consider  what 
ought  to  be  written,  and  after  what  manner,  he 
must  first  think  and  excogitate  his  matter,  then 
choose  his  words,  and  examine  the  weight  of 
either.  Then  take  care,  in  placing  and  rank- 
ing both  matter  and  words,  that  the  composi- 
tion be  comely;  and  to  do  this  with  diligence 
and  often.  No  matter  how  slow  the  style  be  at 
first,  so  it  be  laboured  and  accurate;  seek  the 
best,  and  be  not  glad  of  the  forward  conceits, 
or  first  words,  that  oft"er  themselves  to  us;  but 
judge  of  what  we  invent,  and  order  what  we 
approve.  Repeat  often  what  we  have  formerly 
written;  which  beside  that  it  helps  the  conse- 
quence, and  makes  the  juncture  better,  it  quick- 
ens the  heat  of  imagination,  that  often  cools  in 
the  time  of  setting  down,  and  gives  it  new 
strength,  as  if  it  grew  lustier  by  the  going  back. 
As  we  see  in  the  contention  of  leaping,  they 
jump  farthest  that  fetch  their  race  largest;  or, 
as  in  throwing  a  dart  or  javelin,  we  force  back 
our  arms  to  make  our  loose  the  stronger.  Yet, 
if  we  have  a  fair  gale  of  wind,  I  forbid  not  the 
steering  out  of  our  sail,  so  the  favour  of  the 
gale  deceive  us  not.  For  all  that  we  invent 
doth  please  us  in  the  conception  of  birth,  else 
we  would  never  set  it  down.  But  the  safest  is 
to  return  to  our  judgment,  and   handle  over 

'  on  style  and  the  best  manner  of  writing 


96 


BEN    JONSON 


again  those  things  the  easiness  of  which  might 
make  them  justly  suspected.  So  did  the  best 
writers  in  their  beginnings;  they  imposed  upon 
themselves  care  and  industry;  they  did  noth- 
ing rashly:  they  obtained  first  to  write  well, 
and  then  custom  made  it  easy  and  a  habit.  By 
little  and  little  their  matter  showed  itself  to 
them  more  plentifully;  their  words  answered, 
their  composition  followed ;  and  all,  as  in  a 
well-ordered  family,  presented  itself  in  the 
place.  So  that  the  sum  of  all  is,  ready  writing 
makes  not  good  writing,  but  good  writing  brings 
on  ready  writing.  Yet,  when  we  think  we 
have  got  the  faculty,  it  is  even  then  good  to 
resist  it,  as  to  give  a  horse  a  check  sometimes 
with  a  bit,  which  doth  not  so  much  stop  his 
course  as  stir  his  mettle.  Again,  whither  a 
man's  genius  is  best  able  to  reach,  thither  it 
should  more  and  more  contend,  lift  and  dilate 
itself;  as  men  of  low  stature  raise  themselves 
on  their  toes,  and  so  oft-times  get  even,  if  not 


eminent.  Besides,  as  it  is  fit  for  grown  and 
able  writers  to  stand  of  themselves,  and  work 
with  their  own  strength,  to  trust  and  endeavour 
by  their  own  faculties,  so  it  is  fit  for  the  beginner 
and  learner  to  study  others  and  the  best.  For 
the  mind  and  memory  are  more  sharply  exer- 
cised in  comprehending  another  man's  things 
than  our  own;  and  such  as  accustom  them- 
selves and  are  familiar  with  the  best  authors 
shall  ever  and  anon  find  somewhat  of  them 
in  them.selves,  and  in  the  expression  of  their 
minds,  even  when  they  feel  it  not,  be  able 
to  utter  something  like  theirs,  which  hath 
an  authority  above  their  own.  Nay,  some- 
times it  is  the  reward  of  a  man's  study,  the 
praise  of  quoting  another  man  fitly;  and 
though  a  man  be  more  prone  and  able  for 
one  kind  of  writing  than  another,  yet  he 
must  exercise  all.  For  as  in  an  instrument, 
so  in  style,  there  must  be  a  harmony  in 
consent  of  parts. 


THE    SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY 


ROBERf  BURTON   (1577-1640) 

From  THE  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY 

PART  III.     SEC.  n.     MEM.  I.    SUBS.  I 

Heroical  i.ove  causing  Melancholy.     His 
Pedigree,  Power,  and  Extent 

In  the  preceding  section  mention  was  made, 
amongst  other  pleasant  objects,  of  this  come- 
liness and  beauty  which  proceeds  from  women, 
that  causeth  heroical,  or  love-melancholy,  is 
more  eminent  above  the  rest,  and  properly 
called  love.  The  part  affected  in  men  is  the 
liver,  and  therefore  called  heroical,  because 
commonly  gallants,  noblemen,  and  the  most 
generous  spirits  are  possessed  with  it.  His 
power  and  extent  is  very  large,'  and  in  that 
twofold  division  of  love,  (fyiXdv  and  ipav,^ 
those  two  veneries  ^  which  Plato  and  some 
other  make  mention  of,  it  is  most  eminent, 
and  kut'  i$oxr]v  *  called  Venus,  as  I  have  said, 
or  love  itself.  Which  although  it  be  denomi- 
nated from  men,  and  most  evident  in  them, 
yet  it  extends  and  shows  itself  in  vegetal  and 
sensible  creatures,  those  incorporeal  substances 
(as  shall  be  specified),  and  hath  a  large  domin- 
ion of  sovereignty  over  them.  His  pedigree  is 
very  ancient,  derived  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  as  ^  Pha^drus  contends,  and  his 
°  parentage  of  such  antiquity,  that  no  poet 
could  ever  find  it  out.  Hesiod  makes  '  Terra 
and  Chaos  to  be  Love's  parents,  before  the  gods 
were  born :  Ante  deos  omnes  primum  gcncravit 
amorem.  ["Before  all  the  gods,  he  first  begat 
Love."]  Some  think  it  is  the  self-same  fire 
Prometheus  fetched  from  heaven.  Plutarch, 
Amator.  libcllo,  will  have  Love  to  be  the  son  of 
Iris  and  Favonius;  but  Socrates  in  that  pleas- 
ant dialogue  of  Plato,  when  it  came  to  his  turn 
to  speak  of  love  (of  which  subject  Agatho  the 
rhetorician,  magniloqmis  Agatho,  that  chanter 
Agatho,  had  newly  given  occasion),  in  a  poetical 

'  Memb.  i.  Subs.  2.  ^  Amor  et  amicitia.  [Love 
and  friendship.]  ^  [loves]  *  [par  excellence]  ^  Ph;e- 
drus  orat.  in  laudeni  amoris,  Platonis  convivio.  ^  Vide 
Boccas.  de  genial,  deorum.  '[Earth.]  See  the  moral 
in  Plut.  of  that  fiction. 


strain,  tellcth  this  tale:  when  Venus  was  born, 
all  the  gods  were  invited  to  a  banquet,  and 
amongst  the  rest,  '  Porus  the  god  of  bounty 
and  wealth;  Penia  or  Poverty  came  a-begging 
to  the  door;  Porus  well  whittled  with  nectar 
(for  there  was  no  wine  in  those  days)  walking 
in  Jupiter's  garden,  in  a  bower  met  with  Penia, 
of  whom  was  born  Love;  and  because  he 
was  begotten  on  Venus's  birthday,  Venus  still 
attends  upon  him.  The  moral  of  this  is  in 
^  Ficinus.  Another  tale  is  there  borrowed  out 
of  Aristophanes:  ^  in  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  men  had  four  arms  and  four  feet,  but 
for  their  pride,  because  they  compared  them- 
selves with  the  gods,  were  parted  into  halves, 
and  now  peradventure  by  love  they  hope  to 
be  united  again  and  made  one.  Otherwise 
thus,  *  Vulcan  met  two  lovers,  and  bid  them 
ask  what  they  would  and  they  should  have  it; 
but  they  made  answer,  O  Viilcanefahcr  Drorum, 
etc.,  "O  Vulcan  the  gods'  great  smith,  we 
beseech  thee  to  work  us  anew  in  thy  furnace, 
and  of  two  make  us  one;  which  he  presently 
did,  and  ever  since  true  lovers  are  either  all 
one,  or  else  desire  to  be  united."  Many  such 
tales  you  shall  find  in  Leon  Flebrceus,  Dial.  3, 
and  their  moral  to  them.  The  reason  why 
Love  was  still  painted  young  (as  Phornutus 
^and  others  will),  "®  is  because  young  men  are 
most  apt  to  love;  soft,  fair,  and  fat,  because 
such  folks  are  soonest  taken:  naked,  because 
all  true  affection  is  simple  and  open :  he  smiles, 
because  merry  and  given  to  delights;  hath  a 
quiver,  to  show  his  power  none  can  escape :  is 
blind,  because  he  sees  not  where  he  strikes, 
whom  he  hits,"   etc.     His  power  and  sover- 


1  Affluentioe    Deus.  -  Cap.     7.    Comment,     in 

Plat,  convivium.  ^  See  more  in  Valesius,  lib.  3,  cont. 
med.  et  cont.  13.  ■*  Vives  3,  de  anima;    oramus  te 

ut  tuis  artibus  et  caminis  nos  refingas,  et  e.x  duobus 
unum  facias;  quod  et  fecit,  et  e.xindc  amatores  unum 
sunt  et  unum  esse  petunt.  *  See  more  in   Natalis 

Comes,  Imag.  Deorum;  Philostratus  de  Imaginibus; 
Lilius  Giraldus  Syntag.  de  diis;  Phornutus;  etc. 
^  Juvenis  pingitur  quod  amore  plerumque  juvenes 
capiuntur;  sic  et  mollis,  formosus;  nudus,  quod 
simplex  et  apertus  hie  afl'ectus;  ridet,  quod  oblecta- 
mentum  praj  se  fcrat,  cum  pharetra,  etc. 


97 


98 


ROBERT    BURTON 


eignty  is  expressed  by  the  ^  poets,  in  that  he 
is  held  to  be  a  god,  and  a  great  commanding 
god,  above  Jupiter  himself;  Magnus  Dcemon, 
as  Plato  calls  him;  the  strongest  and  merriest 
of  all  the  gods,  according  to  Alcinous  and 
'Athenaeus;  Amor  virorum  rex,  amor  rex  et 
deum,  as  Euripides,  "the  god  of  gods  and 
governor  of  men;"  for  we  must  all  do  homage 
to  him,  keep  a  holiday  for  his  deity,  adore  in 
his  temples,  worship  his  image  (numen  enim 
hoc  nan  est  nudum  nomen  ["For  this  god  is  not 
an  empty  name"]),  and  sacrifice  to  his  altar, 
that  conquers  all,  and  rules  all: 

"  3  Mallem  cum  leone,  cervo  et  apro  iEolico, 
Cum  Anteo  et  Stymphalicis  avibus  luctari 
Quam  cum  amore." 

"I  had  rather  contend  with  bulls,  lions,  bears, 
and  giants,  than  with  Love;"  he  is  so  power- 
ful, enforceth  *  all  to  pay  tribute  to  him,  domi- 
neers over  all,  and  can  make  mad  and  sober 
whom  he  list;  insomuch  that  Csecilius  in 
Tully's  Tusculans,  holds  him  to  be  no  better 
than  a  fool  or  an  idiot,  that  doth  not  acknow- 
ledge Love  to  be  a  great  god. 

"  5  Cui  in  manu  sit  quem  esse  dementem  velit, 
Quem  sapt-re,  quem  in  morbum  injici,"  etc. 

That  can  make  sick  and  cure  whom  he  list. 
Homer  and  Stesichorus  were  both  made  blind, 
if  you  will  believe  **  Leon  Hebrseus,  for  speak- 
ing against  his  godhead;  and  though  Aris- 
tophanes degrade  him,  and  say  that  he  was 
'  scornfully  rejected  from  the  council  of  the 
gods,  had  his  wings  clipped  besides,  that  he 
might  come  no  more  amongst  them,  and  to 
his  farther  disgrace  banished  heaven  forever, 
and  confined  to  dwell  on  earth,  yet  he  is  of 
that  *  power,  majesty,  omnipotency,  and  do- 
minion, that  no  creature  can  withstand  him. 

"  ^  Impcrat  Cupido  etiam  diis  pro  arbitrio, 

Et  ipsum  arcere  ne  armipotens  potest  Jupiter." 

He  is  more  than  quarter  master  with  the  gods : 

".    .   .  Tenet 
Thetide  asquor,  umbras  yEaco,  caelum  Jove:  "  '" 

'  A  petty  Pope:  "claves  Iiabct  supcrorum  et  infero- 
rum,"  as  Orpheus,  etc.  ^  Lib.  13,  cap.  5.  Dyphnoso. 
^  Plautus.  ^  Regnat  et  in  superos  jus  habet  ille  deos 
["He  rules  and  has  power  over  the  high  gods."] 
Ovid.  ^  Selden  pro.  leg.  3,  cap.  de  diis  Syris. 
^  Dial.  3.  ^  A  concilio  Deorum  rejectus  et  ad  majo- 
rem  ejus  ignominiam,  etc.  *  Fulmine  concitatior. 
["Swifter  than  lightning  in  the  collied  sky."] 
*  Sophocles.  ["Love  rules  even  the  gods  as  he  will, 
and  Jove  himself  cannot  restrain  him."]  '"["He 
divides  the  empire  of  the  sea  with  Thetis,  —  of  the 
Shades,  with  ^acus, — of  the  Heaven,  with  Jove."] 


and  hath  not  so  much  possession  as  dominion. 
Jupiter  himself  was  turned  into  a  satyr,  shep- 
herd, a  bull,  a  swan,  a  golden  shower,  and  what 
not,  for  love ;  that  as  '  Lucian's  Juno  right 
well  objected  to  him,  liidns  amoris  hi  es,  "thou 
art  Cupid's  whirlgig":  how  did  he  insult  over 
all  the  other  gods,  INIars,  Neptune,  Pan,  Mer- 
cury, Bacchus,  and  the  rest !  ^  Lucian  brings 
in  Jupiter  complaining  of  Cupi9  that  he  could 
not  be  quiet  for  hiin;  and  the  Moon  lamenting 
that  she  was  so  impotently  besotted  on  Endym- 
ion;  even  Venus  herself  confessing  as  much, 
how  rudely  and  in  what  sort  her  own  son  Cupid 
had  used  her  being  his  mother,^  "now  drawing 
her  to  Mount  Ida,  for  the  love  of  that  Trojan 
Anchises,  now  to  Libanus  for  that  Assyrian 
youth's  sake.  And  although  she  threatened 
to  break  his  bow  and  arrows,  to  clip  his  wings, 
*  and  whipped  him  besides  with  her  pantophle, 
yet  all  would  not  serve,  he  was  too  headstrong 
and  unruly."  That  monster-conquering  Her- 
cules was  tamed  by  him : 

"Quem  non  mille  ferce,  quem  non  Stheneleius  hostis, 
Nee  potuil  Juno  vincere,  vicit  amor." 

"Whom  neither  beasts  nor  enemies  could  tame, 
Nor  Juno's  might  subdue.  Love  quelled  the  same." 

Your  bravest  soldiers  and  most  generous  spirits 
are  enervated  with  it,  ^  iibi  muUcribiis  blanditiis 
permittunt  se  et  inqiiinantur  amplexibus.  Apollo, 
that  took  upon  him  to  cure  all  diseases,  *  could 
not  help  himself  of  this;  and  therefore  '  Soc- 
rates calls  Love  a  tyrant,  and  brings  him  tri- 
umphing in  a  chariot,  whom  Petrarch  imitates 
in  his  triumph  of  Love,  and  Fracastorius,  in  an 
elegant  poem  expresseth  at  large,  Cupid  riding. 
Mars  and  Apollo  following  his  chariot,  Psyche 
weeping,  etc. 

In  vegetal  creatures  what  sovereignty  love 
hath,  by  many  pregnant  proofs  and  familiar 
examples  may  be  proved,  especially  of  palm- 
trees,  which  are  both  he  and  she,  and  express 
not  a  sympathy  but  a  love-passion,  and  by 
many  observations  have  been  confirmed. 

'Tom.  4.  2  £)i;^i  Deorum,  torn.  3.  ^  Q^ippg 
matrem  ipsius  quibus  modis  me  afBcit,  nunc  in  Idam 
adigens  Anchisse  causa,  etc.  *  Jampridem  et  plagas 
ipsi  in  nates  incussi  sandalio.  ^  Altopilus,  fol.  79. 
["When  they  give  themselves  up  to  the  blandishments 
of  women  and  are  corrupted  by  their  embraces."] 
"  Nulli?  amor  est  medicabilis  herbis.  ["There  is  no 
herb  that  can  cure  Love."]  '  Plutarch  in  Amatorio. 
Dictator  quo  creato  cessant  reliqui  magistratus.  ["A 
tyrant  at  whose  creation  other  rulers  cease."] 


THE    ANATOMY    OF    ^lELANCHOLY 


99 


"  1  Vivunt  in  vcncrera  frondes,  omnisque  vicissim 
Felix  arbor  amat,  nutant  ct  mutua  palmae 
Foedera,  populco  suspirat  populus  ictu, 
Et  platano  platanus,  alnoque  assibilat  alnus." 

Constantine,  de  Agric.  lib.  lo.  cap.  4.,  gives 
an  instance  out  of  Florentius  his  Georgics,  of  a 
palm-tree  that  loved  most  fervently,  "  ^  and 
would  not  be  comforted  until  such  time  her 
love  applied  himself  unto  her;  you  might  see 
the  two  trees  bend,  and  of  their  own  accords 
stretch  out  their  boughs  to  embrace  and  kiss 
each  other:  they  will  give  manifest  signs  of 
mutual  love."  Ammianus  Marcellinus,  lib.  24, 
reports  that  they  marry  one  another,  and  fall 
in  love  if  they  grow  in  sight;  and  when  the 
wind  brings  the  smell  to  them  they  are  marvel- 
lously affected.  Philostratus,  in  Imaginibus, 
observes  as  much,  and  Galen,  lib.  6.  de  locis 
affectis,  cap.  5.  They  will  be  sick  for  love; 
ready  to  die  and  pine  away,  which  the  hus- 
bandmen perceiving,  saith  ^  Constantine, 
"stroke  many  palms  that  grow  together,  and 
so  stroking  again  the  palm  that  is  enamoured, 
they  carry  kisses  from  the  one  to  the  other:" 
or  tying  the  leaves  and  branches  of  the  one  to 
the  stem  of  the  other,  will  make  them  both 
flourish  and  prosper  a  great  deal  better: 
"  ^  which  are  enamoured,  they  can  perceive 
by  the  bending  of  boughs,  and  inclination  of 
their  bodies."  If  any  man  think  this  which  I 
say  to  be  a  tale,  let  him  read  that  story  of 
two  palm-trees  in  Italy,  the  male  growing  at 
Brundusium,  the  female  at  Otranto  (related  by 
Jovianus  Pontanus  in  an  excellent  poem, 
sometimes  tutor  to  Alphonsus  junior.  King 
of  Naples,  his  secretary  of  state,  and  a  great 
philosopher)  "which  were  barren,  and  so 
continued  a  long  time,"  till  they  came  to  see 
one  another  growing  up  higher,  though  many 
stadiums  asunder.  Pierius  in  his  Hieroglyph- 
ics, and  Melchior  Guilandinus,  Mem.  3.  tract, 
de  papyro,  cites  this  story  of  Pontanus  for  a 
truth.     See    more    in    Salmuth,    Comment,    in 

1  Claudian.  descript.  vener.  aula;.  ["Trees  are 
influenced  by  love,  and  every  flourishing  tree  in  turn 
feels  the  passion  :  palms  nod  mutual  vows,  poplar 
sighs  to  poplar,  plane  to  plane,  and  alder  breathes  to 
alder."]  ^  Neque  prius  in  lis  desiderium  cessat  dum 
dejectus  consoletur  ;  videre  enini  est  ipsam  arborem 
incurvatam,  ultro  ramis  ab  utrisque  vicissim  ad  oscu- 
lum  exporrectis:  manifesta  dant  mutui  desiderii  signa. 
3  Multas  palmas  contingens  quce  simul  crescunt, 
rursusque  ad  amantem  regredicns,  eamque  manu 
attingens,  quasi  osculum  mutuo  ministrare  videtur,  ct 
expediti  concubitus  gratiam  facit.  ■*  Quam  vero 
ipsa  dcsidcret  affectu  ramorum  significat,  et  ad  illam 
respicit :   amantur,  etc. 


Pancirol  de  Nova  re  pert.  Tit.  i  de  novo  orbe, 
Mizaldus  Arcanonim,  lib.  2.,  Sand's  Voyages, 
lib.  2.  jol.  103,  etc. 

If  such  fury  be  in  vegetals,  what  shall  we 
think  of  sensiljle  creatures,  how  much  more 
violent  and  apparent  shall  it  be  in  them  ! 

"  1  Omne  adco  genus  in  tcrris  hominumque  fcrarum, 
Et  genus  Eequoreum,  pecudes,  picta;que  volucres 
In  furias  igncmque  ruunt;   amor  omnibus  idem." 

"All  kind  of  creatures  in  the  earth, 
And  fishes  of  the  sea, 
And  painted  birds  do  rage  alike; 
This  love  bears  equal  sway." 

"2  Hie  deus  et  terras  et  maria  alta  domat." 

Common  experience  and  our  sense  will  inform 
us  how  violently  brute  beasts  are  carried  away 
with  this  passion,  horses  above  the  rest  — 
Juror  est  insignis  equarum.  ^  Cupid  in 
Lucian  bids  Venus  his  mother  "be  of  good 
cheer,  for  he  was  now  familiar  with  lions,  and 
oftentimes  did  get  on  their  backs,  hold  them 
by  the  mane,  and  ride  them  about  like  horses, 
and  they  would  fawn  upon  him  with  their 
tails."  Bulls,  bears,  and  boars  are  so  furious 
in  this  kind  they  kill  one  another:  but  espe- 
cially cocks,  *  lions,  and  harts,  which  are  so 
fierce  that  you  may  hear  them  fight  half  a  mile 
off,  saith  ^  Turbervile,  and  many  times  kill 
each  other,  or  compel  them  to  abandon  the 
rut,  that  they  may  remain  masters  in  their 
places;  "and  when  one  hath  driven  his  co- 
rival  away,  he  raiseth  his  nose  up  into  the  air, 
and  looks  aloft,  as  though  he  gave  thanks  to 
nature,"  which  affords  him  such  great  d^ight. 
How  birds  are  affected  in  this  kind,  appears 
out  of  Aristotle,  he  will  have  them  to  sing  ob 
fiituram  vencrem,  for  joy  or  in  hope  of  their 
venery  which  is  to  come. 

"^.'Eerire  primum  volucres  te  Diva,  tuumque 
Significant  initum,  percuLsx  corda  tua  vi." 

"Fishes  pine  away  for  love  and  wax  lean,"  if 
'  Gomesius's  authority  may  be  taken,  and  are 
rampant  too,  some  of  them:    so  love  tyran- 

'Virg.,  3  Gcorg.  ^Propcrtius:  ["This  god  rules 
both  the  lands  and  the  deep  seas"].  ^  Dial,  deorum. 
Confide,  mater,  leonibus  ipsis  faniiliaris  jam  factus 
sum,  et  saspe  conscendi  corum  tcrga  et  apprehendi 
jubas;  equorum  more  insidens  eos  agito,  et  illi  mihi 
caudis  adblandiuntur.  ''  Leones  prae  amore  furunt, 
Plin.,  1.  8,  c.  16,  Arist.,  1.  6,  hist,  animal.  ^Cap. 
17,  of  his  book  of  hunting.  *  Lucretius.  ^  De  sale, 
lib.  I,  c.  21.  Pisces  ob  amorcm  marcescunt,  pal- 
lescunt,  etc. 


lOO 


ROBERT    BURTON 


niseth  in  dumb  creatures.  Yet  this  is  natural 
for  one  beast  to  dote  upon  another  of  the  same 
kind;  but  what  strange  fury  is  that,  when  a 
beast  shall  dote  upon  a  man?  Saxo  Gram- 
maticus,  lib.  lo,  Dan.  hist.,  hath  a  story  of  a 
bear  that  loved  a  woman,  kept  her  in  his  den 
a  long  time,  and  begot  a  son  of  her,  out  of 
whose  loins  proceeded  many  northern  kings: 
this  is  the  original  belike  of  that  common 
tale  of  Valentine  and  Orson:  yElian,  Pliny, 
Peter  Gillius,  are  full  of  such  relations.  A 
peacock  in  Lucadia  loved  a  maid,  and  when 
she  died,  the  peacock  pined.  '"A  dolphin 
loved  a  boy  called  Hernias,  and  when  he  died 
the  fish  came  on  land,  and  so  perished."  The 
like  adds  Gillius,  lib.  lo.  cap.  22,  out  of  Appion, 
jEgypt.  lib.  15:  a  dolphin  at  Puteoli  loved  a 
child,  would  come  often  to  him,  let  him  get 
on  his  back,  and  carry  him  about,  "^and 
when  by  sickness  the  child  was  taken  away, 
the  dolphin  died."  —  "^  Every  book  is  full 
(saith  Busbequius,  the  emperor's  orator  with 
the  grand  signior,  not  long  since,  Ep.  3.  legal. 
Turc.)  and  yields  such  instances,  to  believe 
which  I  was  always  afraid,  lest  I  should  be 
thought  to  give  credit  to  fables,  until  I  saw  a 
lynx  which  I  had  from  Assyria,  so  affected 
towards  one  of  my  men,  that  it  cannot  be 
denied  but  that  he  was  in  love  with  him. 
When  my  man  was  present,  the  beast  would 
use  many  notable  enticements  and  pleasant 
motions,  and  when  he  was  going,  hold  him 
back,  and  look  after  him  when  he  was  gone, 
very  sad  in  his  absence,  but  most  jocund  when 
he  returned :  and  when  my  man  went  from  me, 
the  beast  expressed  his  love  with  continual 
sickness,  and  after  he  had  pined  away  some 
few  days,  died."  Such  another  story  he  hath 
of  a  crane  of  Majorca,  that  loved  a  Spaniard, 
that  would  walk  any  way  with  him,  and  in  his 
absence  seek  about  for  him,  make  a  noise  that 
he  might  hear  her,  and  knock  at  his  door,  "^  and 
when  he  took  his  last  farewell,  famished  her- 
self." Such  pretty  pranks  can  love  play  with 
birds,  fishes,  beasts: 

'  *  Ccelestis  jetheris,  ponti,  terrae  claves  habet  Venus, 
Solaque  istorum  omnium  imperium  obtinet." 

*  Plin.,  1.  TO,  c.  5,  quumque,  aborta  tempestate, 
periisset  Hernias,  in  sicco  piscis  expiravit.  ^  Post- 
quam  puer  morbo  abiit,  et  ipse  delphinus  periit. 
^  Pleni  sunt  libri  quibus  ferEe  in  homines  inflam- 
matae  fuerunt,  in  quibus  ego  quidem  semper  assen- 
sum  sustinui,  veritus  ne  fabulosa  crcderem;  donee 
vidi  lyncem  quern  habui  ab  Assyria  sic  affectum  crga 
unum  de  meis  hominibus,  etc.  *  Desiderium  suum 
testatus  post  inediam  aliquot  dierum  interiit.    ^  Gr- 


and, if  all  be  certain  that  is  credibly  reported, 
with  the  spirits  of  the  air,  and  devils  of  hell 
themselves,  who  are  as  much  enamoured  and 
dote  (if  I  may  use  that  word)  as  any  other 
creatures  whatsoever.  For  if  those  stories  be 
true  that  are  written  of  incubus  and  succubus, 
of  nymphs,  lascivious  fauns,  satyrs,  and  those 
heathen  gods  which  were  devils,  those  lascivi- 
ous Telchines,  of  whom  the  Platonists  tell  so 
many  fables;  or  those  familiar  meetings  in 
our  days,  and  company  of  witches  and  devils, 
there  is  some  probability  for  it.  I  know  that 
Biermannus,  Wierus,  lib.  3.  cap.  ig.  et  24,  and 
some  others  stoutly  deny  it,  they  be  mere 
fantasies,  all  such  relations  of  incubi,  succubi, 
lies  and  tales;  but  Austin,  lib.  15.  de  civit.  Dei, 
doth  acknowledge  it:  Erastus,  de  Lamiis, 
Jacobus  Sprenger  and  his  colleagues,  etc., 
'  Zanchius,  cap.  16.  lib.  4.  de  oper.  Dei,  Dan- 
dinus,  in  Arist.  de  Anima,  lib.  2.  text.  29.  com. 
30,  Bodin,  lib.  2.  cap.  7.  and  Paracelsus,  a 
great  champion  of  this  tenet  amongst  the  rest, 
which  give  sundry  peculiar  instances,  by  many 
testimonies,  proofs,  and  confessions  evince  it. 
Hector  Boethius,  in  his  Scottish  history,  hath 
three  or  four  such  examples,  which  Cardan 
confirms  out  of  him,  lib.  16.  cap.  43,  of  such  as 
have  had  familiar  company  many  years  with 
them,  and  that  in  the  habit  of  men  and  women. 
Philostratus  in  his  fourth  book  de  vita  Apol- 
lonii,  hath  a  memorable  instance  in  this  kind, 
which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus  Lycius, 
a  young  man  twenty-five  years  of  age,  that  going 
between  Cenchreas  and  Corinth,  met  such  a 
phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman, 
which  taking  him  by  the  hand  carried  him 
home  to  her  house  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth, 
and  told  him  she  was  a  Phoenician  by  birth, 
and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  "^he  should 
hear  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine 
as  never  any  drank,  and  no  man  should  molest 
him;  but  she  being  fair  and  lovely  would  live 
and  die  with  him  that  was  fair  and  lovely  to 
behold."  The  young  man,  a  philosopher, 
otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  moderate 
his  passions,  though  not  this  of  love,  tarried 
with  her  awhile  to  his  great  content,  and  at 

pheus  hymno  Ven.:  ["Venus  keeps  the  keys  of  the 
air,  earth,  sea,  and  she  alone  possesses  the  command 
of  all."] 

'  Qui  hsBc  in  atras  bills  aut  Imaginationis  vim 
referre  conati  sunt,  nihil  faciunt.  [Those  who  have 
attempted  to  ascribe  these  things  to  the  power  of 
black  bile  or  of  imagination,  do  nothing.]  ^  Can- 
tantem  audies  et  vinum  bibes,  quale  antea  nunquam 
bibisti;  te  rivalis  turbabit  nuUus;  pulchra  autem 
pulchro  contente  vivam,  et  moriar. 


THE    ANATOMY    OF    MELANCHOLY 


lOI 


last  married  her,  to  whose  wedding  amongst 
other  guests,  came  Apollonius,  who,  by  some 
probaljle  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be  a 
serpent,  a  lamia,  and  that  all  her  furniture  was 
like  Tantalus'  gold  described  by  Homer,  no 
substance,  but  mere  illusions.  When  she  saw 
herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  Apol- 
lonius to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved, 
and  thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  tliat 
was  in  it,  vanished  in  an  instant:  '"many 
thousands  took  notice  of  this  fact,  for  it  was 
done  in  the  midst  of  Greece."  Sabine  in  his 
Comment  on  the  tenth  of  Ovid's  Metamor- 
phoses, at  the  tale  of  Orpheus,  telleth  us  of  a 
gentleman  of  Bavaria,  that  for  many  months 
together  bewailed  the  loss  of  his  dear  wife; 
at  length  the  devil  in  her  habit  came  and  com- 
forted him,  and  told  him,  because  he  was  so  im- 
portunate for  her,  that  she  would  come  and  live 
with  him  again,  on  that  condition  he  would  be 
new  married,  never  swear  and  blaspheme  as  he 
used  formerly  to  do ;  for  if  he  did,  she  should 
be  gone:  "^  he  vowed  it,  married,  and  lived 
with  her;  she  brought  him  children,  and  gov- 
erned his  house,  but  was  still  pale  and  sad,  and 
so  continued,  till  one  day  falling  out  with  him, 
he  fell  a-swearing;  she  vanished  thereupon,  and 
was  never  after  seen.  ^  This  I  have  heard," 
saith  Sabine,  "from  persons  of  good  credit, 
which  told  me  that  the  Duke  of  Bavaria  did 
tell  it  for  a  certainty  to  the  Duke  of  Saxony." 
One  more  I  will  relate  out  of  Florilegus,  ad 
annum  1058,  an  honest  historian  of  our  nation, 
because  he  telleth  it  so  confidently,  as  a  thing 
in  those  days  talked  of  all  over  Europe:  a 
young  gentleman  of  Rome,  the  same  day  that 
he  was  married,  after  dinner  with  the  bride 
and  his  friends  went  a-walking  into  the  fields, 
and  towards  evening  to  the  tennis-court,  to 
recreate  himself;  whilst  he  played,  he  put  his 
ring  upon  the  finger  of  Venus  stalua,  which 
was  thereby,  made  in  brass;  after  he  had 
sufficiently  played,  and  now  made  an  end  of 
his  sport,  he  came  to  fetch  his  ring,  but  Venus 
had  bowed  her  finger  in,  and  he  could  not  get 
it  off.  Whereupon  loth  to  make  his  company 
tarry  at  present,  there  left  it,  intending  to  fetch 
it  the  next  day,  or  at  some  more  convenient 
time,  went  thence  to  supper,  and  so  to  bed.  In 
the  night,  when  he  should  come  to  perform 
those  nuptial  rites,  Venus  steps  between  him 

1  Multi  factum  hoc  cognovere,  quod  in  media  Graecia 
gestum  .sit.  ^  Rem  curans  domesticam,  ut  ante 
peperit  aliquot  liberos,  semper  tamen  tristis  et  pallida. 
^  Haec  audivi  a  multis  fide  dignis  qui  asscverabant 
ducem  Bavaria    eadem  retulisse  Duci   SaxonicC  pro 


and  his  wife  (unseen  or  felt  of  her),  and  told 
him  that  she  was  his  wife,  that  he  had  be- 
trothed himself  unto  her  by  that  ring,  which 
he  put  upon  her  finger:  she  troubled  him  for 
some  following  nights.  He  not  knowing  how 
to  help  himself,  made  his  moan  to  one  Palum- 
bus,  a  learned  magician  in  those  days,  who 
gave  him  a  letter,  and  bid  him  at  such  a  time 
of  the  night,  in  such  a  cross-way,  at  the  town's 
end,  where  old  Saturn  would  pass  by  with  his 
associates  in  procession,  as  commonly  he  did, 
deliver  that  script  with  his  own  hands  to  Saturn 
himself;  the  young  man  of  a  bold  spirit,  ac- 
cordingly did  it;  and  when  the  old  fiend  had 
read  it,  he  called  Venus  to  him,  who  rode 
before  him,  and  commanded  her  to  deliver 
his  ring,  which  forthwith  she  did,  and  so  the 
gentleman  was  freed.  Many  such  stories  I 
find  in  several  '  authors  to  confirm  this  which 
I  have  said ;  as  that  more  notal>le  amongst  the 
rest,  of  Philinium  and  Machates  in  '  Phlegon's 
Tract,  de  rebus  nurabilibus,  and  though  many 
be  against  it,  yet  I,  for  my  part,  will  subscribe 
to  Lactantius,  lib.  14.  cap.  15:  "  ^  God  sent 
angels  to  the  tuition  of  men;  but  whilest  they 
lived  amongst  us,  that  mischievous  all-com- 
mander of  the  earth,  and  hot  in  lust,  enticed 
them  by  little  and  little  to  this  vice,  and  defiled 
them  with  the  company  of  women":  and 
Anaxagoras,  de  Resurrect.,  "^Many  of  those 
spiritual  bodies,  overcome  by  the  love  of  maids 
and  lust,  failed,  of  whom  those  were  born  we 
call  giants."  Justin  Martyr,  Clemens  Alexan- 
drinus,  Sulpitius  Severus,  Eusebius,  etc.,  to  this 
sense  make  a  twofold  fall  of  angels,  one  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world,  another  a  Httlc  be- 
fore the  deluge,  as  Moses  teacheth  us.  .  .  . 
Read  more  of  this  question  in  Plutarch,  vit. 
NumcB,  Austin,  de  Civ.  Dei,  lib.  15,  Wierus, 
lib.  3  de  prccstig  Deem.,  Giraldus  Cambrensis, 
ilincrar.  Camb.  lib.  i.  Malleus  malefic,  qucest. 

5,  part.  I,  Jacobus  Reussus,  lib.  5,  cap.  6,fol. 
54,  Godelman,  lib.  2,  cap.  4,  Erastus,  Valesius, 
de  sacra  philo,  cap.  40,  John  Nider,  Fornicar. 
lib.  5,  cap.  9,  Stroz.,  Cicogna,  lib.  3,  cap.  3, 
Delrio,  Lipsius,  Bodinc,  dcBmonol.  lib.  2,  cap.  7, 
Peverius,  in  Gen.  lib.  8,  in  6  cap.  ver.  2,  King 
James,  etc. 

'  Fabula  Damarati  et  Aristonis  in  Herodoto,    lib. 

6,  Erato.  ^  Interpret.  Mcrsio. 

3  Deus  angelos  misit  ad  tutclam  cultumque  generis 
humani ;  sed  illos  cum  hominibus  commorantes, 
dominator  ille  tcrroe  salacissimus  paulatim  ad  vitia 
pellexit  et  mulierum  congressibus  inquinavit. 

*  Quidam  ex  illis  capti  sunt  amore  virginum,  et 
libidine  victi  defeccrunt,  ex  quibus  gigantes  qui  vocan- 
tur  nati  sunt. 


I02 


THOMAS    HOBBES 


THOMAS  HOBBES    (1588-1679) 

LEVIATHAN 

PART  I.     CHAPTER  XHI 

Of  the  Natural  Condition  of  Mankind  as 

CONCERNING    THEIR    FELICITY    AND    MISERY 

Nature  hath  made  men  so  equal,  in  the 
faculties  of  the  body  and  mind ;  as  that  though 
there  be  found  one  man  sometimes  manifestly 
stronger  in  body,  or  of  quicker  mind  than 
another,  yet  when  all  is  reckoned  together, 
the  difference  between  man  and  man,  is  not  so 
considerable,  as  that  one  man  can  thereupon 
claim  to  himself  any  benefit,  to  which  another 
may  not  pretend,  as  well  as  he.  For  as  to 
the  strength  of  body,  the  weakest  has  strength 
enough  to  kill  the  strongest,  either  by  secret 
machination,  or  by  confederacy  with  others, 
that  are  in  the  same  danger  with  himself. 

And  as  to  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  setting 
aside  the  arts  grounded  upon  words,  and  es- 
pecially that  skill  of  proceeding  upon  general 
and  infallible  rules,  called  science;  which  very 
few  have,  and  but  in  few  things;  as  being  not 
a  native  faculty,  born  with  us;  nor  attained, 
as  prudence,  while  we  look  after  somewhat 
else,  I  find  yet  a  greater  equality  amongst 
men  than  that  of  strength.  For  prudence 
is  but  experience;  which  equal  time,  equally 
bestows  on  all  men,  in  those  things  they  equally 
apply  themselves  unto.  That  which  may 
perhaps  make  such  equality  incredible,  is  but 
a  vain  conceit  of  one's  own  wisdom,  which 
almost  all  men  think  they  have  in  a  greater 
degree  than  the  vulgar;  that  is,  than  all  men 
but  themselves,  and  a  few  others,  whom  by 
fame  or  for  concurring  with  themselves,  they 
approve.  For  such  is  the  nature  of  men,  that 
howsoever  they  may  acknowledge  many  others 
to  be  more  witty,  or  more  eloquent,  or  more 
learned;  yet  they  will  hardly  believe  there  be 
many  so  wise  as  themselves;  for  they  see  their 
own  wit  at  hand,  and  other  men's  at  a  distance. 
But  this  proveth  rather  that  men  are  in  that 
point  equal,  than  unequal.  For  there  is  not 
ordinarily  a  greater  sign  of  the  equal  distribu- 
tion of  anything,  than  that  every  man  is 
contented  with  his  share. 

From  this  equality  of  ability,  ariseth  equality 
of  hope  in  the  attaining  of  our  ends.  And 
therefore  if  any  two  men  desire  the  same  thing, 
which  nevertheless  they  cannot  both  enjoy, 
they  become  enemies;  and  in  the  way  to  their 


end,  which  is  principally  their  own  conserva- 
tion, and  sometimes  their  delectation  only, 
endeavour  to  destroy  or  subdue  one  another. 
And  from  hence  it  comes  to  pass,  that  where 
an  invader  hath  no  more  to  fear  than  another 
man's  single  power;  if  one  plant,  sow,  build,  or 
possess  a  convenient  seat,  others  may  proba- 
bly be  expected  to  come  prepared  with  forces 
united,  to  dispossess  and  deprive  him,  not  only 
of  the  fruit  of  his  labour,  but  also  of  his  life  or 
liberty.  And  the  invader  again  is  in  the  like 
danger  of  another. 

And  from  this  diffidence  of  one  another, 
there  is  no  way  for  any  man  to  secure  himself, 
so  reasonable,  as  anticipation;  that  is,  by 
force,  or  wiles,  to  master  the  persons  of  all  men 
he  can,  so  long,  till  he  see  no  other  power  great 
enough  to  endanger  him:  and  this  is  no  more 
than  his  own  conservation  requireth,  and  is 
generally  allowed.  Also  because  there  be 
some,  that  taking  pleasure  in  contemplating 
their  own  power  in  the  acts  of  conquest,  which 
they  pursue  farther  than  their  security  requires; 
if  others,  that  otherwise  would  be  glad  to  be  at 
ease  within  modest  bounds,  should  not  by  in- 
vasion increase  their  power,  they  would  not  be 
able,  long  time,  by  standing  only  on  their 
defence,  to  subsist.  And  by  consequence,  such 
augmentation  of  dominion  over  men  being  nec- 
essary to  a  man's  conservation,  it  ought  to  be 
allowed  him. 

Again,  men  have  no  pleasure,  but  on  the  con- 
trary a  great  deal  of  grief,  in  keeping  company, 
where  there  is  no  power  able  to  overawe  them 
all.  For  every  man  looketh  that  his  companion 
should  value  him,  at  the  same  rate  he  sets  upon 
himself  :  and  upon  all  signs  of  contempt,  or 
undervaluing,  naturally  endeavours,  as  far  as 
he  dares,  (which  amongst  them  that  have  no 
common  power  to  keep  them  in  quiet,  is  far 
enough  to  make  them  destroy  each  other,) 
to  extort  a  greater  value  from  his  contemners, 
by  damage;  and  from  others,  by  the  example. 

So  that  in  the  nature  of  man,  we  find  three 
principal  causes  of  quarrel.  First,  competi- 
tion;  secondly,  diffidence;   thirdly,  glory. 

The  first  maketh  men  invade  for  gain;  the 
second,  for  safety;  and  the  third,  for  reputation. 
The  first  use  violence,  to  make  themselves 
masters  of  other  men's  persons,  wives,  children, 
and  cattle;  the  second,  to  defend  them;  the 
third,  for  trifles,  as  a  word,  a  smile,  a  different 
opinion,  and  any  other  sign  of  undervalue, 
either  direct  in  their  persons,  or  by  reflection 
in  their  kindred,  their  friends,  their  nation, 
their  profession,  or  their  name. 


LEVIATHAN 


[03 


Hereby  it  is  manifest,  that  during  the  time 
men  live  without  a  common  power  to  keep  them 
all  in  awe,  they  are  in  that  condition  which  is 
called  war;  and  such  a  war,  as  is  of  every  man, 
against  every  man.  For  "war"  consisteth  not 
in  battle  only,  or  the  act  of  fighting ;  but  in  a 
tract  of  time,  wherein  the  will  to  contend  by 
battle  is  sufficiently  known:  and  therefore  the 
notion  of  "time"  is  to  be  considered  in  the 
nature  of  war,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  weather. 
For  as  the  nature  of  foul  weather  lieth  not  in  a 
shower  or  two  of  rain,  but  in  an  inclination 
thereto  of  many  days  together;  so  the  nature 
of  war  consisteth  not  in  actual  fighting,  but  in 
the  known  disposition  thereto  during  all  the 
time  there  is  no  assurance  to  the  contrary. 
All  other  time  is  "peace." 

Whatsoever  therefore  is  consequent  to  a  time 
of  war,  where  every  man  is  enemy  to  every  man, 
the  same  is  consequent  to  the  time  wherein 
men  live  without  other  security  than  what  their 
own  strength  and  their  own  invention  shall 
furnish  them  withal.  In  such  condition  there 
is  no  place  for  industry,  because  the  fruit  thereof 
is  uncertain,  and  consequently  no  culture  of 
the  earth;  no  navigation,  nor  use  of  the  com- 
modities that  may  be  imported  by  sea;  no 
commodious  building;  no  instruments  of 
moving  and  removing  such  things  as  require 
much  force;  no  knowledge  of  the  face  of  the 
earth;  no  account  of  time ;  no  arts;  no  letters; 
no  society;  and,  which  is  worst  of  all,  continual 
fear  and  danger  of  violent  death;  and  the  life 
of  man,  solitary,  poor,  nasty,  brutish,  and  short. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  some  man,  that  has 
not  well  weighed  these  things,  that  Nature 
should  thus  dissociate,  and  render  men  apt  to 
invade  and  destroy  one  another;  and  he  may 
therefore,  not  trusting  to  this  inference,  made 
from  the  passions,  desire  perhaps  to  have  the 
same  confirmed  by  experience.  Let  him  there- 
fore consider  with  himself,  when  taking  a 
journey,  he  arms  himself,  and  seeks  to  go  well 
accompanied;  when  going  to  sleep,  he  locks 
his  doors;  when  even  in  his  house,  he  locks  his 
chests;  and  this  when  he  knows  there  be  laws, 
and  public  officers,  armed,  to  revenge  all  in- 
juries shall  be  done  him;  what  opinion  he  has 
of  his  fellow-subjects,  when  he  rides  armed; 
of  his  fellow-citizens,  when  he  locks  his  doors; 
and  of  his  children  and  servants,  when  he  locks 
his  chests.  Does  he  not  there  as  much  accuse 
mankind  by  his  actions  as  I  do  by  my  words? 
But  neither  of  us  accuse  man's  nature  in  it. 
The  desires  and  other  passions  of  man  are  in 
themselves  no  sin.     No  more  are  the  actions 


that  proceed  from  those  passions,  till  they  know 
a  law  that  forbids  them ;  which  till  laws  be  made, 
they  cannot  know,  nor  can  any  law  be  made  till 
they  have  agreed  upon  the  person  that  shall 
make  it. 

It  may  peradventurc  be  thought  there  was 
never  such  a  time  nor  condition  of  war  as  this; 
and  I  believe  it  was  never  generally  so,  over 
all  the  world,  but  there  are  many  places  where 
they  live  so  now.  For  the  savage  people  in 
many  places  of  America,  except  the  government 
of  small  families,  the  concord  whereof  depend- 
eth  on  natural  lust,  have  no  government  at  all, 
and  live  at  this  day  in  that  brutish  manner,  as 
I  said  before.  Howsoever,  it  may  be  perceived 
what  manner  of  life  there  would  be,  where  there 
were  no  common  power  to  fear,  by  the  manner 
of  life  which  men  that  have  formerly  lived  under 
a  peaceful  government,  use  to  degenerate  into 
in  a  civil  war. 

But  though  there  had  never  been  any  time, 
wherein  particular  men  were  in  a  condition  of 
war  one  against  another;  yet  in  all  times, 
kings,  and  persons  of  sovereign  authority, 
because  of  their  independency,  are  in  continual 
jealousies,  and  in  the  state  and  posture  of  gladia- 
tors; having  their  weapons  pointing,  and  their 
eyes  fixed  on  one  another;  that  is,  their  forts, 
garrisons,  and  guns  upon  the  frontiers  of  their 
kingdoms;  and  continual  spies  upon  their 
neighbours;  which  is  a  posture  of  war.  But  be- 
cause they  uphold  thereby  the  industry  of  their 
subjects;  there  does  not  follow  from  it  that 
misery  which  accompanies  the  liberty  of  par- 
ticular men. 

To  this  war  of  every  man,  against  every  man, 
this  also  is  consequent;  that  nothing  can  be 
unjust.  The  notions  of  right  and  wrong, 
justice  and  injustice,  have  there  no  place. 
Where  there  is  no  common  power,  there  is  no 
law:  where  no  law,  no  injustice.  Force  and 
fraud,  are  in  war  the  two  cardinal  virtues. 
Justice  and  injustice  are  none  of  the  faculties 
neither  of  the  body  nor  mind.  If  they  were, 
they  might  be  in  a  man  that  were  alone  in 
the  world,  as  well  as  his  senses,  and  passions. 
They  are  qualities  that  relate  to  men  in  society, 
not  in  solitude.  It  is  consequent  also  to  the 
same  condition,  that  there  be  no  propriety, 
no  dominion,  no  "mine"  and  "thine"  distinct; 
but  only  that  to  be  every  man's,  that  he  can  get; 
and  for  so  long,  as  he  can  keep  it.  And  thus 
much  for  the  ill  condition,  which  man  by  mere 
nature  is  actually  placed  in ;  though  with  a  pos- 
sibility to  come  out  of  it,  consisting  partly  in 
the  passions,  partly  in  his  reason. 


I04 


IZAAK   WALTON 


The  passions  that  incline  men  to  peace,  are 
fear  of  death;  desire  of  such  things  as  are 
necessary  to  commodious  Hving;  and  a  hope 
by  their  industry  to  obtain  them.  And  reason 
suggesteth  convenient  articles  of  peace,  upon 
which  men  may  be  drawn  to  agreement.  These 
articles  are  they  which  otherwise  are  called  the 
Laws  of  Nature:  whereof  I  shall  speak  more 
particularly,  in  the  two  following  chapters. 

IZAAK  WALTON   (1593-1683) 

THE   COMPLETE   ANGLER 

From  THE   FIRST   DAY 

A   Conference  betwixt  an  Angler,   a   Fal- 
coner, AND  A  Hunter,  each  commending 
HIS  Recreation 

CHAPTER  I.     Piscator,'  Venator,^  Auceps  ^ 

Piscator.  You  are  well  overtaken.  Gentle- 
men 1  A  good  morning  to  you  both !  I  have 
stretched  my  legs  up  Tottenham  Hill  to  over- 
take you,  hoping  your  business  may  occasion 
you  towards  Ware,  whither  I  am  going  this 
fine  fresh  May  morning. 

Venator.  Sir,  I,  for  my  part,  shall  almost 
answer  your  hopes;  for  my  purpose  is  to 
drink  my  morning's  draught  at  the  Thatched 
House  in  Hoddesden;  and  I  think  not  to  rest 
till  I  come  thither,  where  I  have  appointed  a 
friend  or  two  to  meet  me :  but  for  this  gentleman 
that  you  see  with  me,  I  know  not  how  far  he 
intends  his  journey;  he  came  so  lately  into  my 
company,  that  I  have  scarce  had  time  to  ask 
him  the  question. 

Auceps.  Sir,  I  shall  by  your  favour  bear  you 
company  as  far  as  Theobalds,  and  there  leave 
you;  for  then  I  turn  up  to  a  friend's  house, 
who  mews  a  Hawk  for  me,  which  I  now  long  to 
see. 

Venator.  Sir,  we  are  all  so  happy  as  to  have 
a  fine,  fresh,  cool  morning;  and  I  hope  we  shall 
each  be  the  happier  in  the  others'  company. 
And,  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  not  lose  yours, 
I  shall  either  abate  or  amend  my  pace  to  enjoy 
it,  knowing  that,  as  the  Italians  say,  "Good 
company  in  a  journey  makes  the  way  to  seem 
the  shorter." 

Auceps.  It  may  do.  Sir,  with  the  help  of 
a  good  discourse,  which,  methinks,  we  may 
promise  from  you,  that  both  look  and  speak 
so  cheerfully:  and  for  my  part,  I  promise  you, 
as  an  invitation  to  it,  that  I  will  be  as  free  and 


open  hearted  as  discretion  will  allow  me  to  be 
with  strangers. 

Venator.   And,  Sir,  I  promise  the  like. 

Piscator.  I  am  right  glad  to  hear  your  an- 
swers; and,  in  confidence  you  speak  the  truth, 
I  shall  put  on  a  boldness  to  ask  you.  Sir,  whether 
business  or  pleasure  caused  you  to  be  so  early 
up,  and  walk  so  fast?  for  this  other  gentleman 
hath  declared  he  is  going  to  see  a  hawk,  that 
a  friend  mews  for  him. 

Venator.  Sir,  mine  is  a  mixture  of  both,  a 
little  business  and  more  pleasure;  for  I  intend 
this  day  to  do  all  my  business,  and  then  bestow 
another  day  or  two  in  hunting  the  Otter,  which 
a  friend,  that  I  go  to  meet,  tells  me  is  much 
pleasanter  than  any  other  chase  whatsoever: 
howsoever,  I  mean  to  try  it;  for  to-morrow 
morning  we  shall  meet  a  pack  of  Otter-dogs  of 
noble  Mr.  Sadler's,  upon  Amwell  Hill,  who  will 
be  there  so  early,  that  they  intend  to  prevent  ^ 
the  sunrising. 

Piscator.  Sir,  my  fortune  has  answered  my 
desires,  and  my  purpose  is  to  bestow  a  day  or 
two  in  helping  to  destroy  some  of  those  villain- 
ous vermin :  for  I  hate  them  perfectly,  because 
they  love  fish  so  well,  or  rather,  because  they 
destroy  so  much ;  indeed  so  much,  that,  in  my 
judgment  all  men  that  keep  Otter-dogs  ought 
to  have  pensions  from  the  King,  to  encourage 
them  to  destroy  the  very  breed  of  those  base 
Otters,  they  do  so  much  mischief. 

Venator.  But  what  say  you  to  the  Foxes  of  the 
Nation?  would  not  you  as  wiUingly  have  them 
destroyed?  for  doubtless  they  do  as  much 
mischief  as  Otters  do. 

Piscator.  Oh,  Sir,  if  they  do,  it  is  not  so 
much  to  me  and  my  fraternity,  as  those  base 
vermin  the  Otters  do. 

Auceps.  Why,  Sir,  I  pray,  of  what  fraternity 
are  you,  that  you  are  so  angry  with  the  poor 
Otters? 

Piscator.  I  am.  Sir,  a  Brother  of  the  Angle, 
and  therefore  an  enemy  to  the  Otter:  for  you 
are  to  note,  that  we  Anglers  all  love  one  another, 
and  therefore  do  I  hate  the  Otter  both  for  my 
own,  and  their  sakes  who  are  of  my  brotherhood. 

Venator.  And  I  am  a  lover  of  Hounds:  I 
have  followed  many  a  pack  of  dogs  many  a 
mile,  and  heard  many  merry  Huntsmen  make 
sport  and  scoff  at  Anglers. 

Auceps.  And  I  profess  myself  a  Falconer, 
and  have  heard  many  grave,  serious  men  pity 
them,  it  is  such  a  heavy,  contemptible,  dull 
recreation. 


'  angler 


-  hunter 


^  falconer 


'  anticipate 


THE    COMPLETE    ANGLER 


Piscator.  You  know,  Gentlemen,  it  is  an 
easy  thing  to  scoff  at  any  art  or  recreation; 
a  little  wit  mixed  with  ill-nature,  confidence, 
and  malice  will  do  it;  but  though  they  often 
venture  boldly,  yet  they  are  often  caught,  even 
in  their  own  trap,  according  to  that  of  Lucian, 
the  father  of  the  family  of  Scoffers:  — 

Lucian,  well  skill'd  in  scoffing,  this  hath  writ, 
Friend,  that's  your  folly,  which  you  think  your  wit : 
This  you  vent  oft,  void  both  of  wit  and  fear, 
Meaning  another,  when  yourself  you  jeer. 

If  to  this  you  add  what  Solomon  says  of 
Scoffers,  that  they  are  an  abomination  to  man- 
kind, let  him  that  thinks  fit  scoff  on,  and  be  a 
Scoffer  still;  but  I  account  them  enemies  to 
me  and  all  that  love  Virtue  and  Angling. 

And  for  you  that  have  heard  many  grave, 
serious  men  pity  Anglers;  let  me  tell  you.  Sir, 
there  be  many  men  that  are  by  others  taken 
to  be  serious  and  grave  men,  whom  we  contemn 
and  pity.  Men  that  are  taken  to  be  grave, 
because  nature  hath  made  them  of  a  sour  com- 
plexion; money-getting  men,  men  that  spend 
all  their  time,  first  in  getting,  and  next,  in  anx- 
ious care  to  keep  it;  men  that  are  condemned 
to  be  rich,  and  then  always  busy  or  discon- 
tented: for  these  poor  rich  men,  we  Anglers 
pity  them  perfectly,  and  stand  in  no  need  to 
borrow  their  thoughts  to  think  ourselves  so 
happy.  No,  no,  Sir,  we  enjoy  a  contentedness 
above  the  reach  of  such  dispositions,  and  as 
the  learned  and  ingenuous  Montaigne  says, 
like  himself,  freely,  "When  my  Cat  and  I 
entertain  each  other  with  mutual  apish  tricks, 
as  playing  with  a  garter,  who  knows  but  that 
I  make  my  Cat  more  sport  than  she  makes  me  ? 
Shall  I  conclude  her  to  be  simple,  that  has  her 
time  to  begin  or  refuse,  to  play  as  freely  as  I 
myself  have?  Nay,  who  knows  but  that  it  is 
a  defect  of  my  not  understanding  her  language, 
for  doubtless  Cats  talk  and  reason  with  one 
another,  that  we  agree  no  better:  and  who 
knows  but  that  she  pities  me  for  being  no  wiser 
than  to  play  with  her,  and  laughs  and  censures 
my  folly,  for  making  sport  for  her,  when  we 
two  play  together?" 

Thus  freely  speaks  Montaigne  concerning 
Cats;  and  I  hope  I  may  take  as  great  a  liberty 
to  blame  any  man,  and  laugh  at  him  too,  let 
him  be  never  so  grave,  that  hath  not  heard  what 
Anglers  can  say  in  the  justification  of  their 
Art  and  Recreation;  which  I  may  again  tell 
you,  is  so  full  of  pleasure,  that  we  need  not 
borrow  their  thoughts,  to  think  ourselves  happy. 

Venator.   Sir,  you  have  almost  amazed  me; 


for  though  I  am  no  Scoffer,  yet  I  have,  I  pray 
let  me  speak  it  without  offence,  always  looked 
upon  Anglers,  as  more  patient,  and  more 
simple  men,  than  I  fear  I  shall  find  you  to  be. 

Piscator.  Sir,  I  hope  you  will  not  judge  my 
earnestness  to  be  impatience:  and  for  my  sim- 
plicity, if  by  that  you  mean  a  harmlessncss, 
or  that  simplicity  which  was  usually  found  in 
the  primitive  Christians,  who  were,  as  most 
Anglers  are,  quiet  men,  and  followers  of  peace; 
men  that  were  so  simj^ly  wise,  as  not  to  sell  their 
consciences  to  buy  riches,  and  with  them  vexa- 
tion and  a  fear  to  die;  if  you  mean  such  simple 
men  as  lived  in  those  times  when  there  were 
fewer  lawyers;  when  men  might  have  had  a 
lordship  safely  conveyed  to  them  in  a  piece 
of  parchment  no  bigger  than  your  hand,  though 
several  sheets  will  not  do  it  safely  in  this  wiser 
age;  I  say.  Sir,  if  you  take  us  Anglers  to  be 
such  simple  men  as  I  have  spoke  of,  then  myself 
and  those  of  my  profession  will  be  glad  to  be 
so  understood:  But  if  by  simplicity  you  meant 
to  express  a  general  defect  in  those  that  profess 
and  practise  the  excellent  Art  of  Angling,  I 
hope  in  time  to  disabuse  you,  and  make  the 
contrary  appear  so  evidently,  that  if  you  will 
but  have  patience  to  hear  me,  I  shall  remove 
all  the  anticipations  that  discourse,  or  time, 
or  prejudice,  have  possessed  you  with  again.st 
that  laudable  and  ancient  Art;  for  I  know  it 
is  worthy  the  knowledge  and  practice  of  a  wise 
man. 

But,  Gentlemen,  though  I  be  able  to  do  this, 
I  am  not  so  unmannerly  as  to  engross  all  the 
discourse  to  myself;  and  therefore,  you  two 
having  declared  yourselves,  the  one  to  be  a 
lover  of  Hawks,  the  other  of  Hounds,  I  shall 
be  most  glad  to  hear  what  you  can  say  in  the 
commendation  of  that  recreation  which  each 
of  you  love  and  practise ;  and  having  heard  what 
you  can  say,  I  shall  be  glad  to  exercise  your 
attention  with  what  I  can  say  concerning  my 
own  recreation  and  Art  of  Angling,  and  by 
this  means  we  shall  make  the  way  to  seem  the 
shorter:  and  if  you  like  my  motion,  I  would 
have  Mr.  Falconer  to  begin. 

Auceps.  Your  motion  is  consented  to  with 
all  my  heart;  and  to  testify  it,  I  will  begin  as 
you  have  desired  me. 

And  first  for  the  Element  that  I  use  to  trade 
in,  which  is  the  Air,  an  Element  of  more  worth 
than  weight,  an  element  that  doubtless  exceeds 
both  the  Earth  and  Water;  for  though  I  some- 
times deal  in  both,  yet  the  air  is  most  properly 
mine,  I  and  my  Hawks  use  that  most,  and  it 
yields  us  most   recreation.     It  stops  not  the 


io6 


IZAAK    WALTON 


high  soaring  of  my  noble  generous  Falcon ;  in 
it  she  ascends  lo  such  a  height,  as  the  dull  eyes 
of  beasts  and  fish  are  not  able  to  reach  to ;  their 
bodies  are  too  gross  for  such  high  elevations; 
in  the  Air  my  troops  of  Hawks  soar  up  on  high, 
and  when  they  are  lost  in  the  sight  of  men,  then 
they  attend  upon  and  converse  with  the  Gods; 
therefore  I  think  my  Eagle  is  so  justly  styled 
Jove's  servant  in  ordinary:  and  that  very 
Falcon,  that  I  am  now  going  to  see,  deserves 
no  meaner  a  title,  for  she  usually  in  her  flight 
endangers  herself,  like  the  son  of  Daedalus, 
to  have  her  wings  scorched  by  the  sun's  heat, 
she  flies  so  near  it,  but  her  mettle  makes  her 
careless  of  danger ;  for  she  then  heeds  nothing, 
but  makes  her  nimble  pinions  cut  the  fluid  air, 
and  so  makes  her  highway  over  the  steepest 
mountains  and  deepest  rivers,  and  in  her 
glorious  career  looks  with  contempt  upon  those 
high  steeples  and  magnificent  palaces  which 
we  adore  and  wonder  at ;  from  which  height, 
I  can  make  her  to  descend  by  a  word  from  my 
mouth,  which  she  both  knows  and  obeys,  to 
accept  of  meat  from  my  hand,  to  own  me  for 
her  Master,  to  go  home  with  me,  and  be  willing 
the  next  day  to  afford  me  the  like  recreation. 

And  more;  this  element  of  air  which  I  pro- 
fess to  trade  in,  the  worth  of  it  is  such,  and  it  is 
of  such  necessity,  that  no  creature  whatsoever 
—  not  only  those  numerous  creatures  that  feed 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  those  various 
creatures  that  have  their  dwelling  within  the 
waters,  every  creature  that  hath  life  in  its  nos- 
trils, stands  in  need  of  my  element.  The  waters 
cannot  preserve  the  Fish  without  air,  witness 
the  not  breaking  of  ice  in  an  extreme  frost; 
the  reason  is,  for  that  if  the  inspiring  and 
expiring  organ  of  any  animal  be  stopped,  it 
suddenly  yields  to  nature,  and  dies.  Thus 
necessary  is  air,  to  the  existence  both  of  Fish 
and  Beasts,  nay,  even  to  Man  himself;  that 
air,  or  breath  of  life,  with  which  God  at  first 
inspired  mankind,  he,  if  he  wants  it,  dies 
presently,  becomes  a  sad  object  to  all  that 
loved  and  beheld  him,  and  in  an  instant  turns 
to  putrefaction. 

Nay  more;  the  very  birds  of  the  air,  those 
that  be  not  Hawks,  are  both  so  many  and  so 
useful  and  pleasant  to  mankind,  that  I  must 
not  let  them  pass  without  some  observations. 
They  both  feed  and  refresh  him;  feed  him 
with  their  choice  bodies,  and  refresh  him  with 
their  heavenly  voices:  —  I  will  not  undertake 
to  mention  the  several  kinds  of  Fowl  by  which 
this  is  done :  and  his  curious  palate  pleased  by 
day,   and  which  with   their  very  excrements 


These  I 

will  pass  by,  but  not  those  little  nimble  musi- 
cians of  the  air,  that  warble  forth  their  curious 
ditties  with  which  nature  hath  furnished  them 
to  the  shame  of  art. 

As  first  the  Lark,  when  she  means  to  rejoice, 
to  cheer  herself  and  those  that  hear  her;  she 
then  quits  the  earth,  and  sings  as  she  ascends 
higher  into  the  air,  and  having  ended  her 
heavenly  employment,  grows  then  mute,  and 
sad,  to  think  she  must  descend  to  the  dull 
earth,  which  she  would  not  touch,  but  for 
necessity. 

How  do  the  Blackbird  and  Thrassel  with  their 
melodious  voices  bid  welcome  to  the  cheerful 
Spring,  and  in  their  fixed  months  warble  forth 
such  ditties  as  no  art  or  instrument  can  reach  to ! 

Nay,  the  smaller  birds  also  do  the  like  in 
their  particular  seasons,  as  namely  the  Lave- 
rock, the  Tit-lark,  the  little  Linnet,  and  the 
honest  Robin  that  loves  mankind  both  alive 
and  dead. 

But  the  Nightingale,  another  of  my  airy  crea- 
tures, breathes  such  sweet  loud  music  out  of 
her  little  instrumental  throat,  that  it  might 
make  mankind  to  think  miracles  are  not  ceased. 
He  that  at  midnight,  when  the  very  labourer 
sleeps  securely,  should  hear,  as  I  have  very 
often,  the  clear  airs,  the  sweet  descants,  the 
natural  rising  and  falling,  the  doubling  and 
redoubling  of  her  voice,  might  well  be  lifted 
above  earth,  and  say,  "  Lord,  what  music  hast 
thou  provided  for  the  Saints  in  Heaven,  when 
thou  affordest  bad  men  such  music  on  Earth !" 

And  this  makes  me  the  less  to  wonder  at  the 
many  Aviaries  in  Italy,  or  at  the  great  charge 
of  Varro's  Aviary,  the  ruins  of  which  are  yet 
to  be  seen  in  Rome,  and  is  still  so  famous  there, 
that  it  is  reckoned  for  one  of  those  notables 
which  men  of  foreign  nations  either  record, 
or  lay  up  in  their  memories  when  they  return 
from  travel. 

This  for  the  birds  of  pleasure,  of  which  very 
much  more  might  be  said.  My  next  shall  be 
of  birds  of  political  use.  I  think  it  is  not  to 
be  doubted  that  Swallows  have  been  taught 
to  carry  letters  between  two  armies;  but  'tis 
certain  that  when  the  Turks  besieged  Malta 
or  RTiodes,  I  now  remember  not  which  it  was. 
Pigeons  are  then  related  to  carry  and  recarry 
letters:  and  Mr.  G.  Sandys,  in  his  "Travels," 
relates  it  to  be  done  betwixt  Aleppo  and  Baby- 
lon. But  if  that  be  disbelieved,  it  is  not  to  be 
doubled  that  the  Dove  was  sent  out  of  the  ark 
by  Noah,  to  give  him  notice  of  land,  when  to  him 
all  appeared  to  be  sea;   and  the  Dove  proved 


THE    COMPLETE    ANGLER 


107 


a  faithful  and  comfortable  messenger.  And 
for  the  sacrifices  of  the  law,  a  pair  of  Turtle- 
doves, or  young  Pigeons,  were  as  well  accepted 
as  costly  Bulls  and  Rams;  and  when  God 
would  feed  the  Prophet  Elijah,  after  a  kind  of 
miraculous  manner,  he  did  it  by  Ravens,  who 
brought  him  meat  morning  and  evening. 
Lastly,  the  Holy  Ghost,  when  he  descended 
visibly  upon  our  Saviour,  did  it  by  assuming 
the  shape  of  a  Dove.  And,  to  conclude  this 
part  of  my  discourse,  pray  remember  these 
wonders  were  done  by  birds  of  the  air,  the 
element  in  which  they,  and  I,  take  so  much 
pleasure. 

There  is  also  a  little  contemptible  winged 
creature,  an  inhabitant  of  my  aerial  element, 
namely,  the  laborious  Bee,  of  whose  prudence, 
policy,  and  regular  government  of  their  own 
commonwealth,  I  might  say  much,  as  also  of 
their  several  kinds,  and  how  useful  their  honey 
and  wax  are  both  for  meat  and  medicines  to 
mankind;  but  I  will  leave  them  to  their  sweet 
labour,  without  the  least  disturbance,  believing 
them  to  be  all  very  busy  at  this  very  time 
amongst  the  herbs  and  flowers  that  we  see 
natuje  puts  forth  this  May  morning. 

And  now  to  return  to  my  Hawks,  from  whom 
I  have  made  too  long  a  digression.  You  are 
to  note,  that  they  are  usually  distinguished  into 
two  kinds;  namely,  the  long-winged,  and  the 
short-winged  Hawk:  of  the  first  kind,  there  be 
chiefly  in  use  amongst  us  in  this  nation, 

The  Gerfalcon  and  Jerkin, 
The  Falcon  and  Tassel-gentle, 
The  Laner  and  Laneret, 
The  Bockerel  and  Bockeret, 
The  Saker  and  Sacaret, 
The  Merlin  and  Jack  Merlin, 
The  Hobby  and  Jack: 

There  is  the  Stelletto  of  Spain, 

The  Blood-red  Rook  from  Turkey, 
The  Waskite  from  Virginia: 

And  there  is  of  short -winged  Hawks, 

The  Eagle  and  Iron, 
The  Goshawk  and  Tarcel, 
The  Sparhawk  and   Musket, 
The  French  Pye  of  two  sorts: 

These  are  reckoned  Hawks  of  note  and  worth ; 
but  we  have  also  of  an  inferior  rank, 

The  Stanyel,  the  Ringtail, 
The  Raven,  the  Buzzard, 
The  Forked  Kite,  the  Bald  Buzzard, 
The  Hen-driver,  and  others  that  I  forbear 
to  name. 


Gentlemen,  if  I  should  enlarge  my  discourse 
to  the  observation  of  the  Eires,  the  Brancher, 
the  Ramish  Hawk,  the  Haggard,  and  the  two 
sorts  of  Lentners,  and  then  treat  of  their  several 
Ayries,  their  Mewings,  rare  order  of  casting, 
and  the  renovation  of  their  feathers:  their 
reclaiming,  dieting,  and  then  come  to  their 
rare  stories  of  practice;  I  say,  if  I  should  enter 
into  these,  and  many  other  observations  that 
I  could  make,  it  would  be  much,  very  much 
pleasure  to  me :  but  lest  I  should  l)reak  the  rules 
of  civility  with  you,  by  taking  up  more  than  the 
proportion  of  time  allotted  to  me,  I  will  here 
break  off,  and  entreat  you,  Mr.  Venator,  to 
say  what  you  are  able  in  the  commendation  of 
Hunting,  to  which  you  are  so  much  affected; 
and  if  time  will  serv'e,  I  will  beg  your  favour 
for  a  further  enlargement  of  some  of  those 
several  heads  of  which  I  have  spoken.  But 
no  more  at  present. 

Venator.  Well,  Sir,  and  I  will  now  take  my 
turn,  and  will  first  begin  with  a  commendation 
of  the  Earth,  as  you  have  done  most  excellently 
of  the  Air;  the  Earth  being  that  element  upon 
which  I  drive  my  pleasant,  wholesome,  hungry 
trade.  The  Earth  is  a  solid,  settled  element; 
an  element  most  universally  beneficial  both  to 
man  and  beast ;  to  men  who  have  their  several 
recreations  upon  it  as  horse-races,  hunting, 
sweet  smells,  pleasant  walks:  the  earth  feeds 
man,  and  all  those  several  beasts  that  both 
feed  him,  and  afford  him  recreation.  What 
pleasure  doth  man  take  in  hunting  the  stately 
Stag,  the  generous  Buck,  the  wild  Boar,  the 
cunning  Otter,  the  crafty  Fox,  and  the  fearful 
Hare !  And  if  I  may  descend  to  a  lower  game, 
what  pleasure  is  it  sometimes  with  gins  to  betray 
the  very  vermin  of  the  earth;  as  namely,  the 
Fichat,  the  Fulimart,  the  Ferret,  the  Polecat, 
the  Mouldwarp,  and  the  like  creatures,  that 
live  upon  the  face,  and  within  the  bowels  of 
the  Earth.  How  doth  the  Earth  bring  forth 
herbs,  flowers,  and  fruits,  both  for  physic  and 
the  pleasure  of  mankind !  and  above  all,  to 
me  at  least,  the  fruitful  vine,  of  which  when 
I  drink  moderately,  it  clears  my  brain,  cheers 
my  heart,  and  sharpens  my  wit.  How  could 
.  Cleopatra  have  feasted  Mark  Antony  with 
eight  wild  Boars  roasted  whole  at  one  supper, 
and  other  meat  suitable,  if  the  earth  had  not 
been  a  bountiful  mother?  But  to  pass  by  the 
mighty  Elephant,  which  the  Earth  breeds  and 
nourisheth,  and  descend  to  the  least  of  crea- 
tures, how  doth  the  earth  afford  us  a  doctrinal 
example  in  the  little  Pismire,  who  in  the  sum- 
mer provides  and  lays  up  her  winter  provision, 


io8 


IZAAK    WALTON 


and  teaches  man  to  do  the  like!  The  earth 
feeds  and  carries  those  horses  that  carry  us. 
If  I  would  be  prodigal  of  my  time  and  your 
patience,  what  might  not  I  say  in  commenda- 
tions of  the  earth?  That  puts  Hmits  to  the 
proud  and  raging  sea,  and  by  that  means 
preserves  both  man  and  beast,  that  it  destroys 
them  not,  as  we  see  it  daily  doth  those  that 
venture  upon  the  sea,  and  are  there  ship- 
wrecked, drowned,  and  left  to  feed  Haddocks; 
when  we  that  are  so  wise  as  to  keep  ourselves 
on  earth,  walk,  and  talk,  and  live,  and  eat, 
and  drink,  and  go  a-hunting :  of  which  recrea- 
tion I  will  say  a  little  and  then  leave  Mr.  Pis- 
cator  to  the  commendation  of  Angling. 

Hunting  is  a  game  for  princes  and  noble 
persons;  it  hath  been  highly  prized  in  all  ages; 
it  was  one  of  the  qualifications  that  Xenophon 
bestowed  on  his  Cyrus,  that  he  was  a  hunter  of 
wild  beasts.  Hunting  trains  up  the  younger 
nobility  to  the  use  of  manly  exercises  in  their 
riper  age.  What  more  manly  exercise  than 
hunting  the  Wild  Boar,  the  Stag,  the  Buck, 
the  Fox,  or  the  Hare?  How  doth  it  preserve 
health,  and  increase  strength  and  activity! 

And  for  the  dogs  that  we  use,  who  can  com- 
mend their  excellency  to  that  height  which  they 
deserve?  How  perfect  is  the  hound  at  smell- 
ing, who  never  leaves  or  forsakes  his  first  scent 
but  follows  it  through  so  many  changes  and 
varieties  of  other  scents,  even  over,  and  in,  the 
water,  and  into  the  earth !  What  music  doth 
a  pack  of  dogs  then  make  to  any  man,  whose 
heart  and  ears  are  so  happy  as  to  be  set  to  the 
tune  of  such  instruments!  How  will  a  right 
Greyhound  fix  his  eye  on  the  best  Buck  in  a 
herd,  single  him  out,  and  follow  him,  and  him 
only  through  a  whole  herd  of  rascal  game,  and 
still  know  and  then  kill  him !  For  my  hounds, 
I  know  the  language  of  them,  and  they  know 
the  language  and  meaning  of  one  another,  as 
perfectly  as  we  know  the  voices  of  those  with 
whom  we  discourse  daily. 

I  might  enlarge  myself  in  the  commendation 
of  Hunting,  and  of  the  noble  Hound  especially, 
as  also  of  the  docibleness  of  dogs  in  general ; 
and  I  might  make  many  observations  of  land- 
creatures,  that  for  composition,  order,  figure,- 
and  constitution,  approach  nearest  to  the  com- 
pleteness and  understanding  of  man ;  especially 
of  those  creatures,  which  Moses  in  the  Law 
permitted  to  the  Jews,  which  have  cloven 
hoofs,  and  chew  the  cud ;  which  I  shall  forbear 
to  narne,  because  I  will  not  be  so  uncivil  to 
Mr.  Piscator,  as  not  to  allow  him  a  time  for 
the  commendation  of  Angling,  which  he  calls 


an  art ;  but  doubtless  it  is  an  easy  one :  and, 
Mr.  Auceps,  I  doubt  we  shall  hear  a  watery 
discourse  of  it,  but  I  hope  it  will  not  be  a  long 
one. 

Auceps.  And  I  hope  so  too,  though  I  fear 
it  will. 

Piscator.  Gentlemen,  let  not  prejudice  pre- 
possess you.  I  confess  my  discourse  is  like 
to  prove  suitable  to  my  recreation,  calm  and 
quiet;  we  seldom  take  the  name  of  God  into 
our  mouths,  but  it  is  either  to  praise  him,  or 
pray  to  him :  if  others  use  it  vainly  in  the  midst 
of  their  recreations,  so  vainly  as  if  they  meant 
to  conjure,  I  must  tell  you,  it  is  neither  our 
fault  nor  our  custom;  we  protest  against  it. 
But,  pray  remember,  I  accuse  nobody;  for 
as  I  would  not  make  a  "watery  discourse," 
so  I  would  not  put  too  much  vinegar  into  it; 
nor  would  I  raise  the  reputation  of  my  own 
art,  by  the  diminution  or  ruin  of  another's. 
And  so  much  for  the  prologue  to  what  I  mean 
to  say. 

And  now  for  the  Water,  the  element  that  I 
trade  in.  The  water  is  the  eldest  daughter  of 
the  creation,  the  element  upon  which  the  Spirit 
of  God  did  first  move,  the  element  which  God 
commanded  to  bring  forth  living  creatures 
abundantly;  and  without  which,  those  that 
inhabit  the  land,  even  all  creatures  that  have 
breath  in  their  nostrils,  must  suddenly  return 
to  putrefaction.  Moses,  the  great  lawgiver 
and  chief  philosopher,  skilled  in  all  the  learning 
of  the  Egyptians,  who  was  called  the  friend 
of  God,  and  knew  the  mind  of  the  Almighty, 
names  this  element  the  first  in  the  creation :  this 
is  the  element  upon  which  the  Spirit  of  God 
did  first  move,  and  is  the  chief  ingredient  in 
the  creation:  many  philosophers  have  made 
it  to  comprehend  all  the  other  elements,  and 
most  allow  it  the  chiefest  in  the  mixtion  of  all 
living  creatures. 

There  be  that  profess  to  believe  that  all 
bodies  are  made  of  water,  and  may  be  reduced 
back  again  to  water  only:  they  endeavour  to 
demonstrate  it  thus: 

Take  a  willow,  or  any  like  speedy-growing 
plant,  newly  rooted  in  a  box  or  barrel  full  of 
earth,  weigh  them  all  together  exactly  when 
the  tree  begins  to  grow,  and  then  weigh  all 
together  after  the  tree  is  increased  from  its 
first  rooting,  to  weigh  a  hundred  pound  weight 
more  than  when  it  was  first  rooted  and  weighed ; 
and  you  shall  find  this  augment  of  the  tree  to 
be  without  the  diminution  of  one  drachm 
weight  of  the  earth.  Hence  they  infer  this 
increase  of  wood  to  be  from  water  of  rain,  or 


THE    COMPLETE    ANGLER 


109 


from  dew,  and  not  to  be  from  any  other  ele- 
ment; and  they  affirm,  they  can  reduce  this 
wood  back  again  to  water;  and  they  affirm 
also,  the  same  may  be  done  in  any  animal  or 
vegetable.  And  this  T  take  to  be  a  fair  testi- 
mony of  the  excellency  of  my  element  of  water. 

The  water  is  more  productive  than  the  earth. 
Nay,  the  earth  hath  no  fruitfulness  without 
showers  or  dews;  for  all  the  herbs,  and  flowers, 
and  fruit,  are  produced  and  thrive  by  the  water; 
and  the  very  minerals  are  fed  by  streams  that 
run  under  ground,  whose  natural  course  carries 
them  to  the  tops  of  many  high  mountains,  as 
we  see  by  several  springs  breaking  forth  on  the 
tops  of  the  highest  hills;  and  this  is  also  wit- 
nessed by  the  daily  trial  and  testimony  of 
several  miners. 

Nay,  the  increase  of  those  creatures  that  are 
bred  and  fed  in  the  water  are  not  only  more 
and  more  miraculous,  but  more  advantageous 
to  man,  not  only  for  the  lengthening  of  his 
life,  but  for  the  preventing  of  sickness;  for  it 
is  observed  by  the  most  learned  physicians, 
that  the  casting  off  of  Lent,  and  other  fish  days, 
which  hath  not  only  given  the  lie  to  so  many 
learned,  pious,  wise  founders  of  colleges,  for 
which  we  should  be  ashamed,  hath  doubtless 
been  the  chief  cause  of  those  many  putrid, 
shaking  intermitting  agues,  unto  which  this 
nation  of  ours  is  now  more  subject,  than  those 
wiser  countries  that  feed  on  herbs,  salads, 
and  plenty  of  fish;  of  which  it  is  observed  in 
story,  that  the  greatest  part  of  the  world  now 
do.  And  it  may  be  fit  to  remember  that  Moses 
appointed  fish  to  be  the  chief  diet  for  the  best 
commonwealth  that  ever  yet  was. 

And  it  is  observable,  not  only  that  there  are 
fish,  as,  namely,  the  Whale,  three  times  as  big 
as  the  mighty  Elephant,  that  is  so  fierce  in  battle, 
but  that  the  mightiest  feasts  have  been  of  fish. 
The  Romans,  in  the  height  of  their  glory,  have 
made  fish  the  mistress  of  all  their  entertain- 
ments; they  have  had  music  to  usher  in  their 
Sturgeons,  Lampreys,  and  Mullets,  which 
they  would  purchase  at  rates  rather  to  be 
wondered  at  than  believed.  He  that  shall 
view  the  writings  of  Macrobius,  or  Varro,  may 
be  confirmed  and  informed  of  this,  and  of  the 
incredible  value  of  their  fish  and  fish-ponds. 

But,  Gentlemen,  I  have  almost  lost  myself, 
which  I  confess  I  may  easily  do  in  this  philo- 
sophical discourse;  I  met  with  most  of  it 
very  lately,  and  I  hope,  happily,  in  a  conference 
with  a  most  learned  physician,  Dr.  Wharton, 
a  dear  friend,  that  loves  both  me  and  my  art 
of    Angling.     But,   however,   I  will  wade   no 


deeper  into  these  mysterious  arguments,  but 
pass  to  such  observations  as  I  can  manage 
with  more  pleasure,  and  less  fear  of  running 
into  error.  But  I  must  not  yet  forsake  the 
waters,  by  whose  help  we  have  so  many  known 
advantages. 

And  first,  to  pass  by  the  miraculous  cures  of 
our  known  baths,  how  advantageous  is  the  sea 
for  our  daily  traffic,  without  which  we  could  not 
now  subsist.  How  does  it  not  only  furnish  us 
with  food  and  physic  for  the  bodies,  but  with 
such  observations  for  the  mind  as  ingenious 
persons  would  not  want ! 

How  ignorant  had  we  been  of  the  beauty  of 
Florence,  of  the  monuments,  urns,  and  rarities 
that  yet  remain  in  and  near  unto  Old  and  New 
Rome,  so  many  as  it  is  said  will  take  up  a  year's 
time  to  view,  and  afford  to  each  of  them  but  a 
convenient  consideration  I  And  therefore  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  learned  and  de- 
vout a  father  as  St.  Jerome,  after  his  wish  to 
have  seen  Christ  in  the  flesh,  and  to  have  heard 
St.  Paul  preach,  makes  his  third  wish,  to  have 
seen  Rome  in  her  glory:  and  that  glory  is  not 
yet  all  lost,  for  what  pleasure  is  it  to  see  the 
monuments  of  Livy,  the  choicest  of  the  his- 
torians; of  Tally,  the  best  of  orators;  and  to 
see  the  bay-trees  that  now  grow  out  of  the  very 
tomb  of  Virgil !  These,  to  any  that  love  learn- 
ing, must  be  pleasing.  But  what  pleasure  is  it 
to  a  devout  Christian  to  see  there  the  humble 
house  in  which  St.  Paul  was  content  to  dwell, 
and  to  view  the  many  rich  statues  that  are  made 
in  honour  of  his  memory !  Nay,  to  see  the 
very  place  in  which  St.  Peter  and  he  lie  buried 
together:  These  are  in  and  near  to  Rome. 
And  how  much  more  doth  it  please  the  pious 
curiosity  of  a  Christian  to  see  that  place  on 
which  the  blessed  Saviour  of  the  world  was 
pleased  to  humble  himself,  and  to  take  our 
nature  upon  him,  and  to  converse  with  men: 
to  see  INIount  Sion,  Jerusalem,  and  the  very 
sepulchre  of  our  Lord  Jesus!  How  may  it 
beget  and  heighten  the  zeal  of  a  Christian, 
to  see  the  devotions  that  are  daily  paid  to  him 
at  that  place !  Gentlemen,  lest  I  forget  my- 
self, I  will  stop  here,  and  remember  you,  that 
but  for  my  element  of  water,  the  inhabitants 
of  this  poor  island  must  remain  ignorant  that 
such  things  ever  were,  or  that  any  of  them 
have  yet  a  being. 

Gentlemen,  I  might  both  enlarge  and  lose 
myself  in  suchlike  arguments.  I  might  tell 
you  that  Almighty  God  is  said  to  have  spoken 
to  a  fish,  but  never  to  a  beast;  that  he  hath 
made  a  whale  a  ship,   to  carry  and  set  his 


no 


IZAAK   WALTON 


prophet,  Jonah,  safe  on  the  appointed  shore. 
Of  these  I  might  speak,  but  I  must  in  manners 
break  off,  for  I  see  Theobald's  House.  I  cry 
you  mercy  for  being  so  long,  and  thank  you 
for  your  patience. 

Auceps.  Sir,  my  pardon  is  easily  granted 
you:  I  except  against  nothing  that  you  have 
said :  nevertheless,  I  must  part  with  you  at  this 
park  wall,  for  which  I  am  very  sorry;  but  I 
assure  you,  Mr.  Piscator,  I  now  part  with  you 
full  of  good  thoughts,  not  only  of  yourself  but 
your  recreation.  And  so.  Gentlemen,  God 
keep  you  both. 

Piscator.  Well  now,  Mr.  Venator,  you  shall 
neither  want  time  nor  my  attention  to  hear  you 
enlarge  your  discourse  concerning  hunting. 

Venator.  Not  I,  Sir:  I  remember  you  said 
thai  Angling  itself  was  of  great  antiquity,  and 
a  perfect  art,  and  an  art  not  easily  attained  to ; 
and  you  have  so  won  upon  me  in  your  former 
discourse,  that  I  am  very  desirous  to  hear  what 
you  can  say  further  concerning  those  particu- 
lars. 

Piscator.  Sir,  I  did  say  so :  and  I  doubt  not 
but  if  you  and  I  did  converse  together  but  a 
few  hours,  to  leave  you  possessed  with  the 
same  high  and  happy  thoughts  that  now  pos- 
sess me  of  it;  not  only  of  the  antiquity  of 
Angling,  but  that  it  deserves  commendations; 
and  that  it  is  an  art,  and  an  art  worthy  the 
knowledge  and  practice  of  a  wise  man. 

Venator.  Pray,  Sir,  speak  of  them  what  you 
think  fit,  for  we  have  yet  five  miles  to  the 
Thatched  House;  during  which  walk,  I  dare 
promise  you,  my  patience  and  diligent  atten- 
tion shall  not  be  wanting.  And  if  you  shall 
make  that  to  appear  which  you  have  under- 
taken, first,  that  it  is  an  art,  and  an  art  worth 
the  learning,  I  shall  beg  that  I  may  attend  you 
a  day  or  two  a-fishing,  and  that  I  may  become 
your  scholar,  and  be  instructed  in  the  art  itself 
which  you  so  much  magnify. 

Piscator.  O,  Sir,  doubt  not  but  that  Angling 
is  an  art;  is  it  not  an  art  to  deceive  a  Trout 
with  an  artificial  fly  ?  a  Trout !  that  is  more 
sharp-sighted  than  any  Hawk  you  have  named, 
and  more  watchful  and  timorous  than  your 
high-mettled  Merlin  is  bold?  and  yet  I  doubt 
not  to  catch  a  brace  or  two  to-morrow  for  a 
friend's  breakfast:  doubt  not,  therefore,  Sir, 
but  that  Angling  is  an  art,  and  an  art  worth 
your  learning.  The  question  is  rather,  whether 
you  be  capable  of  learning  it?  for  Angling  is 
somewhat  like  poetry,  men  are  to  be  born  so: 
I  mean,  v.'ith  inclinations  to  it,  though  both 
may  be  heightened  by  discourse  and  practice: 


but  he  that  hopes  to  be  a  good  angler,  must  not 
only  bring  an  inquiring,  searching,  observing 
wit,  but  he  must  bring  a  large  measure  of 
hope  and  patience,  and  a  love  and  propensity 
to  the  art  itself ;  but  having  once  got  and  prac- 
tised it,  then  doubt  not  but  Angling  will  prove 
to  be  so  pleasant,  that  it  will  prove  to  be,  like 
virtue,  a  reward  to  itself. 

Venator.  Sir,  I  am  now  become  so  full  of 
expectation,  that  I  long  much  to  have  you  pro- 
ceed, and  in  the  order  that  you  propose. 

Piscator.  Then  first,  for  the  antiquity  of 
Angling,  of  which  I  shall  not  say  much,  but 
only  this;  some  say  it  is  as  ancient  as  Deuca- 
lion's flood:  others,  that  Belus,  who  was  the 
first  inventor  of  godly  and  virtuous  recreations, 
was  the  first  inventor  of  Angling:  and  some 
others  say,  for  former  times  have  had  their 
disquisitions  about  the  antiquity  of  it,  that 
Seth,  one  of  the  sons  of  Adam,  taught  it  to  his 
sons,  and  that  by  them  it  was  derived  to  pos- 
terity: others  say  that  he  left  it  engraven  on 
those  pillars  which  he  erected,  and  trusted  to 
preserve  the  knowledge  of  the  mathematics, 
music,  and  the  rest  of  that  precious  knowledge, 
and  those  useful  arts,  which  by  God's  appoint- 
ment or  allowance,  and  his  noble  industry, 
were  thereby  preserved  from  perishing  in 
Noah's   flood. 

These,  Sir,  have  been  the  opinions  of  several 
men,  that  have  possibly  endeavoured  to  make 
Angling  more  ancient  than  is  needful,  or  may 
well  be  warranted;  but  for  my  part,  I  shall 
content  myself  in  telling  you  that  Angling  is 
much  more  ancient  than  the  incarnation  of 
our  Saviour;  for  in  the  Prophet  Amos  mention 
is  made  of  fish-hooks;  and  in  the  Book  of  Job, 
which  was  long  before  the  days  of  Amos,  for 
that  book  is  said  to  have  been  written  by 
Moses,  mention  is  made  also  of  fish-hooks, 
which  must  imply  anglers  in  those  times. 

But,  my  worthy  friend,  as  I  would  rather 
prove  myself  a  gentleman,  by  being  learned 
and  humble,  valiant  and  inoifensive,  virtuous 
and  communicable,  than  by  any  fond  ostenta- 
tion of  riches,  or,  wanting  those  virtues  myself, 
boast  that  these  were  in  my  ancestors;  and  yet 
I  grant,  that  where  a  noble  and  ancient  descent 
and  such  merit  meet  in  any  man,  it  is  a  double 
dignification  of  that  person;  so  if  this  antiquity 
of  Angling,  which  for  my  part  I  have  not 
forced,  shall,  like  an  ancient  family,  be  either 
an  honour  or  an  ornament  to  this  virtuous  art 
which  I  profess  to  love  and  practise,  I  shall  be 
the  gladder  that  I  made  an  accidental  mention 
of  the  antiquity  of  it,  of  which  I  shall  say  no 


SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE 


III 


more,  but  proceed  to  that  just  commendation 
which  I  think  it  deserves 


SIR   THOMAS   BROWNE    (1605-1682) 

From   RELIGIO   MEDICI 

CHARITY 

I.  Now  for  that  other  virtue  of  charity,  with- 
out which  faith  is  a  mere  notion,  and  of  no  ex- 
istence, I  have  ever  endeavoured  to  nourish 
the  merciful  disposition  and  humane  incHna- 
tion  I  borrowed  from  my  parents,  and  regulate 
it  to  the  written  and  prescribed  laws  of  charity : 
and  if  I  hold  the  true  anatomy  of  myself,  I  am 
delineated  and  naturally  framed  to  such  a  piece 
of  virtue;  for  I  am  of  a  constitution  so  gen- 
eral, that  it  consorts  and  sympathiseth  with 
all  things:  I  have  no  antipathy,  or  rather  idio- 
syncrasy, in  diet,  humour,  air,  anything.  I 
wonder  not  at  the  French  for  their  dishes  of 
frogs,  snails,  and  toadstools;  nor  at  the  Jews 
for  locusts  and  grasshoppers;  but  being 
amongst  them,  make  them  my  common  viands, 
and  I  find  they  agree  with  my  stomach  as  well 
as  theirs.  I  could  digest  a  salad  gathered  in  a 
churchyard,  as  well  as  in  a  garden.  I  cannot 
start  at  the  presence  of  a  serpent,  scorpion, 
lizard,  or  salamander:  at  the  sight  of  a  toad  or 
viper,  I  find  in  me  no  desire  to  take  up  a  stone 
to  destroy  them.  I  feel  not  in  myself  those 
common  antipathies  that  I  can  discover  in 
others:  those  national  repugnances  do  not 
touch  me,  nor  do  I  behold  with  prejudice  the 
French,  Italian,  Spaniard,  or  Dutch :  but  where 
I  find  their  actions  in  balance  with  my  country- 
men's, I  honour,  love,  and  embrace  them  in 
the  same  degree.  I  was  born  in  the  eighth 
climate,  but  seem  for  to  be  framed  and  con- 
stellated unto  all:  I  am  no  plant  that  will  not 
prosper  out  of  a  garden;  all  places,  all  airs, 
make  unto  me  one  country;  I  am  in  England, 
everywhere,  and  under  any  meridian;  I  have 
been  shipwrecked,  yet  am  not  enemy  with  the 
sea  or  winds;  I  can  study,  play,  or  sleep  in  a 
tempest.  In  brief,  I  am  averse  from  nothing: 
my  conscience  would  give  me  the  lie  if  I  should 
absolutely  detest  or  hate  any  essence  but  the 
devil;  or  so  at  least  abhor  anything,  but  that 
we  might  come  to  composition.  If  there  be 
any  among  those  common  objects  of  hatred 
I  do  contemn  and  laugh  at,  it  is  that  great 
enemy  of  reason,  virtue,  and  religion,  the 
multitude:  that  numerous  piece  of  monstros- 
ity, which,  taken  asunder,  seem  men,  and  the 


reasonable  creatures  of  God;  but  confused 
together,  make  but  one  great  beast,  and  a  mon- 
strosity more  prodigious  than  Hydra:  it  is  no 
breach  of  charity  to  call  these  fools;  it  is  the 
style  all  holy  writers  have  afforded  them,  set 
down  by  Solomon  in  canonical  Scripture,  and 
a  point  of  our  faith  to  believe  so.  Neither  in 
the  name  of  multitude  do  I  only  include  the 
base  and  minor  sort  of  people ;  there  is  a  rabble 
even  amongst  the  gentry,  a  sort  of  plebeian 
heads,  whose  fancy  moves  with  the  same  wheel 
as  these;  men  in  the  same  level  with  me- 
chanics, though  their  fortunes  do  somewhat 
gild  their  infirmities,  and  their  purses  compound 
for  their  follies.  But  as  in  casting  account, 
three  or  four  men  together  come  short  in  ac- 
count of  one  man  placed  by  himself  below  them ; 
so  neither  are  a  troop  of  these  ignorant  Dora- 
does  '  of  that  true  esteem  and  value,  as  many  a 
forlorn  person,  whose  condition  doth  place  him 
below  their  feet.  Let  us  speak  like  politicians:  ^ 
there  is  a  nobility  without  heraldry,  a  natural 
dignity,  whereby  one  man  is  ranked  with 
another,  another  filed  before  him,  according 
to  the  quality  of  his  desert,  and  preeminence 
of  his  good  parts.  Though  the  corruption  of 
these  times  and  the  bias  of  present  practice 
wheel  another  way,  thus  it  was  in  the  first  and 
primitive  commonwealths,  and  is  yet  in  the 
integrity  and  cradle  of  well-ordered  politics, 
till  corruption  getteth  ground;  ruder  desires 
labouring  after  that  which  wiser  considerations 
contemn,  every  one  having  a  liberty  to  amass 
and  heap  up  riches,  and  they  a  license  or 
faculty  to  do  or  purchase  anything. 

II.  This  general  and  indifferent  temper  of 
mine  doth  more  nearly  dispose  me  to  this 
noble  virtue.  It  is  a  happiness  to  be  born  and 
framed  unto  virtue,  and  to  grow  up  from  the 
seeds  of  nature,  rather  than  the  inoculation  and 
forced  graff  ^  of  education:  yet  if  we  are  di- 
rected only  by  our  particular  natures,  and 
regulate  our  inclinations  by  no  higher  rule  than 
that  of  our  reasons,  we  are  but  moralists;  divin- 
ity will  still  call  us  heathens.  Therefore  this 
great  work  of  charity  must  have  other  motives, 
ends,  and  impulsions.  I  give  no  alms  to  satisfy 
the  hunger  of  my  brother,  but  to  fulfil  and 
accomplish  the  will  and  command  of  my  God : 
I  draw  not  my  purse  for  his  sake  that  demands 
it,  but  His  that  enjoined  it:  I  relieve  no  man 
upon  the  rhetoric  of  his  miseries,  nor  to  content 
mine  own  commiserating  disposition;    for  this 

'  gilded  ones  ^  men  who  understand  the  organi- 
zation of  society         *  grafting 


112 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE 


is  still  but  moral  charity,  and  an  act  that  oweth 
more  to  passion  than  reason.  He  that  relieves 
another  upon  the  bare  suggestion  and  bowels 
of  pity,  doth  not  this  so  much  for  his  sake 
as  for  his  own;  for  by  compassion  we  make 
others'  misery  our  own,  and  so,  by  relieving 
them,  we  relieve  ourselves  also.  It  is  as 
erroneous  a  conceit  to  redress  other  men's  mis- 
fortunes upon  the  common  consideration  of 
merciful  natures,  that  it  may  be  one  day  our 
own  case;  for  this  is  a  sinister  and  politic  kind 
of  charity,  whereby  we  seem  to  bespeak  the 
pities  of  men  in  the  like  occasions.  And  truly 
I  have  observed  that  those  professed  eleemosy- 
naries, though  in  a  crowd  of  multitude,  do 
yet  direct  and  place  their  petitions  on  a  few  and 
selected  persons :  there  is  surely  a  physiognomy, 
which  those  experienced  and  master  mendi- 
cants observe,  whereby  they  instantly  dis- 
cover a  merciful  aspect,  and  will  single  out  a 
face  wherein  they  spy  the  signatures  and  marks 
of  mercy.  For  there  are  mystically  in  our  faces 
certain  characters  which  carry  in  them  the  motto 
of  our  souls,  wherein  he  that  cannot  read  ABC 
may  read  our  natures.  I  hold,  moreover,  that 
there  is  a  phytognomy,  or  physiognomy,  not 
only  of  men,  but  of  plants  and  vegetables: 
and  in  every  one  of  them  some  outward  figures 
which  hang  as  signs  or  bushes  of  their  inward 
forms.  The  finger  of  God  hath  left  an  inscrip- 
tion upon  all  his  works,  not  graphical  or  com- 
posed of  letters,  but  of  their  several  forms,  con- 
stitutions, parts,  and  operations,  which,  aptly 
joined  together,  do  make  one  word  that  doth 
express  their  natures.  By  these  letters  God 
calls  the  stars  by  their  names;  and  by  this 
alphabet  Adam  assigned  to  every  creature  a 
name  peculiar  to  its  nature.  Now  there  are, 
besides  these  characters  in  our  faces,  certain 
mystical  figures  in  our  hands,  which  I  dare  not 
call  mere  dashes,  strokes  a  la  volee,  or  at  ran- 
dom, because  delineated  by  a  pencil  that  never 
works  in  vain;  and  hereof  I  take  more  par- 
ticular notice,  because  I  carry  that  in  mine 
own  hand  which  I  could  never  read  of  nor  dis- 
cover in  another.  Aristotle,  I  confess,  in  his 
acute  and  singular  book  of  physiognomy,  hath 
made  no  mention  of  chiromancy;  yet  I  believe 
the  Egyptians,  who  were  nearer  addicted  to 
those  abstruse  and  mystical  sciences,  had  a 
knowledge  therein,  to  which  those  vagabond 
and  counterfeit  Egyptians  did  after  pretend, 
and  perhaps  retained  a  few  corrupted  prin- 
ciples, which  sometimes  might  verify  their 
prognostics. 

It  is  the  common  wonder  of  all  men,  how 


among  so  many  millions  of  faces  there  should 
be  none  alike.  Now,  contrary,  I  wonder  as 
much  how  there  should  be  any:  he  that  shall 
consider  how  many  thousand  several  words 
have  been  carelessly  and  without  study  com- 
posed out  of  twenty-four  letters;  withal,  how 
many  hundred  lines  there  are  to  be  drawn  in 
the  fabric  of  one  man,  shall  easily  find  that 
this  variety  is  necessary;  and  it  will  be  very 
hard  that  they  shall  so  concur  as  to  make  one 
portrait  like  another.  Let  a  painter  carelessly 
limn  out  a  million  of  faces,  and  you  shall  find 
them  all  different;  yea,  let  him  have  his  copy 
before  him,  yet  after  all  his  art  there  will  re- 
main a  sensible  distinction;  for  the  pattern  or 
example  of  everything  is  the  perfectest  in  that 
kind,  whereof  we  still  come  short,  though  we 
transcend  or  go  beyond  it,  because  herein  it  is 
wide,  and  agrees  not  in  all  points  unto  its  copy. 
Nor  doth  the  similitude  of  creatures  disparage 
the  variety  of  nature,  nor  any  way  confound 
the  works  of  God.  For  even  in  things  alike 
there  is  diversity;  and  those  that  do  seem  to 
accord  do  manifestly  disagree.  And  thus  is 
man  like  God;  for  in  the  same  things  that  we 
resemble  him,  we  are  utterly  different  from 
him.  There  was  never  anything  so  like  another 
as  in  all  points  to  concur:  there  will  ever  some 
reserved  difference  slip  in,  to  prevent  the  iden- 
tity, without  which  two  several  things  would 
not  be  alike,  but  the  same,  which  is  impossible. 
III.  But  to  return  from  philosophy  to  char- 
ity: I  hold  not  so  narrow  a  conceit  of  this  virtue, 
as  to  conceive  that  to  give  alms  is  only  to  be 
charitable,  or  think  a  piece  of  liberality  can 
comprehend  the  total  of  charity.  Divinity 
hath  wisely  divided  the  act  thereof  into  many 
branches,  and  hath  taught  us  in  this  narrow 
way  many  paths  unto  goodness;  as  many  ways 
as  we  may  do  good,  so  many  ways  we  may  be 
charitable:  there  are  infirmities  not  only  of 
body,  but  of  soul,  and  fortunes,  which  do  re- 
quire the  merciful  hand  of  our  abilities.  I 
cannot  contemn  a  man  for  ignorance,  but 
behold  him  with  as  much  pity  as  I  do  Lazarus. 
It  is  no  greater  charity  to  clothe  his  body, 
than  apparel  the  nakedness  of  his  soul.  It  is 
an  honourable  object  to  see  the  reasons  of  other 
men  wear  our  liveries,  and  their  borrowed 
understandings  do  homage  to  the  bounty  of 
ours:  it  is  the  cheapest  way  of  beneficence, 
and,  like  the  natural  charity  of  the  sun,  illumi- 
nates another  without  obscuring  itself.  To  be 
reserved  and  caitiff  in  this  part  of  goodness,  is 
the  sordidest  piece  of  covetousness,  and  more 
contemptible  than  pecuniary  avarice.     To  this 


CHARITY 


113 


(as  calling  myself  a  scholar)  I  am  obliged  by 
the  duty  of  my  condition :  I  make  not  therefore 
my  head  a  grave,  but  a  treasury  of  knowledge: 
I  intend  no  monopoly,  but  a  community  in 
learning:  I  study  not  for  my  own  sake  only, 
but  for  theirs  that  study  not  for  themselves.  I 
envy  no  man  that  knows  more  than  myself,  but 
pity  them  that  know  less.  I  instruct  no  man  as 
an  exercise  of  my  knowledge,  or  with  an  intent 
rather  to  nourish  and  keep  it  alive  in  mine  own 
head  than  beget  and  propagate  it  in  his:  and 
in  the  midst  of  all  my  endeavours,  there  is  but 
one  thought  that  dejects  me,  that  my  acquired 
parts  must  perish  with  myself,  nor  can  be 
legacied  among  my  honoured  friends.  I  can- 
not fall  out  or  contemn  a  man  for  an  error,  or 
conceive  why  a  difference  in  opinion  should 
divide  an  affection ;  for  controversies,  disputes, 
and  argumentations,  both  in  philosophy  and  in 
divinity,  if  they  meet  with  discreet  and  peace- 
able natures,  do  not  infringe  the  laws  of  char- 
ity. In  all  disputes,  so  much  as  there  is  of 
passion,  so  much  there  is  of  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose; for  then  reason,  like  a  bad  hound,  spends 
upon  a  false  scent,  and  forsakes  the  question  first 
started.  And  in  this  is  one  reason  why  con- 
troversies are  never  determined;  for  though 
they  be  amply  proposed,  they  are  scarce  at  all 
handled;  they  do  so  swell  with  unnecessary 
digressions,  and  the  parenthesis  on  the  party  is 
often  as  large  as  the  main  discourse  upon  the 
subject.  The  foundations  of  religion  are 
already  established,  and  the  principles  of  sal- 
vation subscribed  unto  by  all:  there  remain 
not  many  controversies  worth  a  passion;  and 
yet  never  any  disputed  without,  not  only  in  di- 
vinity, but  inferior  arts.  What  a  jSaTpaxofxvo- 
fjuixia. '  and  hot  skirmish  is  betwixt  S  and  T  in 
Lucian  ?  ^  How  do  grammarians  hack  and 
slash  for  the  genitive  case  in  Jupiter!  How 
they  do  break  their  own  pates  to  salve  that  of 
Priscian !  Siforet  in  terris,  rideret  Dcmocritus} 
Yea,  even  amongst  wiser  militants,  how  many 
wounds  have  been  given,  and  credits  slain,  for 
the  poor  victory  of  an  opinion,  or  beggarly 
conquest  of  a  distinction !  Scholars  are  men 
of  peace,  they  bear  no  arms,  but  their  tongues 
are  sharper  than  Actius  his  razor;  their  pens 
carry  farther,  and  give  a  louder  report  than 
thunder:  I  had  rather  stand  in  the  shock  of  a 
basilisco,  than  in  the  fury  of  a  merciless  pen. 

^  Battle  of  Frogs  and  Mice  ^  Lucian  represents 
Sigma  as  complaining  that  Tau  has  usurped  his 
place  in  many  words.  ^  If  Democritus  were  on  earth, 
he  would  laugh  at  them. 


It  is  not  mere  zeal  to  learning,  or  devotion  to 
the  Muses,  that  wiser  princes  patron  the  arts, 
and  carry  an  indulgent  aspect  unto  scholars; 
but  a  desire  to  have  their  names  eternised  by 
the  memory  of  their  writings,  and  a  fear  of  the 
revengeful  pen  of  succeeding  ages;  for  these 
are  the  men  that,  when  they  have  played  their 
parts  and  had  their  exits,  must  step  out  and 
give  the  moral  of  their  scenes,  and  deliver  unto 
posterity  an  inventory  of  their  virtues  and  vices. 
And  surely  there  goes  a  great  deal  of  conscience 
to  the  compiling  of  an  history:  there  is  no 
reproach  to  the  scandal  of  a  story;  it  is  such 
an  authentic  kind  of  falsehood  that  with  author- 
ity belies  our  good  names  to  all  nations  and 
posterity. 

IV.  There  is  another  offence  unto  charity, 
which  no  author  hath  ever  written  of,  and  few 
take  notice  of;  and  that's  the  reproach,  not  of 
whole  professions,  mysteries,  and  conditions, 
but  of  whole  nations,  wherein  by  opprobrious 
epithets  we  miscall  each  other,  and  by  an  un- 
charitable logic,  from  a  disposition  in  a  few, 
conclude  a  habit  in  all.  St.  Paul,  that  calls 
the  Cretans  liars,  doth  it  but  indirectly,  and 
upon  quotation  of  their  own  poet.  It  is  as 
bloody  a  thought  in  one  way,  as  Nero's  was  in 
another;  for  by  a  word  we  wound  a  thousand, 
and  at  one  blow  assasine  the  honour  of  a  nation. 
It  is  as  complete  a  piece  of  madness  to  miscall 
and  rave  against  the  times,  or  think  to  recall 
men  to  reason  by  a  fit  of  passion.  Democritus, 
that  thought  to  laugh  the  times  into  goodness, 
seems  to  me  as  deeply  hypochondriac  as  Her- 
aclitus  that  bewailed  them.  It  moves  not  my 
spleen  to  behold  the  multitude  in  their  proper 
humours,  that  is,  in  their  fits  of  folly  and  mad- 
ness; as  well  understanding  that  wisdom  is 
not  profaned  unto  the  world,  and  'tis  the 
privilege  of  a  few  to  be  virtuous.  They  that 
endeavour  to  abolish  vice,  destroy  also  virtue; 
for  contraries,  though  they  destroy  one  another, 
are  yet  the  life  of  one  another.  Thus  virtue 
(abolish  vice)  is  an  idea.  Again,  the  com- 
munity of  sin  doth  not  disparage  goodness; 
for  when  vice  gains  upon  the  major  part,  virtue, 
in  whom  it  remains,  becomes  more  excellent; 
and  being  lost  in  some,  multiplies  its  goodness 
in  others  which  remain  untouched,  and  per- 
sists entire  in  the  general  inundation.  I  can 
therefore  behold  vice  without  a  satire,  content 
only  with  an  admonition,  or  instructive  repre- 
hension; for  noble  natures,  and  such  as  are 
capable  of  goodness,  are  railed  into  vice,  that 
might  as  easily  be  admonished  into  virtue;  and 
we  should  be  all  so  far  the  orators  of  goodness, 


114 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE 


as  to  protect  her  from  the  power  of  vice,  and 
maintain  tlie  cause  of  injured  truth.  No  man 
can  justly  censure  or  condemn  another,  because 
indeed  no  man  truly  knows  another.  This  I 
perceive  in  myself;  for  I  am  in  the  dark  to  all 
the  world,  and  my  nearest  friends  behold  me  but 
in  a  cloud:  those  that  know  me  but  super- 
ficially, think  less  of  me  than  I  do  of  myself; 
those  of  my  near  acquaintance  think  more. 
God,  who  truly  knows  me,  knows  that  I  am 
nothing;  for  He  only  beholds  me  and  all  the 
world,  who  looks  not  on  us  through  a  derived 
ray,  or  a  trajection  of  a  sensible  species,  but- 
beholds  the  substance  without  the  help  of  acci- 
dents, and  the  forms  of  things  as  we  their  opera- 
tions. Further,  no  man  can  judge  another, 
because  no  man  knows  himself:  for  we  cen- 
sure others  but  as  they  disagree  from  that 
humour  which  we  fancy  laudable  in  ourselves, 
and  commend  others  but  for  that  wherein  they 
seem  to  quadrate  and  consent  with  us.  So 
that  in  conclusion,  all  is  but  that  we  all  con- 
demn, self-love.  'Tis  the  general  complaint 
of  these  times,  and  perhaps  of  those  past,  that 
charity  grows  cold;  which  I  perceive  most 
verified  in  those  which  most  do  manifest  the 
fires  and  flames  of  zeal;  for  it  is  a  virtue  that 
best  agrees  with  coldest  natures,  and  such  as 
are  complexioned  for  humility.  But  how  shall 
we  expect  charity  towards  others,  when  we  are 
uncharitable  to  ourselves?  Charity  begins  at 
home,  is  the  voice  of  the  world;  yet  is  every 
man  his  greatest  enemy,  and  as  it  were  his 
own  executioner.  Non  occides,^  is  the  com- 
mandment of  God,  yet  scarce  observed  by 
any  man ;  for  I  perceive  every  man  is  his  own 
Atropos,  and  lends  a  hand  to  cut  the  thread 
of  his  own  days.  Cain  was  not  therefore  the 
first  murderer,  but  Adam,  who  brought  in 
death;  whereof  he  beheld  the  practice  and  ex- 
ample in  his  own  son  Abel,  and  saw  that  veri- 
fied in  the  experience  of  another,  which  faith 
could  not  persuade  him  in  the  theory  of  him- 
self. 

V.  There  is,  I  think,  no  man  that  appre- 
hendeth  his  own  miseries  less  than  myself,  and 
no  man  that  so  nearly  apprehends  another's. 
I  could  lose  an  arm  without  a  tear,  and  with 
few  groans,  methinks,  be  quartered  into  pieces; 
yet  can  I  weep  most  seriously  at  a  play,  and 
receive  with  a  true  passion  the  counterfeit 
griefs  of  those  known  and  professed  impostures. 
It  is  a  barbarous  part  of  inhumanity  to  add 
unto  any  afflicted  party's  misery,  or  endeavour 

'  Tfiou  shaft  not  kifl. 


to  multiply  in  any  man  a  passion  whose  single 
nature  is  already  above  his  patience:  this  was 
the  greatest  affliction  of  Job;  and  those  ob- 
lique expostulations  of  his  friends,  a  deeper 
injury  than  the  downright  blows  of  the  devil. 
It  is  not  the  tears  of  our  own  eyes  only,  but  of 
our  friends  also,  that  do  exhaust  the  current  of 
our  sorrows;  which  falling  into  many  streams, 
runs  more  peaceably,  and  is  contented  with  a 
narrower  channel.  It  is  an  act  within  the  power 
of  charity,  to  translate  a  passion  out  of  one 
breast  into  another,  and  to  divide  a  sorrow 
almost  out  of  itself;  for  an  affliction,  like  a 
dimension,  may  be  so  divided,  as,  if  not  in- 
visible, at  least  to  become  insensible.  Now 
with  my  friend  I  desire  not  to  share  or  partici- 
pate, but  to  engross  his  sorrows,  that,  by  mak- 
ing them  mine  own,  I  may  more  easily  discuss 
them;  for  in  mine  own  reason,  and  within  my- 
self, I  can  command  that  which  I  cannot  in- 
treat  without  myself,  and  within  the  circle  of 
another.  I  have  often  thought  those  noble 
pairs  and  examples  of  friendship  not  so  truly 
histories  of  what  had  been,  as  fictions  of  what 
should  be :  but  I  now  perceive  nothing  in  them 
but  possibilities,  nor  anything  in  the  heroic 
examples  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  Achilles  and 
Patroclus,  which  methinks  upon  some  grounds 
I  could  not  perform  within  the  narrow  compass 
of  myself.  That  a  man  should  lay  down  his 
life  for  his  friend,  seems  strange  to  vulgar  af- 
fections, and  such  as  confine  themselves  within 
that  worldly  principle,  Cliarity  begins  at  home. 
For  mine  own  part,  I  could  never  remember 
the  relations  that  I  held  unto  myself,  nor  the 
respect  that  I  owe  unto  my  own  nature,  in  the 
cause  of  God,  my  country,  and  my  friends. 
Next  to  these  three,  I  do  embrace  myself.  I 
confess  I  do  not  observe  that  order  that  the 
schools  ordain  our  affections,  to  love  our 
parents,  wives,  children,  and  then  our  friends; 
for  excepting  the  injunctions  of  religion,  I  do 
not  find  in  myself  such  a  necessary  and  in- 
dissoluble sympathy  to  all  those  of  my  blood. 
I  hope  I  do  not  break  the  fifth  commandment, 
if  I  conceive  I  may  love  my  friend  before  the 
nearest  of  my  blood,  even  those  to  whom  I  owe 
the  principles  of  life;  I  never  yet  cast  a  true 
affection  on  a  woman;  but  I  have  loved  my 
friend  as  I  do  virtue,  my  soul,  my  God.  From 
hence  methinks  I  do  conceive  how  God  loves 
man,  what  happiness  there  is  in  the  love  of 
God.  Omitting  all  other,  there  are  three  most 
mystical  unions;  two  natures  in  one  person; 
three  persons  in  one  nature;  one  soul  in  two 
bodies.     For    though    indeed    they    be    really 


HYDRIOTAPHIA:    URN-BURIAL 


"5 


divided,  yet  are  they  so  united  as  they  seem  but 
one,  and  make  rather  a  duaUty  than  two  dis- 
tinct souls.  .  .  . 


HYDRIOTAPHIA:    URN-BURIAL 

CHAPTER   V 

Now,  since  these  dead  bones  have  already 
outlasted  the  living  ones  of  Methuselah,  and, 
in  a  yard  under  ground,  and  thin  walls  of  clay, 
outworn  all  the  strong  and  specious  buildings 
above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under  the  drums 
and  tramplings  of  three  conquests;  what  prince 
can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto  his  relics,  or 
might  not  gladly  say, 

"Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  vdim."  ' 

Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and  hath 
an  art  to  make  dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet 
spared  these  minor  monuments.  In  vain  we 
hope  to  be  known  by  open  and  visible  con- 
servatories, when  to  be  unknown  was  the  means 
of  their  continuation,  and  obscurity  their  pro- 
tection. 

If  they  died  by  violent  hands,  and  were 
thrust  into  their  urns,  these  bones  become 
considerable,  and  some  old  philosophers  would 
honour  them,  whose  souls  they  conceived  most 
pure,  which  were  thus  snatched  from  their 
bodies,  and  to  retain  a  stronger  propension 
unto  them;  whereas,  they  weariedly  left  a 
languishing  corpse,  and  with  faint  desires  of 
reunion.  If  they  fell  by  long  and  aged  decay, 
yet  wrapped  up  in  the  bundle  of  time,  they 
fall  into  indistinction,  and  make  but  one  blot 
with  infants.  If  we  begin  to  die  when  we  live, 
and  long  life  be  but  a  prolongation  of  death, 
our  life  is  a  sad  composition;  we  live  with 
death,  and  die  not  in  a  moment.  How  many 
pulses  made  up  the  life  of  Methuselah,  were 
work  for  Archimedes.  Common  counters  sum 
up  the  life  of  Moses's  man.  Our  days  become 
considerable,  like  petty  sums  by  minute  ac- 
cumulations, where  numerous  fractions  make 
up  but  small  round  numbers,  and  our  days 
of  a  span  long  make  not  one  little  finger. 

If  the  nearness  of  our  last  necessity  brought 
a  nearer  conformity  unto  it,  there  were  a  hap- 
piness in  hoary  hairs,  and  no  calamity  in  half 
senses.  But  the  long  habit  of  living  indispos- 
eth  us  for  dying;  when  avarice  makes  us  the 
sport  of  death;  when  even  David  grew  politi- 
cally  cruel;     and    Solomon   could   hardly  be 

'  Would  that  I  were  turned  into  bones ! 


said  to  be  the  wLsest  of  men.  But  many  are 
too  early  old,  and  before  the  date  of  age. 
Adversity  stretcheth  our  days,  misery  makes 
Alcmena's  nights,  and  time  hath  no  wings 
unto  it.  But  the  most  tedious  being  is  that 
which  can  unwish  itself,  content  to  be  noth- 
ing, or  never  to  have  been;  which  was  beyond 
the  malecontcnt  of  Job,  who  cursed  not  the 
dav  of  his  life,  but  his  nativity,  content  to  have 
so 'far  been  as  to  have  a  title  to  future  being, 
although  he  had  lived  here  but  in  a  hidden 
state  of  life,  and  as  it  were  an  abortion. 

What  song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what  name 
Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  himself  among 
women,  though  puzzling  questions,  are  not  be- 
yond all  conjecture.     What  time  the  persons 
of  these  ossuaries  entered  the  famous  nations 
of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  coun- 
sellors,   might    admit    a    wide    solution.     But 
who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones,  or 
what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  ques- 
tion above  antiquarianism;    not  to  be  resolved 
by  man,  nor  easily  perhaps  by  spirits,  except 
we  consult  the  provincial  guardians  or  tutelary 
observators.     Had  they  made  as  good  provi- 
sion for  their  names  as  they  have  done  for  their 
relics,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art 
of  perpetuation.     But  to  subsist  in  bones,  and 
be  but  pyramidally  e.xtant,  is  a  fallacy  in  du- 
ration.    Vain   ashes,  which  in   the  oblivion  of 
names,  persons,  times,  and  se.xes,  have  found 
unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and 
only  arise  unto  late  posterity,  as  emblems  of 
mortal  vanities,  antidotes  against  pride,  vain- 
glory, and  madding  vices.     Pagan  vainglories, 
which   thought  the  world  might  last  forever, 
had  encouragement  for  ambition;    and  finding 
no  Atropos  unto  the  immortality  of  their  names, 
were  never  damped  with  the  necessity  of  obliv- 
ion.    Even  old  ambitions  had  the  advantage 
of  ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their  vainglories, 
who,   acting  early,    and   before   the   probable 
meridian  of  time,  have  by  this  time  found  great 
accomplishment  of  their  designs,  whereby  the 
ancient    heroes   have    already   outlasted    their 
monuments     and     mechanical     preservations. 
But  in  this  latter  scene  of  time  we  cannot  ex- 
pect such  mummies  unto  our  memories,  when 
ambition  may  fear  the  prophecy  of  Elias,  and 
Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  expect  to  live  within 
two  Methuselahs  of  Hector. 

And  therefore  restless  inquietude  for  the 
diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto  present  con- 
siderations, seems  a  vanity  almost  out  of  date, 
and  superannuated  piece  of  folly.  We  cannot 
hope  to  live  so  long  in  our  names  as  some  have 


ii6 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE 


done  in  their  persons.  One  face  of  Janus  holds 
no  proportion  unto  the  other.  'Tis  too  late 
to  be  ambitious.  The  great  mutations  of  the 
world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too  short  for 
our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories  by 
monuments,  whose  death  we  daily  pray  for, 
and  whose  duration  we  cannot  hope,  without 
injury  to  our  expectations,  in  the  advent  of  the 
last  day,  were  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs. 
We,  whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this 
setting  part  of  time,  are  providentially  taken 
off  from  such  imaginations;  and  being  neces- 
sitated to  eye  the  remaining  particle  of  futurity, 
are  naturally  constituted  unto  thoughts  of  the 
next  world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the 
consideration  of  that  duration,  which  maketh 
pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all  that's  past  a 
moment. 

Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all 
bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined  circle  must 
conclude  and  shut  up  all.  There  is  no  anti- 
dote against  the  opium  of  time,  which  tempo- 
rarily considereth  all  things.  Our  fathers  find 
their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly 
tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 
Gravestones  tell  trutli  scarce  forty  years.  Gen- 
erations pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and  old 
families  last  not  three  oaks.  To  be  read  by 
bare  inscriptions,  like  many  in  Grutcr; '  to 
hope  for  eternity  by  enigmatical  epithets,  or 
first  letters  of  our  names;  to  be  studied  by  anti- 
quaries, who  we  were,  and  have  new  names 
given  us,  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold 
consolations  unto  the  students  of  perpetuity, 
even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should 
only  know  there  was  such  a  man,  not  caring 
whether  they  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid 
ambition  in  Cardan,  disparaging  his  horo- 
scopal  inclination  and  judgment  of  himself. 
Who  cares  to  subsist  like  Hippocrates's  pa- 
tients, or  Achilles's  horses  in  Homer,  under 
naked  nominations,  without  deserts  and  noble 
acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  memories, 
the  "entelechia"  ^  and  soul  of  our  subsistences? 
Yet  to  be  nameless  in  worthy  deeds  exceeds 
an  infamous  history.  The  Canaanitish  woman 
lives  more  happily  without  a  name,  than  Hero- 
dias  with  one.  And  who  had  not  rather  have 
been  the  good  thief  than  Pilate? 

But  the  iniquity  ^  of  oblivion  blindly  scat- 
tereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  memory 
of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  per- 


'  Gruter's  Ancient  Inscriptions 
3  injustice 


^  realizations 


petuity.  Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the 
pyramids?  Erostratus  lives  that  burnt  the 
Temple  of  Diana;  he  is  almost  lost  that  built 
it.  Time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's 
horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain 
we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of 
our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  dura- 
tions; and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as 
Agamemnon.  Who  knows  whether  the  best 
of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not 
more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that 
stand  remembered  in  the  known  account  of 
time?  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting 
register,  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown 
as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had 
been  his  only  chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater 
part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they  had 
not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God, 
not  in  tiie  record  of  man.  Twenty-seven 
names  make  up  the  first  story,  and  the  recorded 
names  ever  since  contain  not  one  living  cen- 
tury. The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth 
all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far  sur- 
passeth  the  day;  and  who  knows  when  was 
the  equinox?  Every  hour  adds  unto  that  cur- 
rent arithmetic,  which  scarce  stands  one  mo- 
ment. And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina 
of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt  whether 
thus  to  live  were  to  die;  since  our  longest  sun 
sets  at  right  declensions,  and  makes  but  winter 
arches,  and  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before 
we  lie  down  in  darkness,  and  have  our  light  in 
ashes;  since  the  brother  of  death  daily  haunts 
us  with  dying  mementos,  and  time,  that  grows 
old  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration,  diu- 
turnity  is  a  dream  and  folly  of  expectation. 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time, 
and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a  great  part 
even  of  our  living  beings.  We  slightly  remember 
our  felicities,  and  the  smartest  strokes  of  afflic- 
tion leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense 
endureth  no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy 
us  or  themselves.  To  weep  into  stones  are 
fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosities;  miser- 
ies are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon  us, 
which,  notwithstanding,  is  no  unhappy  stupid- 
ity. To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to  come,  and  for- 
getful of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful  provision  in 
nature,  whereby  we  digest  the  mixture  of  our 
few  and  evil  days,  and  our  delivered  senses  not 
relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our  sor- 
rows are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repe- 
titions. A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented 
their  hopes  of  subsistency  with  a  transmigra- 
tion of  their  souls;    a  good  way  to  continue 


THOMAS    FULLER 


117 


their  memories,  while,  having  the  advantage 
of  plural  successions,  they  could  not  but  act 
something  remarkable  in  such  variety  of  beings, 
and  enjoying  the  fame  of  their  passed  selves, 
make  accumulation  of  glory  unto  their  last 
durations.  Others,  rather  than  be  lost  in  the 
uncomfortable  night  of  nothing,  were  content 
to  recede  into  the  common  being,  and  make 
one  particle  of  the  public  soul  of  all  things, 
which  was  no  more  than  to  return  into  their 
unknown  and  divine  original  again.  Egyp- 
tian ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriv- 
ing their  bodies  in  sweet  consistencies  to  attend 
the  return  of  their  souls.  But  all  was  vanity, 
feeding  the  wind  and  folly.  The  Egyptian 
mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time  hath 
spared,  avarice  now  consumeth.  Mummy  is 
become  merchandise,  INIizraim  cures  wounds, 
and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality, 
or  any  patent  from  oblivion,  in  preservations 
below  the  moon.  Men  have  been  deceived 
even  in  their  flatteries  above  the  sun,  and 
studied  conceits  to  perpetuate  their  names  in 
heaven.  The  various  cosmography  of  that 
part  hath  already  varied  the  names  of  con- 
trived constellations.  Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion, 
and  Osiris  in  the  Dog-star.  While  we  look  for 
incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we  find  they  are 
but  like  the  earth,  durable  in  their  main  bodies, 
alterable  in  their  parts;  whereof,  beside  com- 
ets and  new  stars,  perspectives  begin  to  tell 
tales,  and  the  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun, 
with  Phaethon's  favor,  would  make  clear  con- 
viction. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal  but  im- 
mortality. Whatever  hath  no  beginning,  may 
be  confident  of  no  end;  which  is  the  peculiar 
of  that  necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy 
itself,  and  the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency  to 
be  so  powerfully  constituted,  as  not  to  suffer 
even  from  the  power  of  itself.  All  others  have 
a  dependent  being,  and  within  the  reach  of 
destruction.  But  the  sufficiency  of  Christian 
immortality  frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and 
the  quality  of  either  state  after  death  makes  a 
folly  of  posthumous  memory.  God,  who  can 
only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured  our 
resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names  hath 
directly  promised  no  duration.  Wherein  there 
is  so  much  of  chance,  that  the  boldest  expec- 
tants have  found  unhappy  frustration;  and  to 
hold  long  subsistence  seems  but  a  scape  in 
oblivion.  But  man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid 
in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnising 
nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omit- 


ting ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infamy  of 
his  nature.  .  .  . 


THOMAS   FULLER  (i 608-1 661) 

THE   HOLY    STATE 

BOOK   II.     CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Life  of  Sir  Fr.a.ncis  Dr.ake 

Francis  Drake  was  born  nigh  South  Tavis- 
tock in  Devonshire,  and  brought  up  in  Kent; 
God  dividing  the  honour  betwixt  two  coun- 
ties, that  the  one  might  have  his  birth,  and  the 
other  his  education.  His  father,  being  a  min- 
ister, fled  into  Kent,  for  fear  of  the  Six  Articles, 
wherein  the  sting  of  Popery  still  remained  in 
England,  though  the  teeth  thereof  were  knocked 
out,  and  the  Pope's  supremacy  abolished. 
Coming  into  Kent,  he  bound  his  son  Francis 
apprentice  to  the  master  of  a  small  bark, 
which  traded  into  France  and  Zealand,  where 
he  underwent  a  hard  service;  and  pains  with 
patience  in  his  youth,  did  knit  the  joints  of 
his  soul,  and  made  them  more  solid  and  com- 
pacted. His  master,  dying  unmarried,  in  re- 
ward of  his  industry,  bequeathed  his  bark 
unto  him  for  a  legacy. 

For  some  time  he  continued  his  master's 
profession;  but  the  narrow  seas  were  a  prison 
for  so  large  a  spirit,  born  for  greater  under- 
takings. He  soon  grew  weary  of  his  bark; 
which  would  scarce  go  alone,  but  as  it  crept 
along  by  the  shore:  wherefore,  selling  it,  he 
unfortunately  ventured  most  of  his  estate  with 
Captain  John  Hawkins  into  the  West  Indies, 
in  1567;  whose  goods  were  taken  by  the  Span- 
iards at  St.  John  de  Ulva,  and  he  himself 
scarce  escaped  with  life:  the  king  of  Spain 
being  so  tender  in  those  parts,  that  the  least 
touch  doth  wound  him;  and  so  jealous  of  the 
West  Indies,  his  wife,  that  willingly  he  would 
have  none  look  upon  her:  he  therefore  used 
them  with  the  greater  severity. 

Drake  was  persuaded  by  the  minister  of  his 
ship,  that  he  might  lawfully  recover  in  value 
of  the  king  of  Spain,  and  repair  his  losses  upon 
him  anywhere  else.  The  case  was  clear  in 
sea-divinity;  and  few  are  such  infidels,  as  not 
to  believe  doctrines  which  make  for  their  own 
profit.  Whereupon  Drake,  though  a  poor 
private  man,  hereafter  undertook  to  revenge 
himself  on  so  mighty  a  monarch ;  who,  as  not 
contented  that  the  sun  riseth  and  setteth  in  his 


ii8 


THOMAS    FULLER 


dominions,  may  seem  to  desire  to  make  all 
his  own  where  he  shineth.  And  now  let  us 
see  how  a  dwarf,  standing  on  the  mount  of 
God's  providence,  may  prove  an  overmatch 
for  a  giant. 

After  two  or  three  several  voyages  to  gain 
intelligence  in  the  West  Indies,  and  some  prizes 
taken,  at  last  he  effectually  set  forward  from 
Plymouth  with  two  ships,  the  one  of  seventy, 
the  other  twenty-five,  tons,  and  seventy-three 
men  and  boys  in  both.  He  made  with  all 
speed  and  secrecy  to  Nombre  de  Dios,  as 
loath  to  put  the  town  to  too  much  charge  (which 
he  knew  they  would  willingly  bestow)  in  pro- 
viding beforehand  for  his  entertainment;  which 
city  was  then  the  granary  of  the  West  Indies, 
wherein  the  golden  harvest  brought  from  Pan- 
ama was  hoarded  up  till  it  could  be  conveyed 
into  Spain.  They  came  hard  aboard  the  shore, 
and  lay  quiet  all  night,  intending  to  attempt 
the  town  in  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

But  he  was  forced  to  alter  his  resolution,  and 
assault  it  sooner;  for  he  heard  his  men  mut- 
tering amongst  themselves  of  the  strength 
and  greatness  of  the  town:  and  when  men's 
heads  are  once  fly-blown  with  buzzes  of  sus- 
picion, the  vermin  multiply  instantly,  and  one 
jealousy  begets  another.  Wherefore,  he  raised 
them  from  their  nest  before  they  had  hatched 
their  fears;  and,  to  put  away  those  conceits, 
he  persuaded  them  it  was  day-dawning  when 
the  moon  rose,  and  instantly  set  on  the  town, 
and  won  it,  being  unwalled.  In  the  market- 
place the  Spaniards  saluted  them  with  a  volley 
of  shot;  Drake  returned  their  greeting  with  a 
flight  of  arrows,  the  best  and  ancient  English 
compliment,  which  drave  their  enemies  away. 
Here  Drake  received  a  dangerous  wound, 
though  he  valiantly  concealed  it  a  long  time; 
knowing  if  his  heart  stooped,  his  men's  would 
fall,  and  loath  to  leave  off  the  action,  wherein 
if  so  bright  an  opportunity  once  setteth,  it 
seldom  riseth  again.  But  at  length  his  men 
forced  him  to  return  to  his  ship,  that  his  wound 
might  be  dressed;  and  this  unhappy  accident 
defeated  the  whole  design.  Thus  victory 
sometimes  slips  through  their  fingers  who 
have  caught  it  in  their  hands. 

But  his  valour  would  not  let  him  give  over 
the  project  as  long  as  there  was  either  life  or 
warmth  in  it;  and  therefore,  having  received 
intelligence  from  the  Negroes  called  Symerons, 
of  many  mules'-lading  of  gold  and  silver,  which 
was  to  be  brought  from  Panama,  he,  leaving 
competent  numbers  to  man  his  ships,  went  on 
land  with  the  rest,  and  bestowed  himself  in  the 


woods  by  the  way  as  they  were  to  pass,  and  so 
intercepted  and  carried  away  an  infinite  mass 
of  gold.  As  for  the  silver,  which  was  not 
portable  over  the  mountains,  they  digged  holes 
in  the  ground  and  hid  it  therein. 

There  want  not  those  who  love  to  beat  down 
the  price  of  every  honourable  action,  though 
they  themselves  never  mean  to  be  chapmen. 
These  cry  up  Drake's  fortune  herein  to  cry 
down  his  valour;  as  if  this  his  performance 
were  nothing,  wherein  a  golden  opportunity 
ran  his  head,  with  his  long  forelock,  into 
Drake's  hands  beyond  expectation.  But,  cer- 
tainly, his  resolution  and  unconquerable  pa- 
tience deserved  much  praise,  to  adventure  on 
such  a  design,  which  had  in  it  just  no  more 
probability  than  what  was  enough  to  keep  it 
from  being  impossible.  Yet  I  admire  not  so 
much  at  all  the  treasure  he  took,  as  at  the  rich 
and  deep  mine  of  God's  providence. 

Having  now  full  freighted  himself  with  wealth, 
and  burnt  at  the  House  of  Crosses  above  two 
hundred  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  Spanish 
merchandise,  he  returned  with  honour  and 
safety  into  England,  and,  some  years  after, 
(December  13th,  1577)  undertook  that  his 
famous  voyage  about  the  world,  most  accurately 
described  by  our  English  authors:  and  yet  a 
word  or  two  thereof  will  not  be  amiss. 

Setting  forward  from  Plymouth,  he  bore 
up  for  Cabo-verd,  where,  near  to  the  island  of 
St.  Jago,  he  took  prisoner  Nuno  de  Silva,  an 
experienced  Spanish  pilot,  whose  direction  he 
used  in  the  coasts  of  Brazil  and  Magellan 
Straits,  and  afterwards  safely  landed  him  at 
Guatulco  in  New  Spain.  Hence  they  took 
their  course  to  the  Island  of  Brava;  and  here- 
abouts they  met  with  those  tempestuous  winds 
whose  only  praise  is,  that  they  continue  not  an 
hour,  in  which  time  they  change  all  the  points 
of  the  compass.  Here  they  had  great  plenty 
of  rain,  poured  (not,  as  in  other  places,  as  it 
were  out  of  sieves,  but)  as  out  of  spouts,  so 
that  a  butt  of  water  falls  down  in  a  place; 
which,  notwithstanding,  is  but  a  courteous 
injury  in  that  hot  climate  far  from  land,  and 
where  otherwise  fresh  water  cannot  be  provided. 
Then  cutting  the  Line,  they  saw  the  face  of  that 
heaven  which  earth  hideth  from  us,  but  therein 
only  three  stars  of  the  first  greatness,  the  rest 
few  and  small  compared  to  our  hemisphere; 
as  if  God,  on  purpose,  had  set  up  the  best  and 
biggest  candles  in  that  room  wherein  his  civilest 
guests  are  entertained. 

Sailing  the  south  of  Brazil,  he  afterwards 
passed  the  Magellan  Straits,  (August  20th,  1578) 


THE    HOLY    STATE 


119 


and  then  entered  Mare  Pacijicum,  came  to 
the  southernmost  land  at  the  height  of  55I 
latitudes;  thence  directing  his  course  north- 
ward, he  pillaged  many  Spanish  towns,  and 
took  rich  prizes  of  high  value  in  the  king- 
doms of  Chili,  Peru,  and  New  Spain.  Then, 
bending  eastwards,  he  coasted  China,  and  the 
Moluccas,  where,  by  the  king  of  Terrenate,  a 
true  gentleman  Pagan,  he  was  most  honourably 
entertained.  The  king  told  them,  they  and 
he  were  all  of  one  religion  in  this  respect,— 
that  they  believed  not  in  gods  made  of 
stocks  and  stones,  as  did  the  Portugals.  He 
furnished  them  also  with  all  necessaries  that 
they  wanted. 

On  January  9th  following,  (1579,)  his  ship, 
having  a  large  wind  and  a  smooth  sea,  ran 
aground  on  a  dangerous  shoal,  and  struck 
twice  on  it;  knocking  twice  at  the  door  of 
death,  which,  no  doubt,  had  opened  the  third 
time.  Here  they  stuck,  from  eight  o'clock  at 
night  till  four  the  next  afternoon,  having  ground 
too  much,  and  yet  too  little  to  land  on;  and 
water  too  much,  and  yet  too  little  to  sail  in. 
Had  God  (who,  as  the  wise  man  saith,  "holdeth 
the  winds  in  his  fist,"  Prov.  xxx.  4)  but  opened 
his  little  finger,  and  let  out  the  smallest  blast, 
they  had  undoubtedly  been  cast  away;  but 
there  blew  not  any  wind  all  the  while.  Then 
they,  conceiving  aright  that  the  best  way  to 
lighten  the  ship  was,  first,  to  ease  it  of  the 
burden  of  their  sins  by  true  repentance,  humbled 
themselves,  by  fasting,  under  the  hand  of  God. 
Afterwards  they  received  the  communion, 
dining  on  Christ  in  the  sacrament,  expecting 
no  other  than  to  sup  with  him  in  heaven.  Then 
they  cast  out  of  their  ship  six  great  pieces  of 
ordnance,  threw  overboard  as  much  wealth  as 
would  break  the  heart  of  a  miser  to  think  on 
it,  with  much  sugar,  and  packs  of  spices,  making 
a  caudle  of  the  sea  round  about.  Then  they 
betook  themselves  to  their  prayers,  the  best 
lever  at  such  a  dead  lift  indeed;  and  it  pleased 
God,  that  the  wind,  formerly  their  mortal 
enemy,  became  their  friend;  which,  changing 
from  the  starboard  to  the  larboard  of  the  ship, 
and  rising  by  degrees,  cleared  them  off  to  the 
sea  again,  —  for  which  they  returned  unfeigned 
thanks  to  Almighty  God. 

By  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  west  of 
Africa,  he  returned  safe  into  England,  and 
(November  3rd,  1580)  landed  at  Plymouth, 
(being  almost  the  first  of  those  that  made  a 
thorough  light  through  the  world,)  having,  in  his 
whole  voyage,  though  a  curious  searcher  after 
the  time,  lost  one  day  through  the  variation  of 


several  climates.  He  feasted  the  queen  in  his 
ship  at  Dartford,  who  knighted  him  for  his 
service.  Yet  it  grieved  him  not  a  little,  that 
some  prime  courtiers  refused  the  gold  he 
offered  them,  as  gotten  by  piracy.  Some  of 
them  would  have  been  loath  to  have  been  told, 
that  they  had  aiirum  Tholosaniim '  in  their 
own  purses.  Some  think,  that  they  did  it  to 
show  that  their  envious  pride  was  above  their 
covetousness,  who  of  set  purpose  did  blur  the 
fair  copy  of  his  performance,  because  they 
would  not  take  pains  to  write  after  it. 

I  pass  by  his  next  West-Indian  voyage, 
(1585,)  wherein  he  took  the  cities  of  St.  jago, 
St.  Domingo,  Carthagena,  and  St.  Augustine 
in  Florida;  as  also  his  service  perfonned  in 
1588,  wherein  he,  with  many  others,  helped  to 
the  waning  of  that  half-moon,^  which  sought 
to  govern  all  the  motion  of  our  sea.  I  haste 
to  his  last  voyage. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  in  1595,  perceiving  that 
the  only  way  to  make  the  Spaniard  a  cripple 
forever,  was  to  cut  his  sinews  of  war  in  the  West 
Indies,  furnished  Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  Sir 
John  Hawkins,  with  six  of  her  own  ships,  be- 
sides twenty-one  ships  and  barks  of  their  own 
providing,  containing  in  all  two  thousand  five 
hundred  men  and  boys,  for  some  service  on 
America.  But,  alas!  this  voyage  was  marred 
before  begun.  For,  so  great  preparations  being 
too  big  for  a  cover,  the  king  of  Spain  knew  of 
it,  and  sent  a  caraval  of  adviso  ^  to  the  West 
Indies;  so  that  they  had  intelligence  three  weeks 
before  the  fleet  set  forth  of  England,  either  to 
fortify  or  remove  their  treasure;  whereas,  in 
other  of  Drake's  voyages,  not  two  of  his  own 
men  knew  whither  he  went;  and  managing 
such  a  design  is  like  carrying  a  mine  in  war,  — 
if  it  hath  any  vent,  all  is  spoiled.  Besides, 
Drake  and  Hawkins,  being  in  joint  commission, 
hindered  each  other.  The  latter  took  himself 
to  be  inferior  rather  in  success  than  skill ;  and 
the  action  was  unlike  to  prosper  when  neither 
would  follow,  and  both  could  not  handsomely 
go  abreast.  It  vexed  old  Hawkins,  that  his 
counsel  was  not  followed,  in  present  sailing  to 
America,  but  that  they  spent  time  in  vain  in 
assaulting  the  Canaries;  and  the  grief  that  his 
advice  was  slighted,  say  some,  was  the  cause  of 
his  death.  Others  impute  it  to  the  sorrow  he 
took  for  the  taking  of  his  bark  called  "the 
Francis,"  which  five  Spanish  frigates  had  inter- 
cepted.    But  when  the  same  heart  hath  two 


'  Spanish  gold,  as  bribes 
notification 


2  Spain         *  ship  of 


I20 


JOHN   MILTON 


mortal  wounds  given  it  together,  it  is  hard  to 
say  which  of  them  killeth. 

Drake  continued  his  course  for  Porto  Rico; 
and,  riding  within  the  road,  a  shot  from  the 
Castle  entered  the  steerage  of  the  ship,  took 
away  the  stool  from  under  him  as  he  sate  at 
supper,  wounded  Sir  Nicholas  Clifford,  and 
Brute  Brown  to  death.  "Ah,  dear  Brute!" 
said  Drake,  "I  could  grieve  for  thee,  but  now 
is  no  time  for  me  to  let  down  my  spirits." 
-And,  indeed,  a  soldier's  most  proper  bemoaning 
a  friend's  death  in  war,  is  in  revenging  it. 
And,  sure,  as  if  grief  had  made  the  English 
furious,  they  soon  after  fired  five  Spanish  ships  of 
two  hundred  tons  apiece,  in  despite  of  the  Castle. 

America  is  not  unfitly  resembled  to  an  hour- 
glass, which  hath  a  narrow  neck  of  land,  (sup- 
pose it  the  hole  where  the  sand  passeth,)  betwixt 
the  parts  thereof,  —  Mexicana  and  Peruana. 
Now,  the  English  had  a  design  to  march  by 
land  over  this  Isthmus,  from  Porto  Rico  to 
Panama,  where  the  Spanish  treasure  was  laid 
up.  Sir  Thomas  Baskervile,  general  of  the 
land-forces,  undertook  the  service  with  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  armed  men.  They  marched 
through  deep  ways,  the  Spaniards  much  annoy- 
ing them  with  shot  out  of  the  woods.  One  fort 
in  the  passage  they  assaulted  in  vain,  and  heard 
two  others  were  built  to  stop  them,  besides 
Panama  itself.  They  had  so  much  of  this  break- 
fast they  thought  they  should  surfeit  of  a  dinner 
and  supper  of  the  same.  No  hope  of  conquest, 
except  with  cloying  the  jaws  of  death,  and  thrust- 
ing men  on  the  mouth  of  the  cannon.  Where- 
fore, fearing  to  find  the  proverb  true,  that  "gold 
may  be  bought  too  dear,"  they  returned  to 
their  ships.  Drake  afterwards  fired  Nombre 
de  Dios,  and  many  other  petty  towns,  (whose 
treasure  the  Spaniards  had  conveyed  away,) 
burning  the  empty  casks,  when  their  precious 
liquor  was  run  out  before,  and  then  prepared 
for  their  returning  home. 

Great  was  the  difference  betwixt  the  Indian 
cities  now,  from  what  they  were  when  Drake 
first  haunted  these  coasts.  At  first,  the  Span- 
iards here  were  safe  and  secure,  counting  their 
treasure  sufficient  to  defend  itself,  the  remote- 
ness thereof  being  the  greatest  (almost  only) 
resistance,  and  the  fetching  of  it  more  than 
the  fighting  for  it.  Whilst  the  king  of  Spain 
guarded  the  head  and  heart  of  his  dominions 
in  Europe,  he  left  his  long  legs  in  America  open 
to  blows;  till,  finding  them  to  smart,  being 
beaten  black  and  blue  by  the  English,  he 
learned  to  arm  them  at  last,  fortifying  the  most 
important  of  them  to  make  them  impregnable. 


Now  began  Sir  Francis's  discontent  to  feed 
upon  him.  He  conceived,  that  expectation, 
a  merciless  usurer,  computing  each  day  since 
his  departure,  exacted  an  interest  and  return 
of  honour  and  profit  proportionable  to  his  great 
preparations,  and  transcending  his  former 
achievements.  He  saw  that  all  the  good  which 
he  had  done  in  this  voyage,  consisted  in  the  evil 
he  had  done  to  the  Spaniards  afar  off,  whereof 
he  could  present  but  small  visible  fruits  in 
England.  These  apprehensions,  accompany- 
ing, if  not  causing,  the  disease  of  the  flux, 
wrought  his  sudden  death,  January  28th,  1595. 
And  sickness  did  not  so  much  untie  his  clothes, 
as  sorrow  did  rend  at  once  the  robe  of  his  mor- 
tality asunder.  He  lived  by  the  sea,  died  on 
it,  and  was  buried  in  it.  Thus  an  extempore 
performance  (scarce  heard  to  be  begun,  before 
we  hear  it  is  ended !)  comes  off  with  better 
applause,  or  miscarries  with  less  disgrace, 
than  a  long-studied  and  openly-premeditated 
action.  Besides,  we  see  how  great  spirits, 
having  mounted  to  the  highest  pitch  of  per- 
formance, afterwards  strain  and  break  their 
credits  in  striving  to  go  beyond  it.  Lastly, 
God  oftentimes  leaves  the  brightest  men  in  an 
eclipse,  to  show  that  they  do  but  borrow  their 
lustre  from  his  reflexion.  We  will  not  justify 
all  the  actions  of  any  man,  though  of  a  tamer 
profession  than  a  sea-captain,  in  whom  civility 
is  often  counted  preciseness.  For  the  main, 
we  say  that  this  our  captain  was  a  religious  man 
towards  God  and  his  houses,  (generally  sparing 
churches  where  he  came)  chaste  in  his  life, 
just  in  his  dealings,  true  of  his  word,  and  mer- 
ciful to  those  that  were  under  him,  hating  noth- 
ing so  much  as  idleness:  and  therefore,  lest 
his  soul  should  rust  in  peace,  at  spare  hours 
he  brought  fresh  water  to  Plymouth.  Careful 
he  was  for  posterity,  (though  men  of  his  pro- 
fession have  as  well  an  ebb  of  riot,  as  a  float 
of  fortune)  and  providently  raised  a  worshipful 
family  of  his  kindred.  In  a  word :  should  those 
that  speak  against  him  fast  till  they  fetch  their 
bread  where  he  did  his,  they  would  have  a  good 
stomach  to  eat  it. 


JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674) 

OF   EDUCATION 

TO   MASTER   SAMUEL   HARTLIB 

Master  Hartlib,  —  I  am  long  since  persuaded, 
that  to  say  or  do  aught  worth  memory  and 


OF    EDUCATION 


121 


imitation,  no  purpose  or  respect  should  sooner 
move  us  than  simply  the  love  of  God,  and  of 
mankind.  Nevertheless,  to  write  now  the  re- 
forming of  education,  though  it  be  one  of  the 
greatest  and  noblest  designs  that  can  be  thought 
on,  and  for  the  want  whereof  this  nation  perishes ; 
I  had  not  yet  at  this  time  been  induced,  but  by 
your  earnest  entreaties  and  serious  conjure- 
ments;  as  having  my  mind  for  the  present 
half-diverted  in  the  pursuance  of  some  other 
assertions,  the  knowledge  and  the  use  of  which 
cannot  but  be  a  great  furtherance  both  to  the 
enlargement  of  truth,  and  honest  living  with 
much  more  peace.  Nor  should  the  laws  of 
any  private  friendship  have  prevailed  with  me 
to  divide  thus,  or  transpose  my  former  thoughts, 
but  that  I  see  those  aims,  those  actions,  which 
have  won  you  with  me  the  esteem  of  a  person 
sent  hither  by  some  good  providence  from  a 
far  country  to  be  the  occasion  and  incitement 
of  great  good  to  this  island.  And,  as  I  hear, 
you  have  obtained  the  same  repute  with  men 
of  most  approved  wisdom,  and  some  of  the 
highest  authority  among  us;  not  to  mention 
the  learned  correspondence  which  you  hold  in 
foreign  parts,  and  the  extraordinary  pains  and 
diligence,  which  you  have  used  in  this  matter 
both  here  and  beyond  the  seas;  either  by  the 
definite  will  of  God  so  ruling,  or  the  pecuhar 
sway  of  nature,  which  also  is  God's  working. 
Neither  can  I  think  that  so  reputed  and  so  val- 
ued as  you  are,  you  would  to  the  forfeit  of  your 
own  discerning  ability,  impose  upon  me  an  un- 
fit and  overponderous  argument;  but  that  the 
satisfaction,  which  you  profess  to  have  received 
from  those  incidental  discourses  which  we  have 
wandered  into,  hath  pressed  and  almost  con- 
strained you  into  a  persuasion,  that  what  you 
require  from  me  in  this  point,  I  neither  ought 
nor  can  in  conscience  defer  beyond  this  time 
both  of  so  much  need  at  once,  and  so  much 
opportunity  to  try  what  God  hath  determined. 
I  will  not  resist  therefore  whatever  it  is,  either 
of  divine  or  human  obligement,  that  you  lay 
upon  me ;  but  will  forthwith  set  down  in  writing, 
as  you  request  me,  that  voluntary  idea,  which 
hath  long  in  silence  presented  itself  to  me,  of  a 
better  education,  in  extent  and  comprehension 
far  more  large,  and  yet  of  time  far  shorter,  and 
of  attainment  far  more  certain,  than  hath  been 
yet  in  practice.  Brief  I  shall  endeavour  to  be; 
for  that  which  I  have  to  say,  assuredly  this 
nation  hath  extreme  need  should  be  done  sooner 
than  spoken.  To  tell  you  therefore  what  I 
have  benefited  herein  among  old  renowned 
authors,  I  shall  spare;  and  to  search  what  many 


modern  Januas '  and  Didactics,^  more  than 
ever  I  shall  read,  have  projected,  my  inclination 
leads  me  not.  But  if  you  can  accept  of  these 
few  observations  which  have  flowered  off,  and 
arc  as  it  were  the  burnishing  of  many  studious 
and  contemplative  years  altogether  spent  in  the 
search  of  religious  and  civil  knowledge,  and 
such  as  pleased  you  so  well  in  the  relating,  I 
here  give  you  them  to  dispose  of. 

The  end  then  of  learning  is  to  repair  the  ruins 
of  our  first  parents  by  regaining  to  know  God 
aright,  and  out  of  that  knowledge  to  love  him, 
to  imitate  him,  to  be  like  him,  as  we  may  the 
nearest  by  possessing  our  souls  of  true  virtue, 
which  being  united  to  the  heavenly  grace  of 
faith,  makes  up  the  highest  perfection.  But 
because  our  understanding  cannot  in  this  body 
found  itself  but  on  sensible  things,  nor  arrive 
so  clearly  to  the  knowledge  of  God  and  things 
invisible,  as  by  orderly  conning  over  the  visible 
and  inferior  creature,  the  same  method  is 
necessarily  to  be  followed  in  all  discreet  teach- 
ing. And  seeing  every  nation  affords  not  ex- 
perience and  tradition  enough  for  all  kind  of 
learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught  the 
languages  of  those  people  who  have  at  any  time 
been  most  industrious  after  wisdom;  so  that 
language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying  to  us 
things  useful  to  be  known.  And  though  a 
linguist  should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the 
tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world  into,  yet 
if  he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in 
them  as  well  as  the  words  and  lexicons,  he 
were  nothing  so  much  to  be  esteemed  a  learned 
man,  as  any  yeoman  or  tradesman  compe- 
tently wise  in  his  mother  dialect  only.  Hence 
appear  the  many  mistakes  which  have  made 
learning  generally  so  unpleasing  and  so  un- 
successful; first,  we  do  amiss  to  spend  seven 
or  eight  years  merely  in  scraping  together  so 
much  miserable  Latin  and  Greek,  as  might  be 
learned  otherwise  easily  and  delightfully  in 
one  year. 

And  that  which  casts  our  proficiency  therein 
so  much  behind,  is  our  time  lost  partly  in  too 
oft  idle  vacancies  given  both  to  schools  and 
universities;  partly  in  a  preposterous  exaction, 
forcing  the  empty  wits  of  children  to  compose 
themes,  verses,  and  orations,  which  are  the  acts 
of  ripest  judgment,  and  the  final  work  of  a 
head  filled  by  long  reading  and  observing,  with 
elegant  maxims  and  copious  invention.  These 
are  not  matters  to  be  wrung  from  poor  striplings, 
like  blood  out  of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking 

1  treatises  on  education 


122 


JOHN   MILTON 


of  untimely  fruit;  besides  the  ill  habit  which 
they  get  of  wretched  barbarising  against  the 
Latin  and  Greek  idiom,  with  their  untutored 
Anglicisms,  odious  to  be  read,  yet  not  to  be 
avoided  without  a  well-continued  and  judicious 
conversing  among  pure  authors  digested,  which 
they  scarce  taste:  whereas,  if  after  some  pre- 
paratory grounds  of  speech  by  their  certain 
forms  got  into  memory,  they  were  led  to  the 
praxis  thereof  in  some  chosen  short  book 
lessoned  thoroughly  to  them,  they  might  then 
forthwith  proceed  to  learn  the  substance  of 
good  things,  and  arts  in  due  order,  which  would 
bring  the  whole  language  quickly  into  their 
power.  This  I  take  to  be  the  most  rational 
and  most  profitable  way  of  learning  languages, 
and  whereby  we  may  best  hope  to  give  account 
to  God  of  our  youth  spent  herein. 

And  for  the  usual  method  of  teaching  arts, 
I  deem  it  to  be  an  old  error  of  universities,  not 
yet  well  recovered  from  the  scholastic  grossness 
of  barbarous  ages,  that  instead  of  beginning 
with  arts  most  easy,  (and  those  be  such  as  are 
most  obvious  to  the  sense,)  they  present  their 
young  unmatriculated  novices  at  first  coming 
with  the  most  intellective  abstractions  of  logic 
and  metaphysics;  so  that  they  having  but  newly 
left  those  grammatic  flats  and  shallows  where 
they  stuck  unreasonably  to  learn  a  fev^f  words 
with  lamentable  construction,  and  now  on  the 
sudden  transported  under  another  climate  to 
be  tossed  and  turmoiled  with  their  unballasted 
wits  in  fathomless  and  unquiet  deeps  of  con- 
troversy, do  for  the  most  part  grow  into  hatred 
and  contempt  of  learning,  mocked  and  deluded 
all  this  while  with  ragged  notions  and  babble- 
ments, while  they  expected  worthy  and  delight- 
ful knowledge;  till  poverty  or  youthful  years 
call  them  importunately  their  several  ways,  and 
hasten  them  with  the  sway  of  friends  either  to 
an  ambitious  and  mercenary,  or  ignorantly 
zealous  divinity;  some  allured  to  the  trade  of 
law,  grounding  their  purposes  not  on  the  pru- 
dent and  heavenly  contemplation  of  justice  and 
equity,  which  was  never  taught  them,  but  on 
the  promising  and  pleasing  thoughts  of  litigious 
terms,  fat  contentions,  and  flowing  fees;  others 
betake  them  to  state  affairs,  with  souls  so  un- 
principled in  virtue  and  true  generous  breed- 
ing, that  flattery  and  court -shifts  and  tyrannous 
aphorisms  appear  to  them  the  highest  points 
of  wisdom  ;  instilling  their  barren  hearts  with  a 
conscientious  slavery;  if,  as  I  rather  think,  it  be 
not  feigned.  Others,  lastly,  of  a  more  delicious 
and  airy  spirit,  retire  themselves  (knowing  no 
better)  to  the  enjoyments  of  ease  and  luxury, 


living  out  their  days  in  feast  and  jollity;  which 
indeed  is  the  wisest  and  the  safest  course  of 
all  these,  unless  they  were  with  more  integrity 
undertaken.  And  these  are  the  errors,  and 
these  are  the  fruits  of  misspending  our  prime 
youth  at  the  schools  and  universities  as  we  do, 
either  in  learning  mere  words,  or  such  things 
chiefly  as  were  better  unlearned. 

I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer  in  the 
demonstration  of  what  we  should  not  do,  but 
straight  conduct  you  to  a  hill-side,  where  I 
will  point  you  out  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous 
and  noble  education ;  laborious  indeed  at  the 
first  ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so 
full  of  goodly  prospect,  and  melodious  sounds 
on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not 
more  charming.  I  doubt  not  but  ye  shall  have 
more  ado  to  drive  our  dullest  and  laziest  youth, 
our  stocks  and  stubs,  from  the  infinite  desire 
of  such  a  happy  nurture,  than  we  have  now  to 
hale  and  drag  our  choicest  and  hopefuUest 
wits  to  that  asinine  feast  of  sow-thistles  and 
brambles,  which  is  commonly  set  before  them 
as  all  the  food  and  entertainment  of  their 
tenderest  and  most  docible  age.  I  call  therefore 
a  complete  and  generous  education,  that  which 
fits  a  man  to  perform  justly,  skilfully,  and  mag- 
nanimously all  the  offices,  both  private  and 
pubUc,  of  peace  and  war.  And  how  all  this 
may  be  done  between  twelve  and  one-and- 
twenty,  less  time  than  is  now  bestowed  in  pure 
trifling  at  grammar  and  sophistry,  is  to  be  thus 
ordered. 

First,  to  find  out  a  spacious  house  and  ground 
about  it  fit  for  an  academy,  and  big  enough 
to  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty  persons,  whereof 
twenty  or  thereabout  may  be  attendants,  all 
under  the  government  of  one,  who  shall  be 
thought  of  desert  sufficient,  and  ability  either 
to  do  all,  or  wisely  to  direct  and  oversee  it  done. 
This  place  should  be  at  once  both  school  and 
university,  not  needing  a  remove  to  any  other 
house  of  scholarship,  except  it  be  some  peculiar 
college  of  law,  or  physic,  where  they  mean  to 
be  practitioners;  but  as  for  those  general  stud- 
ies which  take  up  aU  our  time  from  Lilly  ' 
to  commencing,  as  they  term  it,  master  of  art, 
it  should  be  absolute.  After  this  pattern,  as 
many  edifices  may  be  converted  to  this  use  as 
shall  be  needful  in  every  city  throughout  this 
land,  which  would  tend  much  to  the  increase 
of  learning  and  civility  everywhere.  This 
number,  less  or  more,  thus  collected,  to  the 
convenience  of  a  foot  company,  or  interchange- 

'  Lilly's  Elementary  Latin  Grammar 


OF   EDUCATION 


123 


ably  two  troops  of  cavalry,  should  divide 
their  day's  work  into  three  parts  as  it  lies 
orderly;  their  studies,  their  exercise,  and  their 
diet. 

For  their  studies;  first,  they  should  begin 
with  the  chief  and  necessary  rules  of  some  good 
grammar,  either  that  now  used,  or  any  better; 
and  while  this  is  doing,  their  speech  is  to  be 
fashioned  to  a  distinct  and  clear  pronunciation, 
as  near  as  may  be  to  the  Italian,  especially 
in  the  vowels.  For  we  Englishmen  being  far 
northerly,  do  not  open  our  mouths  in  the  cold 
air  wide  enough  to  grace  a  southern  tongue; 
but  are  observed  by  all  other  nations  to  speak 
exceeding  close  and  inward;  so  that  to  smatter 
Latin  with  an  English  mouth,  is  as  ill  a  hearing 
as  law  French.  Next,  to  make  them  expert  in 
the  usefullest  points  of  grammar;  and  withal  to 
season  them  and  win  them  early  to  the  love  of 
virtue  and  true  labour,  ere  any  flattering  se- 
ducement  or  vain  principle  seize  them  wander- 
ing, some  easy  and  delightful  book  of  education 
would  be  read  to  them;  whereof  the  Greeks 
have  store,  as  Cebes,  Plutarch,  and  other  Socratic 
discourses.  But  in  Latin  we  have  none  of 
classic  authority  extant,  except  the  two  or 
three  first  books  of  Quintilian,  and  some 
select  pieces  elsewhere.  But  here  the  main 
skill  and  groundwork  will  be,  to  temper  them 
such  lectures  and  explanations  upon  every 
opportunity,  as  may  lead  and  draw  them  in 
willing  obedience,  enflamed  with  the  study  of 
learning,  and  the  admiration  of  virtue;  stirred 
up  with  high  hopes  of  living  to  be  brave  men, 
and  worthy  patriots,  dear  to  God,  and  famous 
to  all  ages.  That  they  may  despise  and  scorn 
all  their  childish  and  ill-taught  qualities,  to  de- 
light in  manly  and  liberal  exercises;  which  he 
who  hath  the  art  and  proper  eloquence  to  catch 
them  with,  what  with  mild  and  effectual  per- 
suasions, and  that  with  the  intimation  of  some 
fear,  if  need  be,  but  chiefly  by  his  own  example, 
might  in  a  short  space  gain  them  to  an  incredible 
diligence  and  courage ;  infusing  into  their  young 
breasts  such  an  ingenuous  and  noble  ardour, 
as  would  not  fail  to  make  many  of  them  re- 
nowned and  matchless  men.  At  the  same  time, 
some  other  hour  of  the  day,  might  be  taught  them 
the  rules  of  arithmetic,  and  soon  after  the  ele- 
ments of  geometry,  even  playing,  as  the  old  man- 
ner was.  After  evening  repast,  till  bedtime,  their 
thoughts  would  be  best  taken  up  in  the  easy 
grounds  of  religion,  and  the  story  of  Scripture. 
The  next  step  wo\ild  be  to  the  authors  of  agricul- 
ture, Cato,  Varo,  and  Columella,  for  the  matter 
is  most  easy;  and  if  the  language  be  difficult,  so 


much  the  better,  it  is  not  a  difficulty  above  their 
years.  And  here  will  be  an  occasion  of  inciting, 
and  enabling  them  hereafter  to  improve  the 
tillage  of  their  country,  to  recover  the  bad  soil, 
and  to  remedy  the  waste  that  is  made  of  good ; 
for  this  was  one  of  Ilercules's  praises.  Ere 
half  these  authors  be  read  (which  will  soon  be 
with  plying  hard  and  daily)  they  cannot  choose 
but  be  masters  of  any  ordinary'  prose.  So 
that  it  will  be  then  seasonable  for  them  to  learn 
in  any  modern  author  the  use  of  the  globes, 
and  all  the  maps;  first  with  the  old  names, 
and  then  with  the  new;  or  they  might  be  then 
capable  to  read  any  compendious  method  of 
natural  philosophy.  And  at  the  same  time 
might  be  entering  into  the  Greek  tongue, 
after  the  same  manner  as  was  before  prescribed 
in  the  Latin;  whereby  the  difiiculties  of  gram- 
mar being  soon  overcome,  all  the  historical 
physiology  of  Aristotle  and  Theophrastus  are 
open  before  them,  and,  as  I  may  say,  under 
contribution.  The  like  access  will  be  to  Vi- 
truvius,  to  Seneca's  natural  questions,  to  Mela, 
Celsus,  Pliny,  or  Solinus.  And  having  thus 
passed  the  principles  of  arithmetic,  geometry, 
astronomy,  and  geography,  with  a  general 
compact  of  physics,  they  may  descend  in  math- 
ematics to  the  instrumental  science  of  trigo- 
nometry, and  from  thence  to  fortification, 
architecture,  enginery,  or  navigation.  And  in 
natural  philosophy  they  may  proceed  leisurely 
from  the  history  of  meteors,  minerals,  plants, 
and  living  creatures,  as  far  as  anatomy.  Then 
also  in  course  might  be  read  to  them  out  of 
some  not  tedious  writer  the  institution  of  physic; 
that  they  may  know  the  tempers,  the  humours, 
the  seasons,  and  how  to  manage  a  crudity ;  which 
he  who  can  wisely  and  timely  do,  is  not  only 
a  great  physician  to  himself  and  to  his  friends, 
but  also  may  at  some  time  or  other  save  an 
army  by  this  frugal  and  expenseless  means  only ; 
and  not  let  the  healthy  and  stout  bodies  of  young 
men  rot  away  under  him  for  want  of  this  dis- 
cipline; which  is  a  great  pity,  and  no  less  a 
shame  to  the  commander.  To  set  forward  all 
these  proceedings  in  nature  and  mathematics, 
what  hinders  but  that  they  may  procure,  as  oft 
as  shall  be  needful,  the  helpful  experiences  of 
hunters,  fowlers,  fishermen,  shepherds,  garden- 
ers, apothecaries;  and  in  the  other  sciences, 
architects,  engineers,  mariners,  anatomists;  who 
doubtless  would  be  ready,  some  for  reward,  and 
some  to  favour  such  a  hopeful  seminary.  And 
this  will  give  them  such  a  real  tincture  of  natural 
knowledge,  as  they  .shall  never  forget,  but  daily 
augment  with  delight.     Then  also  those  poets 


124 


JOHN    MILTON 


which  are  now  counted  most  hard,  will  be  both 
facile  and  pleasant,  Orpheus,  Hesiod,  Theocri- 
tus, Aratus,  Nicander,  Oppian,  Dionysius,  and 
in  Latin,  Lucretius,  Manilius,  and  the  rural 
part  of  Virgil. 

By  this  time,  years,  and  good  general  pre- 
cepts, will  have  furnished  them  more  distinctly 
with  that  act  of  reason  which  in  ethics  is  called 
Proairesis;'  that  they  may  with  some  judg- 
ment contemplate  upon  moral  good  and  evil. 
Then  will  be  required  a  special  reinforcement 
of  constant  and  sound  indoctrinating  to  set 
them  right  and  firm,  instructing  them  more  am- 
ply in  the  knowledge  of  virtue  and  the  hatred 
of  vice ;  while  their  young  and  pliant  affections 
are  led  through  all  the  moral  works  of  Plato, 
Xenophon,  Cicero,  Plutarch,  Laertius,  and 
those  Locrian  remnants;  but  still  to  be  re- 
duced ^  in  their  nightward  studies  wherewith 
they  close  the  day's  work,  under  the  deter- 
minate sentence  of  David  or  Solomon,  or  the 
evangels  and  apostolic  Scriptures.  Being  per- 
fect in  the  knowledge  of  personal  duty,  they  may 
then  begin  the  study  of  economics.  And  either 
now  or  before  this,  they  may  have  easily 
learned  at  any  odd  hour  the  Italian  tongue. 
And  soon  after,  but  with  wariness  and  good 
antidote,  it  would  be  wholesome  enough  to 
let  them  taste  some  choice  comedies,  Greek, 
Latin  or  Italian ;  those  tragedies  also,  that  treat 
of  household  matters,  as  TrachiniiE,  Alcestis, 
and  the  like.  The  next  removal  must  be  to  the 
study  of  politics;  to  know  the  beginning,  end, 
and  reasons  of  political  societies;  that  they 
may  not  in  a  dangerous  fit  of  the  common- 
wealth be  such  poor,  shaken,  uncertain  reeds, 
of  such  a  tottering  conscience,  as  many  of  our 
great  counsellors  have  lately  shown  themselves, 
but  stedfast  pillars  of  the  state.  After  this, 
they  are  to  dive  into  the  grounds  of  law,  and 
legal  justice;  delivered  first  and  with  best 
warrant  by  Moses;  and  as  far  as  human  pru- 
dence can  be  trusted,  in  those  extolled  remains 
of  Grecian  law-givers,  Lycurgus,  Solon,  Zaleu- 
cus,  Charondas,  and  thence  to  all  the  Roman 
edicts  and  tables  with  their  Justinian;  and  so 
down  to  the  Saxon  and  common  laws  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  statutes.  Sundays  also  and 
every  evening  may  be  now  understandingly 
.  spent  in  the  highest  matters  of  theology,  and 
church-history  ancient  and  modern;  and  ere 
this  time  the  Hebrew  tongue  at  a  set  hour  might 
have  been  gained,  that  the  Scriptures  may  be 
now  read  in   their  own  original;    whereto   it 

'  deliberate  choice      ^  brought  back 


would  be  no  impossibility  to  add  the  Chaldee, 
and  the  Syrian  dialect.  When  all  these  employ- 
ments are  well  conquered,  then  will  the  choice 
histories,  heroic  poems,  and  Attic  tragedies 
of  stateliest  and  most  regal  argument,  with  all 
the  famous  political  orations,  offer  themselves; 
which  if  they  were  not  only  read,  but  some  of 
them  got  by  memory,  and  solemnly  pronounced 
with  right  accent  and  grace,  as  might  be  taught, 
would  endue  them  even  with  the  spirit  and 
vigour  of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero,  Euripides 
or  Sophocles. 

And  now  lastly  will  be  the  time  to  read  them 
with  those  organic  arts,  which  enable  men  to 
discourse  and  write  perspicuously,  elegantly, 
and  according  to  the  fitted  style  of  lofty,  mean, 
or  lowly.  Logic,  therefore,  so  much  as  is 
useful,  is  to  be  referred  to  this  due  place  with 
all  her  well-couched  heads  and  topics,  until  it 
be  time  to  open  her  contracted  palm  into  a 
graceful  and  ornate  rhetoric  taught  out  of 
the  rule  of  Plato,  Aristotle,  Phalereus,  Cicero, 
Hermogenes,  Longinus.  To  which  poetry 
would  be  made  subsequent,  or  indeed  rather 
precedent,  as  being  less  subtile  and  fine,  but 
more  simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate.  I 
mean  not  here  the  prosody  of  a  verse,  which 
they  could  not  but  have  hit  on  before  among 
the  rudiments  of  grammar;  but  that  sublime 
art  which  in  Aristotle's  poetics,  in  Horace,  and 
the  Italian  commentaries  of  Castelvetro, 
Tasso,  Mazzoni,  and  others,  teaches  what 
the  laws  are  of  a  true  epic  poem,  what  of  a 
dramatic,  what  of  a  lyric,  what  decorum  is, 
which  is  the  grand  masterpiece  to  observe. 
This  would  make  them  soon  perceive  what 
despicable  creatures  our  common  rhymers 
and  play -writers  be;  and  show  them  what 
religious,  what  glorious  and  magnificent  use 
might  be  made  of  poetry,  both  in  divine  and 
human  things.  From  hence,  and  not  till  now, 
will  be  the  right  season  of  forming  them  to  be 
able  writers  and  composers  in  every  excellent 
matter,  when  they  shall  be  thus  fraught  with  an 
universal  insight  into  things.  Or  whether  they 
be  to  speak  in  parliament  or  council,  honour 
and  attention  would  be  waiting  on  their  lips. 
There  would  then  also  appear  in  pulpits  other 
visages,  other  gestures,  and  stuff  otherwise 
wrought  than  what  we  now  sit  under,  ofttimes 
to  as  great  a  trial  of  our  patience  as  any  other 
that  they  preach  to  us.  These  are  the  studies 
wherein  our  noble  and  our  gentle  youth  ought 
to  bestow  their  time  in  a  disciplinary  way  from 
twelve  to  one-and-twenty  ;  unless  they  rely 
more  upon  their  ancestors  dead  than  upon  them- 


OF   EDUCATION 


125 


selves  living.  In  which  methodical  course  it 
is  so  supposed  they  must  proceed  by  the  steady 
pace  of  learning  onward,  as  at  convenient  times, 
for  memory's  sake,  to  retire  back  into  the  middle 
ward,  and  sometimes  into  the  rear  of  what  they 
have  been  taught,'  until  they  have  confirmed 
and  solidly  united  the  whole  body  of  their 
perfected  knowledge,  like  the  last  embattling 
of  a  Roman  legion.  Now  will  be  worth  the 
seeing,  what  exercises  and  recreations  may  best 
agree,  and  become  these  studies. 

Their  Exercise 

The  course  of  study  hitherto  briefly  described 
is,  what  I  can  guess  by  reading,  likest  to  those 
ancient  and  famous  schools  of  Pythagoras, 
Plato,  Isocrates,  Aristotle,  and  such  others, 
out  of  which  were  bred  such  a  number  of  re- 
nowned philosophers,  orators,  historians,  poets, 
and  princes  all  over  Greece,  Italy,  and  Asia, 
besides  the  flourishing  studies  of  Cyrene  and 
Alexandria.  But  herein  it  shall  exceed  them, 
and  supply  a  defect  as  great  as  that  which 
Plato  noted  in  the  commonwealth  of  Sparta; 
whereas  that  city  trained  up  their  youth  most 
for  war,  and  these  in  their  academies  and 
Lycaeum  all  for  the  gown,  this  institution  of 
breeding  which  I  here  delineate  shall  be  equally 
good  both  for  peace  and  war. 

Therefore  about  an  hour  and  a  half  ere  they 
eat  at  noon  should  be  allowed  them  for  exercise, 
and  due  rest  afterwards;  but  the  time  for  this 
may  be  enlarged  at  pleasure,  according  as  their 
rising  in  the  morning  shall  be  early.  The 
exercise  which  I  commend  first,  is  the  exact  use 
of  their  weapon,  to  guard,  and  to  strike  safely 
with  edge  or  point;  this  will  keep  them  healthy, 
nimble,  strong,  and  well  in  breath,  is  also  the 
likeliest  means  to  make  them  grow  large  and 
tall,  and  to  inspire  them  with  a  gallant  and 
fearless  courage,  which  being  tempered  with 
seasonable  lectures  and  precepts  to  them  of 
true  fortitude  and  patience,  will  turn  into  a 
native  and  heroic  valour,  and  make  them  hate 
the  cowardice  of  doing  wrong.  They  must 
be  also  practised  in  all  the  locks  and  grips 
of  wrestling,  wherein  Englishmen  were  wont 
to  excel,  as  need  may  often  be  in  fight  to  tug, 
to  grapple,  and  to  close.  And  this  perhaps  will 
be  enough,  wherein  to  prove  and  heat  their 
single  strength. 

The  interim  of  unsweating  themselves  regu- 
larly,   and   convenient  rest  before  meat,  may 

'  i.e.  to  review 


both  with  profit  and  deliglit  be  taken  up  in 
recreating  and  composing  their  travailed  spirits 
with  the  solemn  and  divine  harmonies  of  music 
heard  or  learned;  either  whilst  the  skilful 
organist  plies  his  grave  and  fancied  descant  in 
lofty  fugues,  or  the  whole  symphony  with  artful 
and  unimaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the 
well-studied  chords  of  some  choice  composer; 
sometimes  the  lute  or  soft  organ  stop  waiting 
on  elegant  voices,  either  to  religious,  martial, 
or  civil  ditties;  which,  if  wise  men  and  proph- 
ets be  not  extremely  out,  have  a  great  power 
over  dispositions  and  manners,  to  smooth  and 
make  them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and 
distempered  passions.  The  like  also  would 
not  be  unexpedient  after  meat,  to  assist  and 
cherish  nature  in  her  first  concoction,  and  send 
their  minds  back  to  study  in  good  tune  and 
satisfaction. 

Where  having  followed  it  close  under  vigilant 
eyes,  till  about  two  hours  before  supper,  they 
are  by  a  sudden  alarum  or  watchword,  to  be 
called  out  to  their  military  motions,  under  sky 
or  covert,  according  to  the  season,  as  was  the 
Roman  wont;  first  on  foot,  then  as  their  age 
permits,  on  horseback,  to  all  the  art  of  cavalry; 
that  having  in  sport,  but  with  much  exactness 
and  daily  muster,  served  out  the  rudiments  of 
their  soldiership,  in  all  the  skill  of  embattling, 
marching,  encamping,  fortifying,  besieging,  and 
battering  with  all  the  helps  of  ancient  and 
modern  stratagems,  tactics,  and  warlike  max- 
ims, they  may  as  it  were  out  of  a  long  war  come 
forth  renowned  and  perfect  commanders  in  the 
service  of  their  country.  They  would  not  then, 
if  they  were  trusted  with  fair  and  hopeful  armies, 
suffer  them  for  want  of  just  and  wise  discipline 
to  shed  away  from  about  them  like  sick  feathers, 
though  they  be  never  so  oft  supplied;  they 
would  not  suffer  their  empty  and  unrecruitable 
colonels  of  twenty  men  in  a  company,  to  quaff 
out,  or  convey  into  secret  hoards,  the  wages  of 
a  delusive  list,  and  a  miserable  remnant;  yet 
in  the  meanwhile  to  be  overmastered  with  a 
score  or  two  of  drunkards,  the  only  soldiery 
left  about  them,  or  else  to  comply  with  all 
rapines  and  violences.  No,  certainly,  if  they 
knew  aught  of  that  knowledge  that  belongs  to 
good  men  or  good  governors,  they  would  not 
suffer  these  things. 

But  to  return  to  our  own  institute;  besides 
these  constant  exercises  at  home,  there  is  another 
opportunity  of  gaining  experience  to  be  won 
from  pleasure  itself  abroad;  in  those  vernal 
seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and 
pleasant,    it    were    an    injury    and    sullenncss 


126 


JOHN    MILTON 


against  nature,  not  to  go  out  and  see  her  riches, 
and  partake  in  her  rejoicing  with  heaven  and 
earth.  I  should  not  therefore  be  a  persuatler 
to  them  of  studying  much  then,  after  two  or 
three  years  that  they  have  well  laid  their 
grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in  companies  with 
prudent  and  staid  guides  to  all  the  quarters 
of  the  land;  learning  and  observing  all  places 
of  strength,  all  commodities  of  building  antl  of 
soil,  for  towns  and  tillage,  harbours  and  ports 
for  trade.  Sometimes  taking  sea  as  far  as  to 
our  navy,  to  learn  there  also  what  they  can  in 
the  practical  knowledge  of  sailing  and  of  sea- 
fight.  These  ways  would  try  all  their  ^x.-culiar 
gifts  of  nature,  and  if  there  were  any  secret 
excellence  among  them,  would  fetch  it  out,  and 
give  it  fair  opportunities  to  advance  itself  by, 
which  could  not  but  mightily  redound  to  the 
good  of  this  nation,  and  bring  into  fashion  again 
those  old  admired  virtues  and  excellencies 
with  far  more  advantage  now  in  this  purity  of 
Christian  knowledge.  Nor  shall  we  then  need 
the  monsieurs  of  Paris  to  take  our  hojieful 
youth  into  their  slight  and  prodigal  custodies, 
and  send  them  over  back  again  transformed  into 
mimics,  apes,  and  kickshaws.'  But  if  they 
desire  to  see  other  countries  at  three  or  four 
and  twenty  years  of  age,  not  to  learn  principles, 
but  to  enlarge  exjx^rience,  and  make  wise  ob- 
servation, they  will  by  that  time  be  such  as 
shall  deserve  the  regard  and  honour  of  all  men 
where  they  pass,  and  the  society  and  friendship 
of  those  in  all  places  who  are  best  and  most 
eminent.  And  perhaps,  then  other  nations 
will  be  glad  to  visit  us  for  their  breeding,  or 
else  to  imitate  us  in  their  own  country. 

Now  lastly  for  their  diet  there  cannot  be  much 
to  say,  save  only  that  it  would  be  best  in  the 
same  house;  for  much  time  else  would  be  lost 
abroad,  and  many  ill  habits  got;  and  that 
it  should  be  plain,  healthful,  and  moderate,  I 
suppose  is  out  of  controversy.  Thus,  Mr. 
Hartlib,  you  have  a  general  view  in  writing,  as 
your  desire  was,  of  that,  which  at  several  times 
I  had  discoursed  with  you  concerning  the  best 
and  noblest  way  of  education;  not  beginning 
as  some  have  done  from  the  cradle,  which  yet 
might  be  worth  many  considerations,  if  brevity 
had  not  been  my  scope;  many  other  circum- 
stances also  I  could  have  mentioned,  but  this, 
to  such  as  have  the  worth  in  them  to  make 
trial,  for  light  and  direction  may  be  enough. 
Only  I  l)elieve  that  this  is  not  a  bow  for  every 
man  to  shoot  in,  that  counts  himself  a  teacher; 

'  triflers 


but  will  require  sinews  almost  equal  to  those 
which  Homer  gave  Ulysses;  yet  1  am  withal 
persuaded  that  it  may  prove  nuich  more  easy 
in  the  assay,  than  it  now  seems  at  distance, 
and  much  more  illustrious;  howU-it,  not  more 
ditVicult  than  1  imagine,  and  that  imagination 
presents  me  with,  nothing  but  very  happy,  and 
very  possible  according  to  best  wishes;  if  God 
have  so  decreed,  and  this  age  have  spirit  and 
capacity  enough  to  ai)prehend. 

From   AREOPAGITICA 

A   SPEECH   FOR   THE   TJPKKTY  OF   UN- 
LICENSED   PRINTINC. 

TO  THE  PARLIAMENT  OF   ENGLAND 

*  «  *  Ht  *  )):  H: 

I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concern- 
ment in  the  church  and  commonwealth,  to  have 
a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  themselves 
as  well  as  men;  and  thereafter  to  contine, 
imi)rison,  and  do  sharjx>st  justice  on  them  as 
malefactors:  for  books  are  not  absolutely 
dead  things,  but  do  contain  a  j^xitency  of  life 
in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  whose 
progeny  they  are;  nay,  they  do  preserve  as  in 
a  vial  the  purest  etlicacy  and  extraction  of 
that  living  intellect  that  bred  them.  1  know 
they  are  as  lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive, 
as  those  fabulous  dragon's  teeth;  and  being 
sown  up  and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up 
armed  men.  And  yet  on  the  other  hand,  unless 
wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as 
kill  a  gooil  book;  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  rea- 
sonable creature,  God's  image;  but  he  who 
destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills 
the  image  of  God  as  it  were  in  the  eye.  Many 
a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  earth;  but  a  good 
book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master 
si)irit,  imbalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose 
to  a  life  beyond  life.  'Tis  true,  no  age  can 
restore  a  life,  whereof  perhaps  there  is  no  great 
loss;  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover 
the  loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of 
which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We  should 
be  wary  therefore  what  persecution  we  raise 
against  the  living  labours  of  public  men,  how 
we  spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man  preserved 
and  stored  up  in  books;  since  we  see  a  kind  of 
homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  sometimes 
a  martyrdom,  and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole 
impression,  a  kind  of  massacre,  wliereof  the 
execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental 
life,  but  strikes  at  that  ethereal  and  fifth  essence, 
the  breath  of  reason  itself,  slays  an  immortality 


AREOPAGITICA 


127 


rather  than  a  life.  But  lest  I  should  be  con- 
demned of  introducing  license,  while  I  oppose 
licensing,  I  refuse  not  the  pains  to  be  so  much 
historical  as  will  serve  to  show  what  hath  been 
done  by  ancient  and  famous  commonwealths 
against  this  disorder,  till  the  ver\-  time  that  this 
project  of  licensing  crept  out  of  the  inquisition, 
was  catched  up  by  our  prelates,  and  hath 
caught  some  of  our  presbyters. 

In  Athens  where  books  and  wits  were  ever 
busier  than  in  any  other  part  of  Greece,  I  find 
but  only  two  sorts  of  writings  which  the  magis- 
trate cared  to  take  notice  of:  those  either  blas- 
phemous and  atheistical,  or  libellous.  Thus 
the  books  of  Protagoras  were  by  the  judges  of 
Areopagus  commanded  to  be  burnt,  and  him- 
self banished  the  territory,  for  a  discourse  be- 
gun with  his  confessing  not  to  know  whether 
there  were  gods,  or  whether  not:  and  against 
defaming,  it  was  decreed  that  none  should  be 
traduced  by  name,  as  was  the  manner  of  Vetus 
Comoedia,'  whereby  we  may  guess  how  they 
censured  libelling:  and  this  course  was  quick 
enough,  as  Cicero  writes,  to  quell  both  the 
desperate  wits  of  other  atheists,  and  the  open 
way  of  defaming,  as  the  event  showed.  Of 
other  sects  and  opinions  though  tending  to 
voluptuousness  and  the  denying  of  divine 
providence  they  took  no  heed.  Therefore  we 
do  not  read  that  either  Epicurus,  or  that  liber- 
tine school  of  CjTene,  or  what  the  CjTiic  im- 
pudence uttered,  was  ever  questioned  by  the 
lav^s.  Neither  is  it  recorded  that  the  writings 
of  those  old  comedians  were  suppressed, 
though  the  acting  of  them  were  forbid ;  and  that 
Plato  commended  the  reading  of  Aristophanes, 
the  loosest  of  them  all,  to  his  royal  scholar 
Dionysius,  is  commonly  known,  and  may  be 
excused,  if  holy  Chrysostom,  as  is  reported, 
nightly  studied  so  much  the  same  author  and 
had  the  art  to  cleanse  a  scurrilous  vehemence 
into  the  style  of  a  rousing  sermon.  That  other 
leading  city  of  Greece,  Lacedaemon,  consider- 
ing that  Lycurgus  their  law-giver  was  so  ad- 
dicted to  elegant  learning  as  to  have  been  the 
first  that  brought  out  of  Ionia  the  scattered 
works  of  Homer,  and  sent  the  poet  Thales  from 
Crete  to  prepare  and  mollify  the  Spartan  surli- 
ness with  his  smooth  songs  and  odes,  the  better 
to  plant  among  them  law  and  civility,  it  is 
to  be  wondered  how  museless  and  unbookish 
they  were,  minding  nought  but  the  feats  of 
war.  There  needed  no  licensing  of  books 
among   them,    for  they  disliked  all  but  their 

1  The  Old  Comedy 


own  laconic  apophthegms,  and  took  a  slight 
occasion  to  chase  Archilochus  out  of  their  city, 
perhaps  for  composing  in  a  higher  strain  than 
their  own  soldierly  ballads  and  roundels  could 
reach  to;  or  if  it  were  for  his  broad  verses,  they 
were  not  therein  so  cautious  but  they  were 
as  dissolute  in  their  promiscuous  conversing; 
whence  Euripides  affirms  in  Andromache,  that 
their  women  were  all  unchaste.  Thus  much 
may  give  us  light  after  what  sort  books  were 
prohibited  among  the  Greeks. 

The  Romans  also,  for  many  ages  trained  up 
only  to  a  militar}'  roughness,  resembling  most 
of  the  Lacedaemonian  guise,  knew  of  learning 
little  but  what  their  twelve  tables,  and  the  pon- 
tific  college  with  their  augurs  and  flamens  taught 
them  in  religion  and  law,  so  unacquainted  with 
other  learning  that  when  Carneades  and 
Critolaus,  with  the  stoic  Diogenes,  coming 
embassadors  to  Rome,  took  thereby  occasion 
to  give  the  city  a  taste  of  their  philosophy, 
they  were  suspected  for  seducers  by  no  less 
a  man  than  Cato  the  censor,  who  moved  it  in 
the  senate  to  dismiss  them  speedily,  and  to 
banish  all  such  Attic  babblers  out  of  Italy. 
But  Scipio  and  others  of  the  noblest  senators 
withstood  him  and  his  old  Sabine  austerity; 
honoured  and  admired  the  men;  and  the 
censor  himself  at  last  in  his  old  age  fell  to  the 
study  of  that  whereof  before  he  was  so  scru- 
pulous. And  yet  at  the  same  time  Naevius 
and  Plautus,  the  first  Latin  comedians,  had 
filled  the  city  with  all  the  borrowed  scenes  of 
Menander  and  Philemon.  Then  began  to  be 
considered  there  also  what  was  to  be  done  to 
libellous  books  and  authors;  for  Naevius  was 
quickly  cast  into  prison  for  his  unbridled  pen, 
and  released  by  the  tribunes  upon  his  recan- 
tation; we  read  also  that  libels  were  burnt, 
and  the  makers  punished  by  Augustus.  The 
like  severity  no  doubt  was  used  if  aught  were 
impiously  written  against  their  esteemed  gods. 
Except  in  these  two  points,  how  the  world  went 
in  books,  the  magistrate  kept  no  reckoning. 
And  therefore  Lucretius  without  impeachment 
versifies  his  Epicurism  to  Memmius,  and  had 
the  honour  to  be  set  forth  the  second  time  by 
Cicero  so  great  a  father  of  the  commonwealth ; 
although  himself  disputes  against  that  opinion  in 
his  own  writings.  Nor  was  the  satirical  sharp- 
ness, or  naked  plainness  of  Lucilius,  or  Catul- 
lus, or  Flaccus,  by  any  order  prohibited.  And 
for  matters  of  state,  the  stor\'  of  Titus  Livius, 
though  it  extolled  that  part  which  Pompcy  held, 
was  not  therefore  suppressed  by  Octavius 
Caesar  of  the  other  faction.     But  that  Naso 


128 


JOHN    MILTON 


was  by  him  banished  in  his  old  age  for  the 
wanton  poems  of  his  youth,  was  but  a  mere 
covert  of  state  over  some  secret  cause;  and 
besides,  the  books  were  neither  banished  nor 
called  in.  From  hence  we  shall  meet  with  little 
else  but  tjTanny  in  the  Roman  empire,  that  we 
may  not  mar\-el  if  not  so  often  bad  as  good 
books  were  silenced.  I  shall  therefore  deem 
to  have  been  large  enough  in  producing  what 
among  the  ancients  was  punishable  to  write, 
save  only  which,  all  other  arguments  were  free 
to  treat  on. 

By  this  time  the  emperors  were  become  Chris- 
tians, whose  discipline  in  this  point  I  do  not 
find  to  have  been  more  severe  than  what  was 
formerly  in  practice.  The  books  of  those 
whom  they  took  to  be  grand  heretics  were 
examined,  refuted,  and  condemned  in  the 
general  councils;  and  not  till  then  were  pro- 
hibited, or  burnt  by  authority  of  the  emperor. 
As  for  the  writings  of  heathen  authors,  unless 
they  were  plain  invectives  against  Christianity, 
as  those  of  Porphyrius  and  Proclus,  they  met 
with  no  interdict  that  can  be  cited  till  about  the 
year  400  in  a  Carthaginian  council,  wherein 
bishops  themselves  were  forbid  to  read  the  books 
of  Gentiles,  but  heresies  they  might  read :  while 
others  long  before  them  on  the  contrary  scrupled 
more  the  books  of  heretics  than  of  Gentiles. 
And  that  the  primitive  councils  and  bishops 
were  wont  only  to  declare  what  books  were  not 
commendable,  passing  no  further,  but  leaving 
it  to  each  one's  conscience  to  read  or  to  lay  by, 
till  after  the  year  800,  is  observed  already  by 
Padre  Paolo  the  great  unmasker  of  the  Trentine 
council.  After  which  time  the  popes  of  Rome, 
engrossing  what  they  pleased  of  political  rule 
into  their  own  hands,  extended  their  dominion 
over  men's  eyes,  as  they  had  before  over  their 
judgments,  burning  and  prohibiting  to  be  read 
what  they  fancied  not;  yet  sparing  in  their 
censures,  and  the  books  not  many  which  they 
so  dealt  with ;  till  Martin  the  V  by  his  bull  not 
only  prohibited,  but  was  the  first  that  ex- 
communicated the  reading  of  heretical  books; 
for  about  that  time  Wickliffe  and  Husse  grow- 
ing terrible  were  they  who  first  drove  the  papal 
court  to  a  stricter  policy  of  prohibiting.  Which 
course  Leo  the  X  and  his  successors  followed, 
until_  the  council  of  Trent  and  the  Spanish 
inquisition  engendering  together  brought  forth 
or  perfected  those  catalogues  and  expurging 
indexes  that  rake  through  the  entrails  of  many 
an  old  good  author  with  a  violation  worse  than 
any  could  be  ofi'ered  to  his  tomb.  Nor  did  they 
stay  in  matters  heretical,  but  any  subject  that 


was  not  to  their  palate  they  either  condemned 
in  a  prohibition,  or  had  it  straight  into  the  new 
purgatory  of  an  index.  To  fill  up  the  measure 
of  encroachment,  their  last  invention  was  to 
ordain  that  no  book,  pamphlet,  or  paper  should 
be  printed  (as  if  St.  Peter  had  bequeathed  them 
the  keys  of  the  press  also  out  of  Paradise) 
unless  it  were  approved  and  licensed  under  the 

hands  of  two  or  three  glutton  friars 

Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of  this 
world  grow  up  together  almost  inseparably; 
and  the  knowledge  of  good  is  so  involved  and 
interw'oven  with  the  knowledge  of  evil  and  in 
so  many  cunning  resemblances  hardly  to  be 
discerned,  that  those  confused  seeds,  which 
were  imposed  on  Psyche  as  an  incessant  labour 
to  cull  out  and  sort  asunder,  were  not  more 
intermixed.  It  was  from  out  the  rind  of  one 
apple  tasted  that  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil  as  two  twins  cleaving  together  leaped  forth 
into  the  world.  And  perhaps  this  is  that  doom 
which  Adam  fell  into  of  knowing  good  and  evil, 
that  is  to  say  of  knowing  good  by  evil.  As 
therefore  the  state  of  man  now  is,  what  wisdom 
can  there  be  to  choose,  what  continence  to 
forbear,  without  the  knowledge  of  evil?  He 
that  can  apprehend  and  consider  vice  with 
all  her  baits  and  seeming  pleasures,  and  yet 
abstain,  and  yet  distinguish,  and  yet  prefer 
that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is  the  true  war- 
faring  Christian.  I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive 
and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  and  un- 
breathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  her 
adversar}-,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race,  where 
that  immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for  not  with- 
out dust  and  heat.  Assuredly  we  bring  not 
innocence  into  the  world,  we  bring  impurity 
much  rather:  that  which  purifies  us  is  trial, 
and  trial  is  by  what  is  contrarj'.  That  virtue 
therefore  which  is  but  a  youngling  in  the  con- 
templation of  evil,  and  knows  not  the  utmost 
that  vice  promises  to  her  followers,  and  rejects 
it,  is  but  a  blank  virtue,  not  a  pure ;  her  white- 
ness is  but  an  excremental  whiteness;  which 
was  the  reason  why  our  sage  and  serious  poet 
Spenser,  whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a 
better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas,  de- 
scribing true  temperance  under  the  person  of 
Guion,  brings  him  in  with  his  palmer  through 
the  cave  of  Slammon  and  the  bower  of  earthly 
bliss,  that  he  might  see  and  know,  and  yet 
abstain.  Since  therefore  the  knowledge  and 
survey  of  vice  is  in  this  world  so  necessary 
to  the  constituting  of  human  virtue,  and  the 
scanning  of  error  to  the  confirmation  of  truth, 
how  can  we  more  safely  and  with  less  danger 


AREOPAGITICA 


129 


scout  into  the  regions  of  sin  and  falsity  than  by- 
reading  all  manner  of  tractates,  and  hearing 
all  manner  of  reason?  And  this  is  the  benefit 
which  may  be  had  of  books  promiscuously 
read. 

But  of  the  harm  that  may  result  hence  three 
kinds  are  usually  reckoned :  first,  is  feared  the 
infection  that  may  spread;  but  then  all  human 
learning  and  controversy  in  religious  points 
must  remove  out  of  the  world,  yea,  the  Bible 
itself;  for  that  ofttimes  relates  blasphemy  not 
nicely,  it  describes  the  carnal  sense  of  wicked 
men  not  unelegantly,  it  brings  in  holiest  men 
passionately  murmuring  against  providence 
through  all  the  arguments  of  Epicurus:  in 
other  great  disputes  it  answers  dubiously  and 
darkly  to  the  common  reader:  and  ask  a 
Talmudist  what  ails  the  modesty  of  his  mar- 
ginal Keri,'  that  Moses  and  all  the  prophets 
cannot  persuade  him  to  pronounce  the  textual 
Chetiv.  For  these  causes  we  all  know  the  Bible 
itself  put  by  the  papist  into  the  first  rank  of 
prohibited  books.  The  ancientest  fathers  must 
be  next  removed,  as  Clement  of  Alexandria, 
and  that  Eusebian  book  of  evangelic  prepara- 
tion, transmitting  our  ears  through  a  hoard  of 
heathenish  obscenities  to  receive  the  Gospel. 
Who  finds  not  that  Irenaeus,  Epiphanius, 
Jerome,  and  others  discover  more  heresies 
than  they  well  confute,  and  that  oft  for  heresy 
which  is  the  truer  opinion?  Nor  boots  it  to 
say  for  these,  and  all  the  heathen  writers  of 
greatest  infection,  if  it  must  be  thought  so, 
with  whom  is  bound  up  the  life  of  human 
learning,  that  they  writ  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
so  long  as  we  are  sure  those  languages  are 
known  as  well  to  the  worst  of  men,  who  are 
both  most  able  and  most  diligent  to  instil  the 
poison  they  suck,  first  into  the  courts  of  princes, 
acquainting  them  with  the  choicest  delights 
and  criticisms  of  sin.  As  perhaps  did  that 
Petronius  whom  Nero  called  his  arbiter,  the 
master  of  his  revels;  and  that  notorious  ri- 
bald ^  of  Arezzo,  dreaded,  and  yet  dear  to  the 
Italian  courtiers.  I  name  not  him  for  pos- 
terity's sake,  whom  Harry  the  VIII  named 
in  merriment  his  vicar  of  hell.  By  which  com- 
pendious way  all  the  contagion  that  foreign 
books  can  infuse  will  find  a  passage  to  the  people 
far  easier  and  shorter  than  an  Indian  voyage, 
though  it  could  be  sailed  either  by  the  north 
of  Cataio  eastward  or   of   Canada  westward, 


'  A  word  in  the  margin  to  be  substituted  in  reading 
for  the  Chetiv  (Kethib),  an  erroneous  or  unintelligible 
word  in  the  te.xt.        ^  Pietro  Aretino 


while  our  Spanish  licensing  gags  the  English 

press  never  so  severely 

See  the  ingenuity  of  truth,  who  when  she 
gets  a  free  and  willing  hand,  opens  herself 
faster  than  the  pace  of  method  and  discourse 
can  overtake  her.  It  was  the  task  which  I 
began  with,  to  show  that  no  nation,  or  well 
instituted  state,  if  they  valued  books  at  all,  did 
ever  use  this  way  of  licensing;  and  it  might 
be  answered,  that  this  is  a  piece  of  prudence 
lately  discovered;  to  which  I  return,  that  as  it 
was  a  thing  slight  and  obvious  to  think  on,  so 
if  it  had  been  difficult  to  find  out,  there  wanted 
not  among  them  long  since  who  suggested  such 
a  course;  which  they  not  following,  leave  us 
a  pattern  of  their  judgment,  that  it  was  not  the 
not  knowing,  but  the  not  approving,  which  was 
the  cause  of  their  not  using  it.  Plato,  a  man 
of  high  authority  indeed,  but  least  of  all  for 
his  Commonwealth,  in  the  book  of  his  laws, 
which  no  city  ever  yet  received,  fed  his  fancy 
with  making  many  edicts  to  his  airy  burgo- 
masters, which  they  who  otherwise  admire 
him  wish  had  been  rather  buried  and  excused 
in  the  genial  cups  of  an  academic  night-sitting. 
By  which  laws  he  seems  to  tolerate  no  kind  of 
learning,  but  by  unalterable  decree,  consisting 
most  of  practical  traditions,  to  the  attainment 
whereof  a  library  of  smaller  bulk  than  his  own 
dialogues  would  be  abundant.  And  there  also 
enacts  that  no  poet  should  so  much  as  read  to 
any  private  man  what  he  had  written,  until  the 
judges  and  law-keepers  had  seen  it  and  allowed 
it;  but  that  Plato  meant  this  law  peculiarly 
to  that  Commonwealth  which  he  had  imagined, 
and  to  no  other,  is  evident.  Why  was  he  not 
else  a  law-giver  to  himself,  but  a  transgressor, 
and  to  be  expelled  by  his  own  magistrates, 
both  for  the  wanton  epigrams  and  dialogues 
which  he  made,  and  his  perpetual  reading  of 
Sophron  Mimus  '  and  Aristophanes,  books  of 
grossest  infamy,  and  also  for  commending  the 
latter  of  them,  though  he  were  the  malicious 
libeller  of  his  chief  friends,  to  be  read  by  the 
tyrant  Dionysius,  who  had  little  need  of  such 
trash  to  spend  his  time  on?  But  that  he  knew 
this  licensing  of  poems  had  reference  and  de- 
pendence to  many  other  provisos  there  s^t 
down  in  his  fancied  republic,  which  in  this 
world  could  have  no  place;  and  so  neither  he 
himself,  nor  any  magistrate,  or  city  ever  imi- 
tated that  course,  which  taken  apart  from  those 
other  collateral  injunctions  must  needs  be  vain 

1  Plato's  dialogues  are  said  to  have  been  modeled 
on  the  mimes  of  Sophron. 


130 


JOHN    MILTON 


and  fruitless.  For  if  they  fell  upon  one  kind  of 
strictness,  unless  their  care  were  equal  to  regu- 
late all  other  things  of  like  aptness  to  corrupt 
the  mind,  that  single  endeavour  they  knew 
would  be  but  a  fond  labour:  to  shut  and  fortify 
one  gate  against  corruption,  and  be  necessi- 
tated to  leave  others  round  about  wide  open. 
If  we  think  to  regulate  printing,  thereby  to 
rectify  manners,  we  must  regulate  all  recrea- 
tions and  pastimes,  all  that  is  delightful  to  man. 
No  music  must  be  heard,  nor  song  be  set  or 
sung,  but  what  is  grave  and  doric.  There  must 
be  licensing  dancers,  that  no  gesture,  motion, 
or  deportment  be  taught  our  youth  iDut  what 
by  their  allowance  shall  be  thought  honest; 
for  such  Plato  was  provided  of.  It  will  ask 
more  than  the  work  of  twenty  licensers  to  ex- 
amine all  the  lutes,  the  violins,  and  the  guitars 
in  every  house;  they  must  not  be  suffered  to 
prattle  as  they  do,  but  must  be  licensed  what 
they  may  say.  And  who  shall  silence  all  the 
airs  and  madrigals  that  whisper  softness  in 
chambers?  The  windows  also,  and  the  bal- 
conies must  be  thought  on;  there  are  shrewd 
books  with  dangerous  frontispieces  set  to  sale; 
who  shall  prohibit  them?  shall  twenty  licen- 
sers? The  villages  also  must  have  their  vis- 
itors to  inquire  what  lectures  the  bagpipe  and 
the  rebec  reads,  even  to  the  ballatry  and  the 
gamut  of  every  municipal  fiddler,  for  these 
are  the  countryman's  Arcadias  and  his  Mon- 
temayors.^  Next,  what  more  national  corrup- 
tion, for  which  England  hears  ill  abroad,  than 
household  gluttony?  who  shall  be  the  rectors 
of  our  daily  rioting?  and  what  shall  be  done  to 
inhibit  the  multitudes  that  frequent  those  houses 
where  drunkenness  is  sold  and  harboured? 
Our  garments  also  should  be  referred  to  the 
licensing  of  some  more  sober  work-masters  to 
see  them  cut  into  a  less  wanton  garb.  Who 
shall  regulate  all  the  mixed  conversation  of 
our  youth  male  and  female  together,  as  is  the 
fashion  of  this  country?  who  shall  still  appoint 
what  shall  be  discoursed,  what  presumed,  and 
no  further?  Lastly,  who  shall  forbid  and 
separate  all  idle  resort,  all  evil  company? 
These  things  will  be,  and  must  be;  but  how 
they  shall  be  least  hurtful,  how  least  enticing, 
herein  consists  the  grave  and  governing  wisdom 
of  a  state.  To  sequester  out  of  the  world  into 
Atlantic  and  Utopian  polities,  which  never  can 
be  drawn  into  use,  will  not  mend  our  condition; 


'  Montemayor  was  the  author  of  a  pastoral  ro- 
mance in  Spanish  called  Diana,  which  was  very 
famous  in  the  si.\teenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 


but  to  ordain  wisely  as  in  this  world  of  evil, 
in  the  midst  whereof  God  hath  placed  us  un- 
avoidably. Nor  is  it  Plato's  licensing  of  books 
will  do  this,  which  necessarily  pulls  along  with 
it  so  many  other  kinds  of  licensing,  as  will 
make  us  all  both  ridiculous  and  weary,  and  yet 
frustrate;  but  those  unwritten,  or  at  least  un- 
constraining  laws  of  virtuous  education,  reli- 
gious and  civil  nurture,  which  Plato  there 
mentions  as  the  bonds  and  ligaments  of  the 
commonwealth,  the  pillars  and  the  sustainers 
of  every  written  statute;  these  they  be  which 
will  bear  chief  sway  in  such  matters  as  these, 
when  all  licensing  will  be  easily  eluded.  Im- 
punity and  remissness,  for  certain,  are  the  bane 
of  a  commonwealth;  but  here  the  great  art 
lies  to  discern  in  what  the  law  is  to  bid  restraint 
and  punishment,  and  in  what  things  persuasion 
only  is  to  work.  If  every  action  which  is  good, 
or  evil  in  man  at  ripe  years,  were  to  be  under 
pittance  and  prescription  and  compulsion, 
what  were  virtue  but  a  name,  what  praise  could 
be  then  due  to  well-doing,  what  gramercy  ^ 
to  be  sober,  just  or  continent? 

I  lastly  proceed  from  the  no  good  it  can  do, 
to  the  manifest  hurt  it  causes,  in  being  first  the 
greatest  discouragement  and  affront  that  can 
be  offered  to  learning  and  to  learned  men. 
It  was  the  complaint  and  lamentation  of  pre- 
lates upon  every  least  breath  of  a  motion  to 
remove  pluralities  and  distribute  more  equally 
church  revenues,  that  then  all  learning  would 
be  forever  dashed  and  discouraged.  But  as 
for  that  opinion,  I  never  found  cause  to  think 
that  the  tenth  part  of  learning  stood  or  fell 
with  the  clergy;  nor  could  I  ever  but  hold 
it  for  a  sordid  and  unworthy  speech  of  any 
churchman  who  had  a  competency  left  him. 
If  therefore  ye  be  loath  to  dishearten  utterly 
and  discontent,  not  the  mercenary  crew  of 
false  pretenders  to  learning,  but  the  free  and 
ingenuous  sort  of  such  as  evidently  were  born 
to  study  and  love  learning  for  itself,  not  for 
lucre  or  any  other  end  but  the  service  of  God 
and  of  truth,  and  perhaps  that  lasting  fame 
and  perpetuity  of  praise  which  God  and  good 
men  have  consented  shall  be  the  reward 
of  those  whose  published  labours  advance  the 
good  of  mankind,  then  know,  that  so  far  to 
distrust  the  judgment  and  the  honesty  of  one 
who  hath  but  a  common  repute  in  learning  and 
never  yet  offended,  as  not  to  count  him  fit  to 
print  his  mind  without  a  tutor  and  examiner, 

*  thanks 


AREOPAGITICA 


131 


lest  he  should  drop  a  schism  or  something  of 
corruption,  is  the  greatest  (Hspieasure  and  in- 
dignity to  a  free  and  knowing  spirit  that  can  be 
put  upon  him.  What  advantage  is  it  to  be 
a  man  over  it  is  to  be  a  boy  at  school,  if  we 
have  only  escaped  the  ferular  to  come  under 
the  fescue '  of  an  Imprimatur  ?  if  serious  and 
elaborate  writings,  as  if  they  were  no  more  than 
the  theme  of  a  grammar  lad  under  his  peda- 
gogue, must  not  be  uttered  without  the  cur- 
sory eyes  of  a  temporising  and  extemporising 
licenser?  He  who  is  not  trusted  with  his  own 
actions,  his  drift  not  being  known  to  be  evil,  and 
standing  to  the  hazard  of  law  and  penalty,  has 
no  great  argument  to  think  himself  reputed  in 
the  commonwealth  wherein  he  was  born  for 
other  than  a  fool  or  a  foreigner.  When  a  man 
writes  to  the  world,  he  summons  up  all  his  rea- 
son and  deliberation  to  assist  him;  he  searches, 
meditates,  is  industrious,  and  likely  consults 
and  confers  with  his  judicious  friends;  after 
all  which  done  he  takes  himself  to  be  informed 
in  what  he  writes  as  well  as  any  that  writ 
before  him;  if  in  this  the  most  consummate 
act  of  his  fidelity  and  ripeness,  no  years,  no 
industry,  no  former  proof  of  his  abilities  can 
bring  him  to  that  state  of  maturity  as  not  to  be 
still  mistrusted  and  suspected,  unless  he  carry 
all  his  considerate  diligence,  all  his  midnight 
watchings,  and  expense  of  Palladian  oil,  to 
the  hasty  view  of  an  unleisurcd  licenser,  per- 
haps much  his  younger,  perhaps  far  his  inferior 
in  judgment,  perhaps  one  who  never  knew 
the  labour  of  book-writing,  and  if  he  be  not 
repulsed  or  slighted,  must  appear  in  print  like 
a  puny  ^  with  his  guardian  and  his  censor's 
hand  on  the  back  of  his  title  to  be  his  bail  and 
surety,  that  he  is  no  idiot  or  seducer,  it  can- 
not be  but  a  dishonour  and  derogation  to  the 
author,  to  the  book,  to  the  privilege  and  dignity 
of  learning. 

And  what  if  the  author  shall  be  one  so  copious 
of  fancy  as  to  have  many  things  well  worth 
the  adding  come  into  his  mind  after  licensing, 
while  the  book  is  yet  under  the  press,  which  not 
seldom  happens  to  the  best  and  diligentest 
writers;  and  that  perhaps  a  dozen  times  in  one 
book?  The  printer  dares  not  go  beyond  his 
licensed  copy;  so  often  then  must  the  author 
trudge  to  his  leave-giver,  that  those  new 
insertions  may  be  viewed;  and  many  a  jaunt 
will  be  made  ere  that  licenser,  for  it  must  be 

*  A  small  wire  or  twig  used  by  teachers  to  point  to 
the  letters  or  words  which  the  child  is  to  read  or  pro- 
nounce.        2  minor 


the  same  man,  can  either  be  found,  or  found  at 
leisure;  meanwhile  either  the  press  must  stand 
still,  which  is  no  small  damage,  or  the  author 
lose  his  accuratest  thoughts  and  send  the  book 
forth  worse  than  he  had  made  it,  which  to  a 
diligent  writer  is  the  greatest  melancholy  and 
vexation  that  can  befall. 

And  how  can  a  man  teach  with  authority, 
which  is  the  life  of  teaching,  how  can  he  be 
a  doctor  in  his  book  as  he  ought  to  be,  or  else 
had  better  be  silent,  whenas  all  he  teaches,  all 
he  delivers,  is  but  under  the  tuition,  under  the 
correction  of  his  patriarchal  licenser  to  blot  or 
alter  what  precisely  accords  not  with  the  hide- 
bound humour  which  he  calls  his  judgment; 
when  every  acute  reader  upon  the  first  sight  of 
a  pedantic  license,  will  be  ready  with  these  like 
words  to  ding  the  book  a  coit's  distance  from 
him:  I  hate  a  pupil  teacher,  I  endure  not  an 
instructor  that  comes  to  me  under  the  ward- 
ship of  an  overseeing  fist;  I  know  nothing  of 
the  licenser,  but  that  I  have  his  own  hand  here 
for  his  arrogance;  who  shall  warrant  me  his 
judgment?  The  state,  Sir,  replies  the  stationer; 
but  has  a  quick  return,  the  state  shall  be  my 
governors,  but  not  my  critics;  they  may  be 
mistaken  in  the  choice  of  a  licenser  as  easily 
as  this  licenser  may  be  mistaken  in  an  author: 
this  is  some  common  stuff;  and  he  might  add 
from  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  that  such  authorised 
books  are  but  the  language  of  the  times.  For 
though  a  licenser  should  happen  to  be  judicious 
more  than  ordinary,  which  will  be  a  great 
jeopardy  of  the  next  succession,  yet  his  very 
office  and  his  commission  enjoins  him  to  let 
pass  nothing  but  what  is  vulgarly  received 
already. 

Nay,  which  is  more  lamentable,  if  the  work 
of  any  deceased  author,  though  never  so  famous 
in  his  lifetime  and  even  to  this  day,  come  to 
their  hands  for  license  to  be  printed  or  re{)rinted, 
if  there  be  found  in  his  book  one  sentence  of  a 
venturous  edge,  uttered  in  the  height  of  zeal,  and 
who  knows  whether  it  might  not  be  the  dictate 
of  a  divine  spirit,  yet  not  suiting  with  every  low 
decrepit  humour  of  their  own,  though  it  were 
Knox  himself,  the  reformer  of  a  kingdom,  that 
spake  it,  they  will  not  j)ardon  him  their  dash; 
the  sense  of  that  great  man  shall  to  all  posterity 
be  lost  for  the  fearfulness  or  the  presumptuous 
rashness  of  a  perfunctory  licenser.  And  to 
what  an  author  this  violence  hath  been  lately 
done,  and  in  what  book  of  greatest  consequence 
to  be  faithfully  published,  I  could  now  instance, 
but  shall  forbear  till  a  more  convenient  season. 
Yet  if  these  things  be  not  resented  seriously 


132 


JOHN    MILTON 


and  timely  by  them  who  have  the  remedy  in 
their  power,  but  that  such  iron  moulds  as  these 
shall  have  authority  to  gnaw  out  the  choicest 
periods  of  exquisitest  books,  and  to  commit  such 
a  treacherous  fraud  against  the  orphan  remain- 
ders of  worthiest  men  after  death,  the  more 
sorrow  will  belong  to  that  hapless  race  of  men, 
whose  misfortune  it  is  to  have  understanding. 
Henceforth  let  no  man  care  to  learn,  or  care 
to  be  more  than  worldly  wise;  for  certainly 
in  higher  matters  to  be  ignorant  and  slothful, 
to  be  a  common  steadfast  dunce,  will  be  the 
only  pleasant  life  and  only  in  request. 

And  as  it  is  a  particular  disesteem  of  every 
knowing  person  alive,  and  most  injurious  to 
the  written  labours  and  monuments  of  the 
dead,  so  to  me  it  seems  an  undervaluing  and 
vilifying  of  the  whole  nation.  I  cannot  set 
so  light  by  all  the  invention,  the  art,  the  wit, 
the  grave  and  solid  judgment  which  is  in  Eng- 
land, as  that  it  can  be  comprehended  in  any 
twenty  capacities  how  good  soever;  much  less 
that  it  should  not  pass  except  their  superin- 
tendence be  over  it,  except  it  be  sifted  and 
strained  with  their  strainers,  that  it  should 
be  uncurrent  without  their  manual  stamp. 
Truth  and  understanding  are  not  such  wares 
as  to  be  monopolised  and  traded  in  by  tickets 
and  statutes  and  standards.  We  must  not 
think  to  make  a  staple  commodity  of  all  the 
knowledge  in  the  land,  to  mark  and  license  it 
like  our  broadcloth  and  our  wool  packs.  What 
is  it  but  a  servitude  like  that  imposed  by  the 
Philistines,  not  to  be  allowed  the  sharpening  of 
our  own  axes  and  coulters,  but  we  must  repair 
from  all  quarters  to  twenty  licensing  forges. 
Had  any  one  written  and  divulged  erroneous 
things  and  scandalous  to  honest  life,  misusing 
and  forfeiting  the  esteem  had  of  his  reason 
among  men,  if  after  conviction  this  only  cen- 
sure were  adjudged  him,  that  he  should  never 
henceforth  write  but  what  were  first  examined 
by  an  appointed  officer,  whose  hand  should  be 
annexed  to  pass  his  credit  for  him  that  now  he 
might  be  safely  read,  it  could  not  be  appre- 
hended less  than  a  disgraceful  punishment. 
Whence  to  include  the  whole  nation,  and  those 
that  never  yet  thus  offended,  under  such  a 
diffident  and  suspectful  prohibition,  may 
plainly  be  understood  what  a  disparagement 
it  is.  So  much  the  more,  whenas  debtors 
and  delinquents  may  walk  abroad  without  a 
keeper,  but  unoffensive  books  must  not  stir 
forth  without  a  visible  jailor  in  their  title.  Nor 
is  it  to  the  common  people  less  than  a  reproach ; 
for  if  we  be  so  jealous  over  them  as  that  we 


dare  not  trust  them  with  an  English  pamphlet, 
what  do  we  but  censure  them  for  a  giddy, 
vicious,  and  ungrounded  people,  in  such  a 
sick  and  weak  estate  of  faith  and  discretion, 
as  to  be  able  to  take  nothing  down  but  through 
the  pipe  of  a  licenser?  That  this  is  care  or 
love  of  them,  we  cannot  pretend,  whenas  in 
those  popish  places  where  the  laity  are  most 
hated  and  despised  the  same  strictness  is  used 
over  them.  Wisdom  we  cannot  call  it,  because 
it  stops  but  one  breach  of  license,  nor  that 
neither;  whenas  those  corruptions  which  it 
seeks  to  prevent,  break  in  faster  at  other  doors 

which  cannot  be  shut 

And  lest  some  should  persuade  ye.  Lords 
and  Commons,  that  these  arguments  of  learned 
men's  discouragement  at  this  your  order,  are 
mere  flourishes  and  not  real,  I  could  recount 
what  I  have  seen  and  heard  in  other  countries, 
where  this  kind  of  inquisition  tyrannises; 
when  I  have  sat  among  their  learned  men,  for 
that  honour  I  had,  and  been  counted  happy  to 
be  born  in  such  a  place  of  philosophic  freedom 
as  they  supposed  England  was,  while  them- 
selves did  nothing  but  bemoan  the  servile 
condition  into  which  learning  amongst  them 
was  brought;  that  this  was  it  which  had 
damped  the  glory  of  Italian  wits,  that  nothing 
had  been  there  written  now  these  many  years 
but  flattery  and  fustian.  There  it  was  that  I 
found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo  grown 
old,  a  prisoner  to  the  inquisition,  for  think- 
ing in  astronomy  otherwise  than  the  Francis- 
can and  Dominican  licensers  thought.  And 
thougTi  I  knew  that  England  then  was  groaning 
loudest  under  the  prelatical  yoke,  nevertheless 
I  took  it  as  a  pledge  of  future  happiness,  that 
other  nations  were  so  persuaded  of  her  liberty. 
Yet  was  it  beyond  my  hope  that  those  worthies 
were  then  breathing  in  her  air,  who  should  be 
her  leaders  to  such  a  deliverance  as  shall  never 
be  forgotten  by  any  revolution  of  time  that  this 
world  hath  to  finish.  When  that  was  once 
begun,  it  was  as  little  in  my  fear,  that  what 
words  of  complaint  I  heard  among  learned  men 
of  other  parts  uttered  against  the  inquisition, 
the  same  I  should  hear  by  as  learned  men  at 
home  uttered  in  time  of  parliament  against  an 
order  of  licensing;  and  that  so  generally,  that 
when  I  disclosed  myself  a  companion  of  their 
discontent,  I  might  say,  if  without  envy,  that 
he  whom  an  honest  quaestorship  had  endeared 
to  the  Sicilians,  was  not  more  by  them  impor- 
tuned against  Verres  than  the  favourable  opin- 
ion which  I  had  among  many  who  honour  ye 
and  are  known  and  respected  by  ye,  loaded  me 


AREOPAGITICA 


^33 


with  entreaties  and  persuasions,  that  I  would 
not  despair  to  lay  together  that  which  just 
reason  should  bring  into  my  mind  toward  the 
removal  of  an  undeserved  thraldom  upon 
learning.  That  this  is  not  therefore  the  dis- 
burdening of  a  particular  fancy,  but  the  com- 
mon grievance  of  all  those  who  had  prepared 
their  minds  and  studies  above  the  vulgar  pitch 
to  advance  truth  in  others  and  from  others  to 
entertain  it,  thus  much  may  satisfy.  And  in 
their  name  I  shall  for  neither  friend  nor  foe  con- 
ceal what  the  general  murmur  is;  that  if  it  come 
to  inquisitioning  again  and  licensing,  and  that 
we  are  so  timorous  of  ourselves,  and  so  suspi- 
cious of  all  men,  as  to  fear  each  book,  and  the 
shaking  of  every  leaf,  before  we  know  what  the 
contents  are,  if  some  who  but  of  late  were  little 
better  than  silenced  from  preaching,  shall 
come  now  to  silence  us  from  reading  except 
what  they  please,  it  cannot  be  guessed  what  is 
intended  by  some  but  a  second  tyranny  over 
learning;  and  will  soon  put  it  out  of  con- 
troversy that  bishops  and  presbyters  are  the 
same  to  us  both  name  and  thing. 

*  He  *  *  *  *  * 

There  is  yet  behind  of  what  I  purposed  to 
lay  open,  the  incredible  loss  and  detriment  that 
this  plot  of  licensing  puts  us  to.  More  than 
if  some  enemy  at  sea  should  stop  up  all  our 
havens  and  ports  and  creeks,  it  hinders  and 
retards  the  importation  of  our  richest  mer- 
chandise, truth;  nay,  it  was  first  established 
and  put  in  practice  by  anti-Christian  malice 
and  mystery  on  set  purpose  to  extinguish,  if 
it  were  possible,  the  light  of  reformation,  and 
to  settle  falsehood,  little  differing  from  that 
policy  wherewith  the  Turk  upholds  his  Alco- 
ran, by  the  prohibition  of  printing.  'Tis  not 
denied,  but  gladly  confessed,  we  are  to  send 
our  thanks  and  vows  to  heaven  louder  than 
most  of  nations  for  that  great  measure  of  truth 
which  we  enjoy,  especially  in  those  main  points 
between  us  and  the  pope  with  his  appertinences 
the  prelates;  but  he  who  thinks  we  are  to  pitch 
our  tent  here,  and  have  attained  the  utmost 
prospect  of  reformation  that  the  mortal  glass 
wherein  we  contemplate  can  show  us  till  we 
come  to  beatific  vision,  that  man  by  this  very 
opinion  declares  that  he  is  yet  far  short  of 
truth. 

Truth  indeed  came  once  into  the  world  with 
her  divine  Master,  and  was  a  perfect  shape 
most  glorious  to  look  on;  but  when  he  as- 
cended, and  his  apostles  after  him  were  laid 
asleep,  then  straight  arose  a  wicked  race  of 
deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the  Egyp- 


tian Typhon  with  his  conspirators  how  they 
dealt  with  the  good  Osiris,  took  the  virgin 
Truth,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  and  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds. 
P>om  that  time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of 
Truth,  such  as  durst  ai)pear,  imitating  the  care- 
ful search  that  Isis  made  for  the  mangled  body 
of  Osiris,  went  uj)  and  down  gathering  up  limb 
by  limb  still  as  they  could  fmd  them.  We  have 
not  yet  found  them  all,  Lords  and  Commons, 
nor  ever  shall  do,  till  her  Master's  second 
coming;  he  shall  bring  together  every  joint 
and  member,  and  shall  mould  them  into  an 
immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection. 
Suffer  not  these  licensing  y)rohil)itions  to  stand 
at  every  place  of  opportunity  forbidding  and 
disturbing  them  that  continue  seeking,  that 
continue  to  do  our  obsequies  to  the  torn  body 
of  our  martyred  saint.  We  boast  our  light; 
but  if  we  look  not  wisely  on  the  sun  itself,  it 
smites  us  into  darkness.  Who  can  discern 
those  planets  that  are  oft  combust,'  and  those 
stars  of  brightest  magnitude  that  rise  and  set 
with  the  sun,  until  the  opposite  motion  of  their 
orbs  bring  them  to  such  a  place  in  the  firma- 
ment, where  they  may  be  seen  evening  or 
morning?  The  light  which  we  have  gained, 
was  given  us,  not  to  be  ever  staring  on,  but  by 
it  to  discover  onward  things  more  remote  from 
our  knowledge.  It  is  not  the  unfrocking  of  a 
priest,  the  unmitring  of  a  bishop,  and  the  re- 
moving him  from  off  the  Presbyterian  shoulders 
that  will  make  us  a  happy  nation;  no,  if  other 
things  as  great  in  the  church  and  in  the  rule  of 
life  both  economical  and  political  be  not  looked 
into  and  reformed,  we  have  looked  so  long 
upon  the  blaze  that  Zuinglius  and  Calvin  hath 
beaconed  up  to  us,  that  we  arc  stark  blind. 
There  be  who  perpetually  complain  of  schisms 
and  sects,  and  make  it  such  a  calamity  that  any 
man  dissents  from  their  maxims.  'Tis  their 
own  pride  and  ignorance  which  causes  the 
disturbing,  who  neither  will  hear  with  meekness 
nor  can  convince;  yet  all  must  be  suppressed 
which  is  not  found  in  their  syntagma.'^  They 
are  the  troublers,  they  are  the  dividers  of  unity, 
who  neglect  and  permit  not  others  to  unite 
those  dissevered  pieces  which  are  yet  wanting 
to  the  body  of  Truth.  To  be  still  searching 
what  we  know  not  by  what  we  know,  still 
closing  up  truth  to  truth  as  we  find  it  (for  all 
her  body  is  homogcneal,  and  proportional), 
this  is  the  golden  rule  in  theology  as  well  as 
in  arithmetic,  and  makes  up  the  best  harmony 

^  very  close  to  the  sun       ^  system 


134 


JOHN    MILTON 


in  a  church,  not  the  forced  and  outward  union 
of  cold  and  neutral  and  inwardly  divided  minds. 

Lords  and  Commons  of  England,  consider 
what  nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are  the  governors : 
a  nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  a  quick, 
ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit,  acute  to  invent, 
subtle  and  sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath 
the  reach  of  any  point  the  highest  that  human 
capacitv  can  soar  to.  Therefore  the  studies 
of  learning  in  her  deepest  sciences  have  been 
so  ancient  and  so  eminent  among  us,  that 
writers  of  good  antiquity  and  ablest  judgment 
have  been  persuaded  that  even  the  school  of 
Pythagoras  and  the  Persian  wisdom  took  begin- 
ning from  the  old  philosophy  of  this  island. 
And  that  wise  and  civil  Roman,  Julius  Agricola, 
who  governed  once  here  for  Caesar,  preferred 
the  natural  wits  of  Britain  before  the  laboured 
studies  of  the  French.  Xor  is  it  for  nothing 
that  the  grave  and  frugal  Transylvanian  sends 
out  yearly  from  as  far  as  the  mountainous 
borders  of  Russia  and  beyond  the  Hercynian 
wilderness,  not  their  youth,  but  their  staid 
men,  to  learn  our  language  and  our  theologic 
arts.  Yet  that  which  is  above  all  this,  the 
favour  and  the  love  of  heaven,  we  have  great 
argument  to  think  in  a  peculiar  manner  pro- 
pitious and  propending  towards  us.  Why  else 
was  this  nation  chosen  before  any  other,  that 
out  of  her  as  out  of  Sion  should  be  proclaimed 
and  sounded  forth  the  first  tidings  and  trumpet 
of  reformation  to  all  Europe?  And  had  it  not 
been  the  obstinate  perverseness  of  our  prelates 
against  the  divine  and  admirable  spirit  of 
Wiclif,  to  suppress  him  as  a  schismatic  and  inno- 
vator, perhaps  neither  the  Bohemian  Hussand 
Jerome,  no,  nor  the  name  of  Luther  or  of  Cal- 
vin had  been  ever  known ;  the  glory  of  reform- 
ing all  our  neighbours  had  been  completely 
ours.  But  now,  as  our  obdurate  clergy  have 
with  violence  demeaned  the  matter,  we  are 
become  hitherto  the  latest  and  the  backwardest 
scholars,  of  whom  God  offered  to  have  made 
us  the  teachers. 

Now  once  again  by  all  concurrence  of  signs 
and  by  the  general  instinct  of  holy  and  devout 
men,  as  they  daily  and  solemnly  express  their 
thoughts,  God  is  decreeing  to  begin  some  new 
and  great  period  in  his  church,  even  to  the  re- 
forming of  reformation  itself.  What  does  he 
then  but  reveal  himself  to  his  servants,  and  as 
his  manner  is,  first  to  his  Englishmen;  I  say 
as  his  manner  is,  first  to  us,  though  we  mark, 
not  the  method  of  his  counsels  and  are  un- 
worthy? Behold  now  this  vast  city:  a  city 
of  refuge,  the  mansion  house  of    liberty,  en- 


compassed and  surrounded  with  his  protec- 
tion; the  shop  of  war  hath  not  there  more  an- 
vils and  hammers  waking,  to  fashion  out  the 
plates  and  instruments  of  armed  justice  in 
defence  of  beleaguered  truth,  than  there  be 
pens  and  heads  there,  sitting  by  their  studious 
lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  new  no- 
tions and  ideas  wherewith  to  present  as  with 
their  homage  and  their  fealty  the  approaching 
reformation,  others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all 
things,  assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and 
convincement.  What  could  a  man  require 
more  from  a  nation  so  pliant  and  so  prone  to 
seek  after  knowledge?  What  wants  there  to 
such  a  towardly  and  pregnant  soil  but  wise  and 
faithful  labourers,  to  make  a  knowing  people, 
a  nation  of  prophets,  of  sages,  and  of  worthies? 
We  reckon  more  than  five  months  yet  to  har- 
vest; there  need  not  be  five  weeks;  had  we 
but  eyes  to  lift  up,  the  fields  are  white  already. 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puis- 
sant nation  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man 
after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks. 
Methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  muing  her 
mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes 
at  the  full  midday  beam,  purging  and  unseal- 
ing her  long  abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself 
of  heavenly  radiance,  while  the  whole  noise  of 
timorous  and  tlocking  birds,  with  those  also 
that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed 
at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious 
gabble  would  prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and 
schisms. 

What  should  ye  do  then,  should  ye  suppress 
all  this  flowery  crop  of  knowledge  and  new 
light  sprung  up  and  yet  springing  daily  in  this 
city,  should  ye  set  an  oligarchy  of  twenty  in- 
grossers  over  it,  to  bring  a  famine  upon  our 
minds  again,  when  we  shall  know  nothing  but 
what  is  measured  to  us  by  their  bushel  ?  Believe 
it.  Lords  and  Commons,  they  who  counsel  ye 
to  such  a  suppressing  do  as  good  as  bid  ye 
suppress  yourselves;  and  I  will  soon  show 
how.  If  it  be  desired  to  know  the  immediate 
cause  of  all  this  free  writing  and  free  speaking, 
there  cannot  be  assigned  a  truer  than  your  own 
mild  and  free  and  humane  government;  it  is 
the  liberty.  Lords  and  Commons,  which  your 
own  valorous  and  happy  counsels  have  pur- 
chased us,  liberty  which  is  the  nurse  of  all 
great  wits;  this  is  that  which  hath  rarified 
and  enlightened  our  spirits  like  the  influence  of 
heaven;  this  is  that  which  hath  enfranchised, 
enlarged  and  lifted  up  our  apprehensions  de- 
grees above  themselves.     Ye  cannot  make  us 


AREOPAGITICA 


t35 


now  less  capable,  less  knowing,  less  eagerly 
pursuing  of  the  truth,  unless  ye  first  make 
yourselves,  that  made  us  so,  less  the  lovers,  less 
the  founders  of  our  true  liberty.  We  can 
grow  ignorant  again,  brutish,  formal,  and  slav- 
ish, as  ye  found  us;  but  you  then  must  first 
become  that  which  ye  cannot  be,  oppressive, 
arbitrary,  and  tyrannous,  as  they  were  from 
whom  ye  have  freed  us.  That  our  hearts  are 
now  more  capacious,  our  thoughts  more  erected 
to  the  search  and  expectation  of  greatest  and 
exactest  things,  is  the  issue  of  your  own  virtue 
propagated  in  us;  ye  cannot  suppress  that  un- 
less ye  reinforce  an  abrogated  and  merciless 
law,  that  fathers  may  despatch  at  will  their  own 
children.  And  who  shall  then  stick  closest  to 
ye,  and  excite  others?  Not  he  who  takes  up 
arms  for  coat  and  conduct  and  his  four  nobles 
of  Danegelt.'  Although  I  dispraise  not  the 
defence  of  just  immunities,  yet  love  my  peace 
better,  if  that  were  all.  Give  me  the  liberty 
to  know,  to  utter,  and  to  argue  freely  accord- 
ing to  conscience,  above  all  liberties. 

What  would  be  best  advised  them,  if  it  be 
found  so  hurtful  and  so  unequal  to  suppress 
opinions  for  the  newness  or  the  unsuitableness 
to  a  customary  acceptance,  will  not  be  my 
task  to  say;  I  only  shall  repeat  what  I  have 
learned  from  one  of  your  own  honourable  num- 
ber, a  right  noble  and  pious  lord,  who  had  he 
not  sacrificed  his  life  and  fortunes  to  the  church 
and  commonwealth,  we  had  not  now  missed 
and  bewailed  a  worthy  and  undoubted  patron 
of  this  argument.  Ye  know  him  I  am  sure; 
yet  I  for  honour's  sake  (and  may  it  be  eternal 
to  him  !)  shall  name  him,  the  Lord  Brook.  He 
writing  of  episcopacy,  and  by  the  way  treating 
of  sects  and  schisms,  left  ye  his  vote,  or  rather 
now  the  last  words  of  his  dying  charge,  which 
I  know  will  ever  be  of  dear  and  honoured  re- 
gard with  ye,  so  full  of  meekness  and  breath- 
ing charity,  that  next  to  His  last  testament. 
Who  bequeathed  love  and  peace  to  His  disci- 
ples, I  cannot  call  to  mind  where  I  have  read 
or  heard  words  more  mild  and  peaceful.  He 
there  exhorts  us  to  hear  with  patience  and  hu- 
mility those,  however  they  be  miscalled,  that 
desire  to  live  purely,  in  such  a  use  of  God's 
ordinances,  as  the  best  guidance  of  their  con- 
science gives  them,  and  to  toferate  them,  though 
in  some  disconformity  to  ourselves.  The  book 
itself  will  tell  us  more  at  large  being  published 
to  the  world  and  dedicated  to  the  parliament 
by  him  who,  both  for  his  life  and  for  his  death, 


deserves  that  what  advice  he  left  be  not  laid  by 
without  perusal. 

And  now  the  time  in  special  is  by  privilege 
to  write  and  speak  what  may  help  to  the  further 
discussing  of  matters  in  agitation.  The  temple 
of  Janus  with  his  two  controversal '  faces  might 
now  not  unsignificantly  be  set  open.  And 
though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose 
to  play  upon  the  earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the  field, 
we  do  injuriously  by  licensing  and  prohibiting 
to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  False- 
hood grapple;  who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to 
the  worse  in  a  free  and  open  encounter?  Her 
confuting  is  the  best  and  surest  suppressing. 
He  who  hears  what  praying  there  is  for  light 
and  clearer  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among 
us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to  be  consti- 
tuted beyond  the  di.scipline  of  Geneva,  framed 
and  fabricked  already  to  our  hands.  Vet  when 
the  new  light  which  we  beg  for  shines  in  upon 
us,  there  be  who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it  come  not 
first  in  at  their  casements.  What  a  collusion  is 
this,  whenas  we  art  exhorted  by  the  wise  man 
to  use  diligence,  to  seek  for  wisdom  as  for 
hidden  treasures  early  and  late,  that  another 
order  shall  enjoin  us  to  know  nothing  but  by 
statute  I  When  a  man  hath  been  labouring 
the  hardest  labour  in  the  deep  mines  of  know- 
ledge, hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all 
their  equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were 
a  battle  ^  ranged,  scattered  and  defeated  all 
objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  adversary 
into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of 
wind  and  sun,  if  he  please,  only  that  he  may 
try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument,  for  his  op- 
ponents then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to 
keep  a  narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the 
challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be  valour 
enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and 
cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For  who 
knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong  next  to  the 
Almighty?  She  needs  no  policies,  no  strata- 
gems, nor  licensings  to  make  her  victorious; 
those  are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  that  Error 
uses  against  her  power.  Give  her  but  room, 
and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps,  for  then 
she  speaks  not  true,  as  the  old  Proteus  did, 
who  spake  oracles  only  when  he  was  caught  and 
bound;  but  then  rather  she  turns  herself  into 
all  shapes  except  her  own,  and  perhaps  tunes 
her  voice  according  to  the  time,  as  Micaiah  did 
before  Ahab,  until  she  be  adjured  into  her  own 
likeness. 

Vet  is  it  not  impossible  that  she  may  have 


^  A  tax  levied  for  defense  against  the  Danes. 


turned  opposite  ways         -  battalion 


[36 


JEREMY    TAYLOR 


more  shapes  than  one.  What  else  is  all  that 
rank  of  things  indifferent,  wherein  Truth  may 
be  on  this  side  or  on  the  other  without  being 

unlike  herself? 

In  the  meanwhile  if  any  one  would  write, 
and  bring  his  helpful  hand  to  the  slow-moving 
reformation  which  we  labour  under,  if  Truth 
have  spoken  to  him  before  others,  or  but  seemed 
at  least  to  speak,  who  hath  so  bejesuited  us 
that  we  should  trouble  that  man  with  asking 
license  to  do  so  worthy  a  deed?  And  not 
consider  this,  that  if  it  come  to  prohibiting, 
there  is  not  aught  more  likely  to  be  prohibited 
than  truth  itself;  whose  first  appearance  to 
our  eyes,  bleared  and  dimmed  with  prejudice 
and  custom,  is  more  unsightly  and  unplausible 
than  many  errors,  even  as  the  person  is  of 
many  a  great  man  slight  and  contemptible  to 
see  to.  And  what  do  they  tell  us  vainly  of  new 
opinions,  when  this  very  opinion  of  theirs,  that 
none  must  be  heard  but  whom  they  like,  is  the 
worst  and  newest  opinion  of  all  others;  and  is 
the  chief  cause  why  sects  and  schisms  do  so 
much  abound,  and  true  knowledge  is  kept  at 
distance  from  us?  Besides  yet  a  greater  dan- 
ger which  is  in  it:  for  when  God  shakes  a  king- 
dom with  strong  and  healthful  commotions 
to  a  general  reforming,  'tis  not  untrue  that 
many  sectaries  and  false  teachers  are  then  busi- 
est in  seducing;  but  yet  more  true  it  is,  that 
God  then  raises  to  his  own  work  men  of  rare 
abilities  and  more  than  common  industry  not 
only  to  look  back  and  revise  what  hath  been 
taught  heretofore,  but  to  gain  further  and  go 
on  some  new  enlightened  steps  in  the  discovery 
of  truth.  For  such  is  the  order  of  God's  en- 
lightening his  church,  to  dispense  and  deal  out 
by  degrees  his  beam,  so  as  our  earthly  eyes 
may  best  sustain  it.  Neither  is  God  appointed 
and  confined,  where  and  out  of  what  place  these 
his  chosen  shall  be  first  heard  to  speak;  for  he 
sees  not  as  man  sees,  chooses  not  as  man  chooses, 
lest  we  should  devote  ourselves  again  to  set 
places  and  assemblies  and  outward  callings  of 
men,  planting  our  faith  one  while  in  the  old 
convocation  house,  and  another  while  in  the 
chapel  at  Westminster;  when  all  the  faith  and 
religion  that  shall  be  there  canonised,  is  not 
suflicient,  without  plain  convincement  and  the 
charity  of  patient  instruction,  to  supple  the 
least  bruise  of  conscience,  to  edify  the  meanest 
Christian,  who  desires  to  walk  in  the  Spirit, 
and  not  in  the  letter  of  human  trust,  for  all  the 
number  of  voices  that  can  be  there  made;  no, 
though  Harry  the  VII  himself  there,  with 
all   his   liege   tombs   about   him,  should   lend 


them    voices    from   the   dead,    to   swelh  their 
number. 

And  if  the  men  be  erroneous  who  appear  to 
be  the  leading  schismatics,  what  withholds  us 
but  our  sloth,  our  self-will,  and  distrust  in  the 
right  cause,  that  we  do  not  give  them  gentle 
meetings  and  gentle  dismissions,  that  we  de- 
bate not  and  examine  the  matter  thoroughly 
with  liberal  and  frequent  audience;  if  not  for 
their  sakes,  yet  for  our  own,  seeing  no  man 
who  hath  tasted  learning,  but  will  confess  the 
many  ways  of  profiting  by  those  who  not  con- 
tented with  stale  receipts  are  able  to  manage 
and  set  forth  new  positions  to  the  world  ?  And 
were  they  but  as  the  dust  and  cinders  of  our 
feet,  so  long  as  in  that  notion  they  may  serve 
to  polish  and  brighten  the  armory  of  Truth,  even 
for  that  respect  they  were  not  utterly  to  be 
cast  away.  But  if  they  be  of  those  whom  God 
hath  fitted  for  the  special  use  of  these  times 
with  eminent  and  ample  gifts,  and  those  per- 
haps neither  among  the  priests  nor  among  the 
Pharisees,  and  we  in  the  haste  of  a  precipitant 
zeal  shall  make  no  distinction,  but  resolve  to 
stop  their  mouths,  because  we  fear  they  come 
with  new  and  dangerous  opinions,  as  we  com- 
monly forejudge  them  ere  we  understand  them, 
no  less  than  woe  to  us,  while,  thinking  thus  to 
defend  the  gospel,  we  are  found  the  persecutors. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR   (1613-1667) 

THE   RULE   AND   EXERCISES   OF   HOLY 
DYING 

CHAP.     I.  —  A     GENERAL      PREPARATION 

TOWARDS       A      HOLY       AND       BLESSED 

DEATH,  BY  WAY  OF  CONSIDERATION 

Section  II.  —  [Of  the  Vanity  and  Shortness 
OF  Man's  Life]:   The   Consideration 

REDUCED   TO  PRACTICE 

It  will  be  very  material  to  our  best  and  no- 
blest purposes,  if  we  represent  this  scene  of 
change  and  sorrow,  a  little  more  dressed  up 
in  circumstances;  for  so  we  shall  be  more  apt 
to  practise  those  rules,  the  doctrine  of  which 
is  consequent  to  this  consideration.  It  is  a 
mighty  change,  that  is  made  by  the  death  of 
every  person,  and  it  is  visible  to  us,  who  are 
alive.  Reckon  but  from  the  sprightfulness  of 
youth,  and  the  fair  cheeks  and  full  eyes  of  child- 
hood, from  the  vigorousness  and  strong  flexure 
of  the  joints  of  five-and-twenty,  to  the  hollow- 
ness  and  dead  paleness,  to  the  loathsomeness 


THE    RULE    AND    EXERCISES    OF    HOLY    DYING 


137 


and  horror  of  a  three  days'  burial,  and  we  shall 
perceive  the  distance  to  be  very  great  and  very 
strange.  But  so  have  I  seen  a  rose  newly 
springing  from  the  clefts  of  its  hood,  and,  at 
first,  it  was  fair  as  the  morning,  and  full  with 
the  dew  of  heaven,  as  a  lamb's  fleece ;  but  when 
a  ruder  breath  had  forced  open  its  virgin  mod- 
esty, and  dismantled  its  too  youthful  and  unripe 
retirements,  it  began  to  put  on  darkness,  and  to 
decline  to  softness  and  the  symptoms  of  a  sickly 
age;  it  bowed  the  head,  and  broke  its  stalk, 
and,  at  night,  having  lost  some  of  its  leaves 
and  all  its  beauty,  it  fell  into  the  portion  of 
weeds  and  outworn  faces.  The  same  is  the 
portion  of  every  man  and  every  woman;  the 
heritage  of  worms  and  serpents,  rottenness  and 
cold  dishonour,  and  our  beauty  so  changed, 
that  our  acquaintance  quickly  knew  us  not; 
and  that  change  mingled  with  so  much  horror 
or  else  meets  so  w'ith  our  fears  and  weak  dis- 
coursings,  that  they  who,  six  hours  ago,  tended 
upon  us,  either  with  charitable  or  ambitious 
services,  cannot,  without  some  regret,  stay  in 
the  room  alone,  where  the  body  lies  stripped 
of  its  life  and  honour.  I  ha^'e  read  of  a  fair 
young  German  gentleman,  who,  living,  often 
refused  to  be  pictured,  but  put  off  the  impor- 
tunity of  his  friends'  desire,  by  giving  way, 
that,  after  a  fev/  days'  burial,  they  might  send 
a  painter  to  his  vault,  and,  if  they  saw  cause  for 
it,  draw  the  image  of  his  death  unto  the  life. 
They  did  so,  and  found  his  face  half  eaten, 
and  his  midriff  and  backbone  full  of  serpents; 
and  so  he  stands  pictured  among  his  armed 
ancestors.  So  does  the  fairest  beauty  change, 
and  it  will  be  as  bad  with  you  and  me;  and 
then,  what  servants  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon 
us  in  the  grave?  what  friends  to  visit  us?  what 
officious  people  to  cleanse  away  the  moist  and 
unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon  our  faces 
from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults,  which  are 
the  longest  weepers  for  our  funeral? 

This  discourse  will  be  useful,  if  we  consider 
and  practise  by  the  following  rules  and  consid- 
erations respectively. 

I.  All  the  rich  and  all  the  covetous  men  in 
the  world  will  perceive,  and  all  the  world  will 
perceive  for  them,  that  it  is  but  an  ill  recom- 
pense for  all  their  cares,  that,  by  this  time,  all 
that  shall  be  left,  will  be  this,  that  the  neigh- 
bours shall  say,  "He  died  a  rich  man;"  and  yet 
his  wealth  will  not  profit  him  in  the  grave,  but 
hugely  swell  the  sad  accounts  of  doomsday. 
And  he  that  kills  the  Lord's  people  with  unjust 
or  ambitious  wars  for  an  unrewarding  interest, 
shall  have  this  character,  that  he  threw  away 


all  the  days  of  his  life,  that  one  year  might  be 
reckoned  with  his  name,  and  computed  by  his 
reign  or  consulship;  and  many  men,  by  great 
labours  and  affronts,  many  indignities  and 
crimes,  labour  only  for  a  pompous  epitaph,  and 
a  loud  title  upon  their  marble;  whilst  those, 
into  whose  possessions  their  heirs  or  kindred 
are  entered,  are  forgotten,  and  lie  unregarded 
as  their  ashes,  and  without  concernment  or 
relation,  as  the  turf  upon  the  face  of  their 
grave.  A  man  may  read  a  sermon,  the  best 
and  most  passionate  that  ever  man  preached, 
if  he  shall  but  enter  into  the  sepulchres  of  kings. 
In  the  same  Escurial,  where  the  Spanish  princes 
live  in  greatness  and  power,  and  decree  war 
or  peace,  they  have  wisely  placed  a  cemetery, 
where  their  ashes  and  their  glory  shall  sleep 
till  time  shall  be  no  more;  and  where  our  kings 
have  been  crow'ned,  their  ancestors  lie  interred, 
and  they  must  walk  over  their  grandsire's 
head  to  take  his  crown.  There  is  an  acre  sown 
with  royal  seed,  the  copy  of  the  greatest  change, 
from  rich  to  naked,  from  ceiled  roofs  to  arched 
coftins,  from  living  like  gods  to  die  like  men. 
There  is  enough  to  cool  the  flames  of  lust,  to 
abate  the  heights  of  pride,  to  appease  the  itch 
of  covetous  desires,  to  sully  and  dash  out  the 
dissembling  colours  of  a  lustful,  artificial,  and 
imaginary  beauty.  There  the  warlike  and  the 
peaceful,  the  fortunate  and  the  miserable,  the 
beloved  and  the  despised  princes  mingle  their 
dust,  and  pay  down  their  symbol  of  mortality, 
and  tell  all  the  world,  that,  when  we  die,  our 
ashes  shall  be  equal  to  kings',  and  our  accounts 
easier,  and  our  pains  or  our  crowns  shall  be 
less.  To  my  apprehension  it  is  a  sad  record, 
W'hich  is  left  by  Athenaeus  concerning  Ninus, 
the  great  Assyrian  monarch,  whose  life  and 
death  are  summed  up  in  these  words:  "Ninus, 
the  Assyrian,  had  an  ocean  of  gold,  and  other 
riches  more  than  the  sand  in  the  Caspian  Sea ; 
he  never  saw  the  stars,  and  perhaps  he  never 
desired  it;  he  never  stirred  up  the  holy  fire 
among  the  Magi,  nor  touched  his  god  with  the 
sacred  rod  according  to  the  laws;  he  never 
offered  sacrifice,  nor  worshipped  the  deity, 
nor  administered  justice,  nor  spake  to  his 
people,  nor  numbered  them;  but  he  was  most 
valiant  to  eat  and  drink,  and,  having  mingled 
his  wines,  he  threw  the  rest  upon  the  stones. 
This  man  is  dead:  behold  his  sepulchre;  and 
now  hear  where  Ninus  is.  Sometimes  I  was 
Ninus,  and  drew  the  breath  of  a  living  man ; 
but  now  am  nothing  l)ut  clay.  I  have  nothing, 
but  what  I  did  eat,  and  what  I  served  to  myself 
in  lust,  that  was  and  is  all  my  portion.     The 


138 


JEREMY   TAYLOR 


wealth  with  which  I  was  esteemed  blessed,  my 
enemies,  meeting  together,  shall  bear  away, 
as  the  mad  Thyades  carry  a  raw  goat.  I  am 
gone  to  hell;  and  when  I  went  thither,  I  neither 
carried  gold,  nor  horse,  nor  silver  chariot.  I 
that  wore  a  mitre,  am  now  a  little  heap  of  dust." 
I  know  not  anything,  that  can  better  represent 
the  evil  condition  of  a  wicked  man,  or  a  chang- 
ing greatness.  From  the  greatest  secular  dig- 
nity to  dust  and  ashes  his  nature  bears  him, 
and  from  thence  to  hell  his  sins  carry  him,  and 
there  he  shall  be  forever  under  the  dominion 
of  chains  and  devils,  wrath  and  an  intolerable 
calamity.  This  is  the  reward  of  an  unsancti- 
fied  condition,  and  a  greatness  ill  gotten  or 
ill  administered. 

2.  Let  no  man  extend  his  thoughts,  or  let 
his  hopes  wander  towards  future  and  far-dis- 
tant events  and  accidental  contingencies.  This 
day  is  mine  and  yours,  but  ye  know  not  what 
shall  be  on  the  morrow;  and  every  morning 
creeps  out  of  a  dark  cloud,  leaving  behind  it  an 
ignorance  and  silence  deep  as  midnight,  and 
undiscerned  as  are  the  phantasms  that  make 
a  chrisom-child  to  smile:  so  that  we  cannot 
discern  what  comes  hereafter,  unless  we  had  a 
light  from  heaven  brighter  than  the  vision  of 
an  angel,  even  the  spirit  of  prophecy.  With- 
out revelation,  we  cannot  tell,  whether  we  shall 
eat  to-morrow,  or  whether  a  squinancy  shall 
choke  us:  and  it  is  written  in  the  unrevealed 
folds  of  Divine  predestination,  that  many,  who 
are  this  day  alive,  shall  to-morrow  be  laid  upon 
the  cold  earth,  and  the  women  shall  weep  over 
their  shroud,  and  dress  them  for  their  funeral. 
St.  James,  in  his  epistle,  notes  the  folly  of  some 
men,  his  contemporaries,  who  were  so  impa- 
tient of  the  event  of  to-morrow,  or  the  accidents 
of  next  year,  or  the  good  or  evils  of  old  age,  that 
they  would  consult  astrologers  and  witches,  ora- 
cles, and  devils,  what  should  befall  them  the 
next  calends :  what  should  be  the  event  of  such 
a  voyage,  what  God  hath  written  in  his  book 
concerning  the  success  of  battles,  the  election 
of  emperors,  the  heirs  of  families,  the  price  of 
merchandise,  the  return  of  the  Tyrian  fleet,  the 
rate  of  Sidonian  carpets;  and  as  they  were 
taught  by  the  crafty  and  lying  demons,  so  they 
would  expect  the  issue;  and  oftentimes  by  dis- 
posing their  affairs  in  order  towards  such  events, 
really  did  produce  some  little  accidents  accord- 
ing to  their  expectation;  and  that  made  them 
trust  the  oracles  in  greater  things,  and  in  all. 
Against  this  he  opposes  his  counsel,  that  we 
should  not  search  after  forbidden  records,  much 
less  by  uncertain  significations;  for  whatsoever 


is  disposed  to  happen  by  the  order  of  natural 
causes  or  civil  counsels,  may  be  rescinded  by 
a  peculiar  decree  of  Providence,  or  be  pre- 
vented by  the  death  of  the  interested  persons; 
who,  while  their  hopes  are  full,  and  their  causes 
conjoined,  and  the  work  brought  forward,  and 
the  sickle  put  into  the  harvest,  and  the  first- 
fruits  offered  and  ready  to  be  eaten,  even  then, 
if  they  put  forth  their  hand  to  an  event,  that 
stands  but  at  the  door,  at  that  door  their  body 
may  be  carried  forth  to  burial,  before  the  ex- 
pectation shall  enter  into  fruition.  When 
Richilda,  the  widow  of  Albert,  earl  of  Ebers- 
berg,  had  feasted  the  emperor  Henry  III,  and 
petitioned  in  behalf  of  her  nephew  Welpho  for 
some  lands  formerly  possessed  by  the  Earl  her 
husband;  just  as  the  Emperor  held  out  his 
hand  to  signify  his  consent,  the  chamber-floor 
suddenly  fell  under  them,  and  Richilda  falling 
upon  the  edge  of  a  bathing  vessel  was  bruised 
to  death,  and  stayed  not  to  see  her  nephew 
sleep  in  those  lands,  which  the  Emperor  was 
reaching  forth  to  her,  and  placed  at  the  door 
of  restitution. 

3.  As  our  hopes  must  be  confined,  so  must 
our  designs:  let  us  not  project  long  designs, 
crafty  plots,  and  diggings  so  deep,  that  the  in- 
trigues of  a  design  shall  never  be  unfolded  till 
our  grand-children  have  forgotten  our  virtues 
or  our  vices.  The  work  of  our  soul  is  cut 
short,  facile,  sweet,  and  plain,  and  fitten  to  the 
small  portions  of  our  shorter  life;  and  as  we 
must  not  trouble  our  iniquity,  so  neither  must 
we  intricate  our  labour  and  purposes  with 
what  we  shall  never  enjoy.  This  rule  does  not 
forbid  us  to  plant  orchards,  which  shall  feed  our 
nephews  with  their  fruit;  for  by  such  provi- 
sions they  do  something  towards  an  imaginary 
immortality,  and  do  charity  to  their  relatives: 
but  such  projects  are  reproved,  which  dis- 
compose our  present  duty  by  long  and  future 
designs;  such,  which  by  casting  our  labours  to 
events  at  distance,  make  us  less  to  remember 
our  death  standing  at  the  door.  It  is  fit  for  a 
man  to  work  for  his  day's  wages,  or  to  contrive 
for  the  hire  of  a  week,  or  to  lay  a  train  to  make 
provisions  for  such  a  time,  as  is  within  our  eye, 
and  in  our  duty,  and  within  the  usual  periods 
of  man's  life;  for  whatsoever  is  made  neces- 
sary, is  also  made  prudent:  but  while  we  plot 
and  busy  ourselves  in  the  toils  of  an  ambitious 
war,  or  the  levies  of  a  great  estate,  night  enters 
in  upon  us,  and  tells  all  the  world,  how  like 
fools  we  lived,  and  how  deceived  and  miser- 
ably we  died.  Seneca  tells  of  Senecio  Corne- 
lius, a  man  crafty  in  getting,  and  tenacious  in 


JOHN   BUNYAN 


139 


holding  a  great  estate,  and  one  who  was  as 
diligent  in  the  care  of  his  body  as  of  his  money, 
curious  of  his  health,  as  of  his  possessions,  that 
he  all  day  long  attended  upon  his  sick  and 
dying  friend;  but,  when  he  went  away,  was 
quickly  comforted,  supped  merrily,  went  to  bed 
cheerfully,  and  on  a  sudden  being  surprised  by 
a  squinancy,  scarce  drew  his  breath  until  the 
morning,  but  by  that  time  died,  being  snatched 
from  the  torrent  of  his  fortune,  and  the  swelling 
tide  of  wealth,  and  a  likely  hope  bigger  than 
the  necessities  of  ten  men.  This  accident  was 
much  noted  then  in  Rome,  because  it  happened 
in  so  great  a  fortune,  and  in  the  midst  of  wealthy 
designs;  and  presently  it  made  wise  men  to 
consider,  how  imprudent  a  person  he  is,  who 
disposes  of  ten  years  to  come,  when  he  is  not 
lord  of  to-morrow. 

4.  Though  we  must  not  look  so  far  off,  and 
pry  abroad,  yet  we  must  be  busy  near  at  hand ; 
we  must  with  all  arts  of  the  spirit,  seize  upon 
the  present,  because  it  passes  from  us  while  we 
speak,  and  because  in  it  all  our  certainty  does 
consist.  We  must  take  our  waters  as  out  of  a 
torrent  and  sudden  shower,  which  will  quickly 
cease  dropping  from  above,  and  quickly  cease 
running  in  our  channels  here  below;  this  in- 
stant will  never  return  again,  and  yet,  it  may 
be,  this  instant  will  declare  or  secure  the  for- 
tune of  a  whole  eternity.  The  old  Greeks 
and  Romans  taught  us  the  prudence  of  this 
rule:  but  Christianity  teaches  us  the  religion 
of  it.  They  so  seized  upon  the  present,  that 
they  would  lose  nothing  of  the  day's  pleasure. 
"Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  shall 
die;"  that  was  their  philosophy;  and  at  their 
solemn  feasts  they  would  talk  of  death  to 
heighten  the  present  drinking,  and  that  they 
might  warm  their  veins  with  a  fuller  chalice, 
as  knowing  the  drink,  that  was  poured  upon 
their  graves,  would  be  cold  and  without  relish. 
"Break  the  beds,  drink  your  wine,  crown  your 
heads  with  roses,  and  besmear  your  curled  locks 
with  nard;  for  God  bids  you  to  remember 
death:"  so  the  epigrammatist  speaks  the  sense 
of  their  drunken  principles.  Something  to- 
wards this  signification  is  that  of  Solomon, 
"There  is  nothing  better  for  a  man,  than  that 
he  should  eat  and  drink,  and  that  he  should 
make  his  soul  enjoy  good  in  his  labour;  for 
that  is  his  portion;  for  who  shall  bring  him 
to  see  that,  which  shall  be  after  him?"  But, 
although  he  concludes  all  this  to  be  vanity, 
yet  because  it  was  the  best  thing  that  was  then 
commonly  known,  that  they  should  seize  upon 
the  present  with  a  temperate  use  of  permitted 


pleasures,  I  had  reason  to  say,  that  Christian- 
ity taught  us  to  turn  this  into  religion.  For  he 
that  by  a  present  and  constant  holiness  secures 
the  present,  and  makes  it  useful  to  his  noblest 
purposes,  he  turns  his  condition  into  his  best 
advantage,  by  making  his  unavoidable  fate 
become  his  necessary  religion. 

To  the  purpose  of  this  rule  is  that  collect  of 
Tuscan  Hieroglyphics,  which  we  have  from 
Gabriel  Simeon.  "Our  life  is  very  short, 
beauty  is  a  cozenage,  money  is  false,  and  fugi- 
tive; empire  is  odious,  and  hated  by  them 
that  have  it  not,  and  uneasy  to  them  that  have ; 
victory  is  always  uncertain,  and  peace,  most 
commonly,  is  but  a  fraudulent  bargain ;  old 
age  is  miserable,  death  is  the  period,  and  is  a 
happy  one,  if  it  be  not  sorrowed  by  the  sins  of 
our  life:  but  nothing  continues  but  the  efTects 
of  that  wisdom,  which  employs  the  present  time 
in  the  acts  of  a  holy  religion,  and  a  peaceable 
conscience:"  for  they  make  us  to  live  even 
beyond  our  funerals,  embalmed  in  the  spices 
and  odours  of  a  good  name,  and  entombed  in 
the  grave  of  the  holy  Jesus,  where  we  shall  be 
dressed  for  a  blessed  resurrection  to  the  state 
of  angels  and  beatified  spirits. 

5.  Since  we  stay  not  here,  being  people  but 
of  a  day's  abode,  and  our  age  is  like  that  of  a 
fly,  and  contemporary  with  a  gourd,  we  must 
look  somewhere  else  for  an  abiding  city,  a 
place  in  another  country  to  fi.x  our  house  in, 
whose  walls  and  foundation  is  God,  where  we 
must  find  rest,  or  else  be  restless  forever.  For 
whatsoever  ease  we  can  have  or  fancy  here,  is 
shortly  to  be  changed  into  sadness,  or  tedious- 
ness:  it  goes  away  too  soon,  like  the  periods  of 
our  life:  or  stays  too  long,  like  the  sorrows 
of  a  sinner:  its  own  weariness,  or  a  contrary 
disturbance,  is  its  load;  or  it  is  eased  by  its 
revolution  into  vanity  and  forgetfulncss;  and 
where  either  there  is  sorrow  or  an  end  of  joy, 
there  can  be  no  true  felicity:  which,  because  it 
must  be  had  by  some  instrument,  and  in  some 
period  of  our  duration,  we  must  carry  up  our 
affections  to  the  mansions  prepared  for  us 
above,  where  eternity  is  the  measure,  felicity 
is  the  state,  angels  are  the  company,  the  Lamb 
is  the  light,  and  God  is  the  portion  and  inheri- 
tance. 

JOHN  BUNYAN  (1628-1688) 

From   THE   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 

THE   FIGHT  WITH  .^POLLYON 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  these  good 
companions,  when  Christian  was  gone  to  the 


140 


JOHN   BUNYAN 


bottom  of  the  hill,  gave  him  a  loaf  of  bread, 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  a  cluster  of  raisins;  and 
then  he  went  on  his  way. 

But  now,  in  this  Valley  of  Humiliation,  poor 
Christian  was  hard  put  to  it;  for  he  had  gone 
but  a  little  way,  before  he  espied  a  foul  fiend 
coming  over  the  field  to  meet  him;  his  name 
is  Apoilyon.  Then  did  Christian  begin  to  be 
afraid,  and  to  cast  in  his  mind  whether  to  go 
back  or  to  stand  his  ground.  But  he  consid- 
ered again  that  he  had  no  armour  for  his  back; 
and,  therefore,  thought  that  to  turn  the  back 
to  him  might  give  him  the  greater  advantage, 
with  ease  to  pierce  him  with  his  darts.  There- 
fore he  resolved  to  venture  and  stand  his  ground ; 
for,  thought  he,  had  I  no  more  in  mine  eye 
than  the  saving  of  my  life,  it  would  be  the  best 
way  to  stand. 

So  he  went  on,  and  Apoilyon  met  him.  Now 
the  monster  was  hideous  to  behold;  he  was 
clothed  with  scales,  like  a  fish  (and  they  are 
his  pride),  he  had  wings  like  a  dragon,  feet  like 
a  bear,  and  out  of  his  belly  came  fire  and 
smoke,  and  his  mouth  was  as  the  mouth  of  a 
lion.  When  he  was  come  up  to  Christian,  he 
beheld  him  with  a  disdainful  countenance, 
and  thus  began  to  question  with  him. 

Aj)ol.  Whence  come  you?  and  whither  are 
you  bound? 

Chr.  I  am  come  from  the  City  of  Destruc- 
tion, which  is  the  place  of  all  evil,  and  am 
going  to  the  City  of  Zion. 

Apol.  By  this  I  perceive  thou  art  one  of  my 
subjects,  for  all  that  country  is  mine,  and  I  am 
the  prince  and  god  of  it.  How  is  it,  then,  that 
thou  hast  run  away  from  thy  king?  Were  it 
not  that  I  hope  thou  mayest  do  me  more  ser- 
vice, I  would  strike  thee  now,  at  one  blow,  to 
the  ground. 

Chr.  I  was  born,  indeed,  in  your  dominions, 
but  your  service  was  hard,  and  your  wages 
such  as  a  man  could  not  live  on,  "for  the  wages 
of  sin  is  death;"  therefore,  when  I  was  come 
to  years,  I  did  as  other  considerate  persons  do, 
look  out,  if,  perhaps,  I  might  mend  myself. 

Apol.  There  is  no  prince  that  will  thus 
lightly  lose  his  subjects,  neither  will  I  as  yet 
lose  thee;  but  since  thou  complainest  of  thy 
service  and  wages,  be  content  to  go  back ;  what 
our  country  will  afford,  I  do  here  promise  to 
give  thee. 

Chr.  But  I  have  let  myself  to  another,  even 
to  the  King  of  princes;  and  how  can  I,  with 
fairness,  go  back  with  thee? 

Apol.  Thou  hast  done  in  this  according  to 
the  proverb,  "Changed  a  bad  for  a  worse;" 


but  it  is  ordinary  for  those  that  have  professed 
themselves  his  servants,  after  a  while  to  give 
him  the  slip,  and  return  again  to  me.  Do 
thou  so  too,  and  all  shall  be  well. 

Chr.  I  have  given  him  my  faith,  and  sworn 
my  allegiance  to  him;  how,  then,  can  I  go 
back  from  this,  and  not  be  hanged  as  a  traitor? 

Apol.  Thou  didst  the  same  to  me,  and  yet 
I  am  willing  to  pass  by  all,  if  now  thou  wilt 
yet  turn  again  and  go  back. 

Chr.  What  I  promised  thee  was  in  my 
nonage;  and,  besides,  I  count  the  Prince  under 
whose  banner  now  I  stand  is  able  to  absolve 
me;  yea,  and  to  pardon  also  what  I  did  as 
to  my  compliance  with  thee;  and  besides,  O 
thou  destroying  Apoilyon !  to  speak  truth,  I 
like  his  service,  his  wages,  his  servants,  his 
government,  his  company,  and  country,  better 
than  thine;  and,  therefore,  leave  off  to  per- 
suade me  further;  I  am  his  servant,  and  I  will 
follow  him. 

Apol.  Consider  again,  when  thou  art  in  cool 
blood,  what  thou  art  like  to  meet  with  in  the 
way  that  thou  goest.  Thou  knowest  that,  for 
the  most  part,  his  servants  come  to  an  ill  end, 
because  they  are  transgressors  against  me  and 
my  ways.  How  many  of  them  have  been  put 
to  shameful  deaths!  and,  besides,  thou  count- 
est  his  service  better  than  mine,  whereas  he 
never  came  yet  from  the  place  where  he  is  to 
deliver  any  that  served  him  out  of  their  hands; 
but  as  for  me,  how  many  times,  as  all  the  world 
very  well  knows,  have  I  delivered,  either  by 
power  or  fraud,  those  that  have  faithfully 
served  me,  from  him  and  his,  though  taken  by 
them;   and  so  I  will  deliver  thee. 

Chr.  His  forbearing  at  present  to  deliver 
them  is  on  purpose  to  try  their  love,  whether 
they  will  cleave  to  him  to  the  end;  and  as 
for  the  ill  end  thou  sayest  they  come  to,  that  is 
most  glorious  in  their  account ;  for,  for  present 
deliverance,  they  do  not  much  expect  it,  for 
they  stay  for  their  glory,  and  then  they  shall 
have  it,  when  their  Prince  comes  in  his  and 
the  glory  of  the  angels. 

Apol.  Thou  hast  already  been  unfaithful  in 
thy  service  to  him ;  and  how  dost  thou  think  to 
receive  wages  of  him  ? 

Chr.  Wherein,  O  Apoilyon!  have  I  been 
unfaithful  to  him? 

Apol.  Thou  didst  faint  at  first  setting  out, 
when  thou  wast  almost  choked  in  the  Gulf  of 
Despond;  thou  didst  attempt  wrong  ways  to 
be  rid  of  thy  burden,  whereas  thou  shouldest 
have  stayed  till  thy  Prince  had  taken  it  oflF; 
thou  didst  sinfully  sleep,  and  lose  thy  choice 


THE    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS 


141 


thing;  thou  wast,  also,  almost  persuaded  to 
go  back,  at  the  sight  of  the  lions;  and  when 
thou  talkest  of  thy  journey,  and  of  what  thou 
hast  heard  and  seen,  thou  art  inwardly  desir- 
ous of  vain-glory  in  all  that  thou  sayest  or  docst. 

Chr.  All  this  is  true,  and  much  more  which 
thou  hast  left  out;  but  the  Prince,  whom  I 
serve  and  honour,  is  merciful,  and  ready  to 
forgive;  but,  besides,  these  infirmities  pos- 
sessed me  in  thy  country,  for  there  I  sucked 
them  in;  and  I  have  groaned  under  them,  been 
sorry  for  them,  and  have  obtained  pardon  of 
my  Prince. 

Apol.  Then  Apollyon  broke  out  into  a 
grievous  rage,  saying,  I  am  an  enemy  to  this 
Prince;  I  hate  his  person,  his  laws,  and  people; 
I  am  come  out  on  purpose  to  withstand  thee. 

Chr.  Apollyon,  beware  what  you  do;  for  I 
am  in  the  king's  highway,  the  way  of  holiness, 
therefore  take  heed  to  yourself. 

Apol.  Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  said,  I  am 
void  of  fear  in  this  matter:  prepare  thyself  to 
die;  for  I  swear  by  my  infernal  den,  that  thou 
shall  go  no  further;   here  will  I  spill  thy  soul. 

And  with  that  he  threw  a  flaming  dart  at  his 
breast;  but  Christian  had  a  shield  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  caught  it,  and  so  prevented  the 
danger  of  that. 

Then  did  Christian  draw;  for  he  saw  it  was 
time  to  bestir  him :  and  Apollyon  as  fast  made 
at  him,  throwing  darts  as  thick  as  hail;  by  the 
which,  notwithstanding  all  that  Christian  could 
do  to  avoid  it,  Apollyon  wounded  him  in  his 
head,  his  hand,  and  foot.  This  made  Chris- 
tian give  a  little  back;  Apollyon,  therefore, 
followed  his  work  amain,  and  Christian  again 
took  courage,  and  resisted  as  manfully  as  he 
could.  This  sore  combat  lasted  for  above  half 
a  day,  even  till  Christian  was  almost  quite 
spent;  for  you  must  know,  that  Christian,  by 
reason  of  his  wounds,  must  needs  grow  weaker 
and  weaker. 

Then  Apollyon,  espying  his  opportunity, 
began  to  gather  up  close  to  Christian,  and 
wrestling  with  him,  gave  him  a  dreadful  fall ; 
and  with  that.  Christian's  sword  flew  out  of  his 
hand.  Then  said  Apollyon,  I  am  sure  of  thee 
now.  And  with  that  he  had  almost  pressed 
him  to  death;  so  that  Christian  began  to  de- 
spair of  life:  but  as  God  would  have  it,  while 
Apollyon  was  fetching  of  his  last  blow,  thereby 
to  make  a  full  end  of  this  good  man.  Christian 
nimbly  stretched  out  his  hand  for  his  sword, 
and  caught  it,  saying,  "Rejoice  not  against  me, 
O  mine  enemy:  when  I  fall,  I  shall  arise;  "  and 


with  that  gave  him  a  deadly  thrust,  which  made 
him  give  back,  as  one  that  had  received  his 
mortal  wound.  Christian  perceiving  that, 
made  at  him  again,  saying,  "Nay,  in  all  these 
things  we  are  more  than  conquerors,  through 
him  that  loved  us."  And  with  that  Apollyon 
spread  forth  his  dragon's  wings,  and  sjjed  him 
away,  that  Christian  for  a  season  saw  him  no 
more. 

In  this  combat  no  man  can  imagine,  unless 
he  had  seen  and  heard  as  I  did,  what  yelling 
and  hideous  roaring  Apollyon  made  all  the 
time  of  the  fight  —  he  spake  like  a  dragon; 
and,  on  the  other  side,  what  sighs  and  groans 
burst  from  Christian's  heart.  I  never  saw  him 
all  the  while  give  .so  much  as  one  pleasant  look, 
till  he  perceived  he  had  wounded  A[)ollyon  with 
his  two-edged  sword;  then,  indeed,  he  did 
smile,  and  look  upward ;  but  it  was  the  dread- 
fulest  sight  that  ever  I  saw. 

VANITY   FAIR 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  when  they 
were  got  out  of  the  wilderness,  they  presently 
saw  a  town  before  them,  and  the  name  of  that 
town  is  Vanity;  and  at  the  town  there  is  a  fair 
kept,  called  V'anity  Fair:  it  is  kept  all  the  year 
long;  it  beareth  the  name  of  Vanity  Fair,  be- 
cause the  town  where  it  is  kept  is  lighter  than 
vanity;  and  also  because  all  that  is  there  sold, 
or  that  Cometh  thither,  is  vanity.  As  is  the 
saying  of  the  wise,  "All  that  comelh  is  vanity." 

This  fair  is  no  new-erected  business,  but  a 
thing  of  ancient  standing ;  I  will  show  you  the 
original  of  it. 

Almost  five  thousand  years  agone,  there 
were  pilgrims  walking  to  the  Celestial  City  as 
these  two  honest  persons  are:  and  Beelzebub, 
Apollyon,  and  Legion,  with  their  companions, 
perceiving  by  the  path  that  the  pilgrims  made, 
that  their  way  to  the  city  lay  through  this  town 
of  Vanity,  they  contrived  here  to  set  up  a  fair; 
a  fair  wherein  should  be  sold  all  sorts  of  van- 
ity, and  that  it  should  last  all  the  year  long: 
therefore  at  this  fair  are  all  such  merchandise 
sold,  as  houses,  lands,  trades,  places,  honours, 
preferments,  titles,  countries,  kingdoms,  lusts, 
pleasures,  and  delights  of  all  sorts,  as  whores, 
bawds,  wives,  husbands,  children,  masters, 
servants,  lives,  blood,  bodies,  souls,  silver,  gold, 
pearls,  precious  stones,  and  what  not. 

And,  moreover,  at  this  fair  there  is  at  all 
times  to  be  seen  juggling,  cheats,  games,  plays, 
fools,  apes,  knaves,  and  rogues,  and  that  of 
every  kind. 


142 


JOHN    BUNYAN 


Here  are  to  be  seen  too,  and  that  for  nothing, 
thefts,  murders,  adulteries,  false  swearers,  and 
that  of  a  blood-red  colour. 

And  as  in  other  fairs  of  less  moment,  there 
are  the  several  rows  and  streets,  under  their 
proper  names,  where  such  and  such  wares  are 
vended;  so  here  likewise  you  have  the  proper 
places,  rows,  streets  (viz.  countries  and  king- 
doms), where  the  wares  of  this  fair  are  soonest 
to  be  found.  Here  is  the  Britain  Row,  the 
French  Row,  the  Italian  Row,  the  Spanish 
Row,  the  German  Row,  where  several  sorts 
of  vanities  are  to  be  sold.  But,  as  in  other 
fairs,  some  one  commodity  is  as  the  chief  of  all 
the  fair,  so  the  ware  of  Rome  and  her  merchan- 
dise is  greatly  promoted  in  this  fair;  only  our 
English  nation,  with  some  others,  have  taken  a 
dislike  thereat. 

Now,  as  I  said,  the  way  to  the  Celestial  City 
lies  just  through  this  town  where  this  lusty  fair 
is  kept;  and  he  that  will  go  to  the  City,  and  yet 
not  go  through  this  town,  must  needs  "go  out 
of  the  world."  The  Prince  of  princes  him- 
self, when  here,  went  through  this  town  to  his 
own  country,  and  that  upon  a  fair  day  too; 
yea,  and  as  I  think,  it  was  Beelzebub,  the  chief 
lord  of  this  fair,  that  invited  him  to  buy  of  his 
vanities;  yea,  would  have  made  him  lord  of 
the  fair,  would  he  but  have  done  him  rever- 
ence as  he  went  through  the  town.  Yea,  be- 
cause he  was  such  a  person  of  honour,  Beel- 
zebub had  him  from  street  to  street,  and  showed 
him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  in  a  little 
time,  that  he  might  if  possible,  allure  the  Blessed 
One  to  cheapen  and  buy  some  of  his  vanities; 
but  he  had  no  mind  to  the  merchandise,  and 
therefore  left  the  town,  without  laying  out  so 
much  as  one  farthing  upon  these  vanities.  This 
fair,  therefore,  is  an  ancient  thing,  of  long 
standing,  and  a  very  great  fair.  Now  these 
Pilgrims,  as  I  said,  must  needs  go  through  this 
fair.  Well,  so  they  did;  but,  behold,  even  as 
they  entered  into  the  fair,  all  the  people  in  the 
fair  were  moved,  and  the  town  itself  as  it  were 
in  a  hubbub  about  them ;  and  that  for  several 
reasons ;   for  — 

First,  The  pilgrims  were  clothed  with  such 
kind  of  raiment  as  was  diverse  from  the  rai- 
ment of  any  that  traded  in  that  fair.  The 
people,  therefore,  of  the  fair,  made  a  great 
gazing  upon  them :  some  said  they  were  fools, 
some  they  were  bedlams,  and  some  they  are 
outlandish  men. 

Secondly,  And  as  they  wondered  at  their 
apparel,  so  they  did  likewise  at  their  speech; 
for  few  could  understand  what  they  said ;  they 


naturally  spoke  the  language  of  Canaan,  but 
they  that  kept  the  fair  were  the  men  of  th  s 
world;  so  that,  from  one  end  of  the  fair  to 
the  other,  they  seemed  barbarians  each  to  the 
other. 

Thirdly,  But  that  which  did  not  a  little  amuse 
the  merchandisers  was,  that  these  pilgrims  set 
very  light  by  all  their  wares;  they  cared  not 
so  much  as  to  look  upon  them;  and  if  they 
called  upon  them  to  buy,  they  would  put  their 
fingers  in  their  ears,  and  cry,  "Turn  away 
mine  eyes  from  beholding  vanity,"  and  look 
upwards,  signifying  that  their  trade  and  traffic 
was  in  heaven. 

One  chanced  mockingly,  beholding  the  car- 
riage of  the  men,  to  say  unto  them,  "  What  will 
ye  buy?  "  But  they,  looking  gravely  upon  him, 
answered,  "We  buy  the  truth."  At  that  there 
was  an  occasion  taken  to  despise  the  men  the 
more:  some  mocking,  some  taunting,  some 
speaking  reproachfully,  and  some  calling  upon 
others  to  smite  them.  At  last  things  came  to 
a  hubbub,  and  great  stir  in  the  fair,  insomuch 
that  all  order  was  confounded.  Now  was  word 
presently  brought  to  the  great  one  of  the  fair, 
who  quickly  came  down,  and  deputed  some  of 
his  most  trusty  friends  to  take  these  men  into 
examination,  about  whom  the  fair  was  almost 
overturned.  So  the  men  were  brought  to 
examination;  and  they  that  sat  upon  them, 
asked  them  whence  they  came,  whither  they 
went,  and  what  they  did  there  in  such  an  un- 
usual garb?  The  men  told  them,  that  they 
were  pilgrims  and  strangers  in  the  world,  and 
that  they  were  going  to  their  own  country, 
which  Vv^as  the  heavenly  Jerusalem;  and  that 
they  had  given  no  occasion  to  the  men  of  the 
town,  nor  yet  to  the  merchandisers,  thus  to 
abuse  them,  and  to  let  them  in  their  journey, 
except  it  was,  for  that,  when  one  asked  them 
what  they  would  buy,  they  said  they  would 
buy  the  truth.  But  they  that  were  appointed 
to  examine  them  did  not  believe  them  to  be  any 
other  than  bedlams  and  mad,  or  else  such  as 
came  to  put  all  things  into  a  confusion  in  the 
fair.  Therefore  they  took  them  and  beat 
them,  and  besmeared  them  with  dirt,  and  then 
put  them  into  the  cage,  that  they  might  be  made 
a  spectacle  to  all  the  men  of  the  fair.  There, 
therefore,  they  lay  for  some  time,  and  were 
made  the  objects  of  any  man's  sport,  or  maliqe, 
or  revenge,  the  great  one  of  the  fair  laughing 
still  at  all  that  befell  them.  But  the  men  being 
patient,  and  not  rendering  railing  for  railing,  but 
contrariwise,  blessing,  and  giving  good  words 
for  bad,  and  kindness  for  injuries  done,  some 


SIR    WILLIAM    TEMPLE 


143 


men  in  the  fair  that  were  more  oljserving,  and 
less  prejudiced  than  the  rest,  began  to  check, 
and  blame  the  baser  sort  for  their  continual 
abuses  done  by  them  to  the  men ;  they,  there- 
fore, in  angry  manner,  let  fly  at  them  again, 
counting  them  as  bad  as  the  men  in  the  cage, 
and  telling  them  that  they  seemed  confeder- 
ates, and  should  be  made  partakers  of  their 
misfortunes.  The  other  replied,  that  for  aught 
they  could  see,  the  men  were  quiet,  and  sober, 
and  intended  nobody  any  harm ;  and  that 
there  were  many  that  traded  in  their  fair,  that 
were  more  worthy  to  be  put  into  the  cage,  yea, 
and  pillory  too,  than  were  the  men  that  they 
had  abused.  Thus,  after  divers  words  had 
passed  on  both  sides,  the  men  behaving  them- 
selves all  the  while  very  wisely  and  soberly 
before  them,  they  fell  to  some  blows  among 
themselves,  and  did  harm  one  to  another. 
Then  were  these  two  poor  men  brought 
before  their  examiners  again,  and  there 
charged  as  being  guilty  of  the  late  hubbub 
that  had  been  in  the  fair.  So  they  beat  them 
pitifully,  and  hanged  irons  upon  them,  and  led 
them  in  chains  up  and  down  the  fair,  for  an 
example  and  a  terror  to  others,  lest  any  should 
speak  in  their  behalf,  or  join  themselves  unto 
them.  But  Christian  and  Faithful  behaved 
themselves  yet  more  wisely,  and  received  the 
ignominy  and  shame  that  was  cast  upon  them, 
with  so  much  meekness  and  patience,  that  it 
won  to  their  side,  though  but  few  in  compari- 
son of  the  rest,  several  of  the  men  in  the  fair. 
This  put  the  other  party  yet  into  greater  rage, 
insomuch  that  they  concluded  the  death  of 
these  two  men.  Wherefore  they  threatened, 
that  the  cage  nor  irons  should  serve  their  turn, 
but  that  they  should  die,  for  the  abuse  they 
had  done,  and  for  deluding  the  men  of  the  fair. 

SIR    WILLIAM   TEMPLE    (1628-1699) 

OBSERVATIONS     UPON     THE      UNITED 
PROVINCES  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS 

CHAP.   VIII.  —  THE  CAUSES   OF  THEIR 
FALL,    IN    1672 

It  must  be  avowed,  that  as  this  State,  in  the 
course  and  progress  of  its  greatness  for  so 
many  years  past,  has  shined  like  a  comet;  so, 
in  the  revolutions  of  this  last  summer,  it  seemed 
to  fall  like  a  meteor,  and  has  equally  amazed 
the  world  by  the  one  and  the  other.  When  we 
consider  such  a  power  and  wealth,  as  was  re- 
lated in  the  last  chapter,  to  have  fallen  in  a 
manner    prostrate    within    the    space    of   one 


month;  so  many  frontier  towns,  renowned  in 
the  sieges  and  actions  of  the  Spanish  wars,  en- 
tered like  open  villages  by  the  French  troops, 
without  defence,  or  almost  denial;  most  of 
them  without  any  blows  at  all,  and  all  of  them 
with  so  few;  their  great  rivers,  that  were  es- 
teemed an  invincible  security  to  the  provinces 
of  Holland  and  Utrecht,  passed  with  as  much 
ease,  and  as  small  resistances,  as  little  fords; 
and  in  short,  the  very  heart  of  a  nation,  so 
valiant  of  old  against  Rome,  so  obstinate 
against  Spain,  now  subdued,  and,  in  a  manner, 
abandoning  all  before  their  danger  appeared: 
we  may  justly  have  our  recourse  to  the  secret 
and  fixed  periods  of  all  human  greatness,  for 
the  account  of  such  a  revolution ;  or  rather  to 
the  unsearchable  decrees  and  irresistible  force 
of  divine  providence;  though  it  seems  not  more 
impious  to  question  it,  than  to  measure  it  by 
our  scale;  or  reduce  the  issues  and  motions  of 
that  eternal  will  and  power  to  a  conformity 
with  what  is  esteemed  just,  or  wise,  or  good, 
by  the  usual  consent,  or  the  narrow  compre- 
hension of  poor  mortal  men. 

But,  as  in  the  search  and  consideration  even 
of  things  natural  and  common,  our  talent,  I 
fear,  is  to  talk  rather  than  to  know ;  so  we  may 
be  allowed  to  inquire  and  reason  upon  all 
things,  while  we  do  not  pretend  to  certainty,  or 
call  that  undeniable  truth,  which  is  every  day 
denied  by  ten  thousand;  nor  those  opinions 
unreasonable,  which  we  know  to  be  held  by 
such,  as  we  allow  to  be  reasonable  men;  I 
shall  therefore  set  down  such  circumstances, 
as  to  me  seem  most  evidently  to  have  con- 
spired in  this  revolution ;  leaving  the  causes 
less  discernible  to  the  search  of  more  discern- 
ing persons. 

And  first,  I  take  their  vast  trade,  which  was 
an  occasion  of  their  greatness,  to  have  been 
one  likewise  of  their  fall,  by  having  wholly 
diverted  the  genius  of  their  native  subjects,  and 
inhabitants,  from  arms,  to  traffic  and  the  arts 
of  peace;  leaving  the  whole  fortune  of  their 
later  wars  to  be  managed  by  foreign  and  mer- 
cenary troops;  which  much  abased  the  cour- 
age of  their  nation  (as  was  observed  in  another 
chapter)  and  made  the  burghers  of  so  little 
moment  towards  the  defence  of  their  towns; 
whereas  in  the  famous  sieges  of  Ilaerlem,  Alc- 
mer,  and  Leyden,  they  had  made  such  brave 
and  fierce  defences,  as  broke  the  heart  of  the 
Spanish  armies,  and  the  fortune  of  their  affairs. 

Next  was  the  peace  of  Munster,  which  had 
left  them  now,  for  above  twenty  years,  too  se- 
cure of  all  invasions,  or  enemies  at  land;  and 


144 


SIR    WILLIAM    TEMPLE 


so  turned  their  whole  apphcation  to  the  strength 
of  their  forces  at  sea;  which  have  been  since 
exercised  with  two  EngHsh  wars  in  that  time, 
and  enhvened  with  the  small  yearly  expedi- 
tions into  the  Straits  against  the  Algerines, 
and  other  Corsairs  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Another  was,  their  too  great  parsimony,  in 
reforming  so  many  of  their  best  foreign  officers 
and  troops,  upon  the  peace  of  Munster;  whose 
valour  and  conduct  had  been  so  great  occasions 
of  inducing  Spain  to  the  councils  and  conclu- 
sions of  that  treaty. 

But  the  greatest  of  all  other,  that  concurred 
to  weaken,  and  indeed  break,  the  strength  of 
their  land  milice,'  was  the  alteration  of  their 
State,  which  happened  by  the  Perpetual  Edict  of 
Holland  and  West-Friezland,  upon  the  death 
of  the  last  Prince  of  Orange,  for  exclusion  of 
the  power  of  Stadtholder  in  their  Province,  or 
at  least  the  separation  of  it  from  the  charge 
of  Captain-General.  Since  that  time,  the  main 
design  and  application  of  those  Provinces  has 
been,  to  work  out,  by  degrees,  all  the  old  offi- 
cers, both  native  and  foreign,  who  had  been 
formerly  sworn  to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and 
were  still  thought  affectionate  to  the  interest 
of  that  family;  and  to  fill  the  commands  of 
their  army,  with  the  sons,  or  kinsmen,  of  their 
burgomasters,  and  other  officers  or  deputies 
in  the  State,  whom  they  esteemed  sure  to  the 
constitutions  of  their  popular  government, 
and  good  enough  for  an  age,  where  they 
saw  no  appearance  of  enemy  at  land  to  attack 
them. 

But  the  humour  of  kindness  to  the  young 
Prince,  both  in  the  people  and  army,  was  not 
to  be  dissolved,  or  dispersed,  by  any  medi- 
cines, or  operations,  either  of  rigour  or  artifice ; 
but  grew  up  insensibly,  with  the  age  of  the 
Prince,  ever  presaging  some  revolution  in  the 
State,  when  he  should  come  to  the  years  of  as- 
piring, and  managing  the  general  affections  of 
the  people;  being  a  Prince,  who  joined  to  the 
great  qualities  of  his  Royal  blood,  the  popular 
virtues  of  his  country;  silent  and  thoughtful; 
given  to  hear,  and  to  inquire;  of  a  sound  and 
steady  understanding;  much  firmness  in  what 
he  once  resolves,  or  once  denies;  great  indus- 
try and  application  to  his  business,  little  to  his 
pleasures;  piety  in  the  religion  of  his  coun- 
try, but  with  charity  to  others;  temperance  un- 
usual to  his  youth,  and  to  the  climate;  frugal  in 
the  common  management  of  his  fortune,  and 
yet  magnificent  upon  occasion;   of  great  spirit 

'  militia 


and  heart,  aspiring  to  the  glory  of  military  ac- 
tions, with  strong  ambition  to  grow  great,  but 
rather  by  the  service,  than  the  servitude  of  his 
countr}^  In  short,  a  Prince  of  many  virtues, 
without  any  appearing  mixture  of  vice. 

In  the  English  war,  begun  the  year  1665, 
the  States  disbanded  all  the  English  troops 
that  were  then  left  in  their  service,  dispersing 
the  officers  and  soldiers  of  our  nation,  who 
stayed  with  them,  into  other  companies,  or 
regiments  of  their  own.  After  the  French  in- 
vasion of  Flanders,  and  the  strict  alliance 
between  England  and  Holland  in  1668,  they 
did  the  same  by  all  the  French  that  were  re- 
maining in  their  service:  so  as  the  several 
bodies  of  these  two  nations,  which  had  ever 
the  greatest  part  in  the  honour  and  fortune  of 
their  wars,  were  now  wholly  dissolved,  and 
their  standing  milice  composed,  in  a  manner, 
all  of  their  own  natives,  enervated  by  the  long 
uses  and  arts  of  traffic,  and  of  peace. 

But  they  were  too  great  a  match  for  any  of 
the  smaller  Princes  their  neighbours  in  Ger- 
many; and  too  secure  of  any  danger  from 
Spain,  by  the  knowledge  of  their  forces,  as 
well  as  dispositions;  and  being  strictly  allied 
both  with  England  and  Sweden,  in  two  sev- 
eral defensive  leagues,  and  in  one  common 
triple  alliance,  they  could  not  foresee  any 
danger  from  France,  who,  they  thought,  would 
never  have  the  courage,  or  force,  to  enter 
the  lists  with  so  mighty  confederates;  and 
who  were  sure  of  a  conjunction,  whenever 
they  pleased,  both  with  the  Emperor  and 
Spain. 

Besides,  they  knew  that  France  could  not 
attack  them,  without  passing  through  Flanders 
or  Germany:  they  were  sure  Spain  would  not 
suffer  it,  through  the  first,  if  they  were  backed 
in  opposing  it,  as  foreseeing  the  inevitable  loss 
of  Flanders,  upon  that  of  Holland:  and  they 
could  hardly  believe,  the  passage  should  be 
yielded  by  a  German  Prince,  contrary  to  the 
express  will  and  intentions  of  the  Emperor,  as 
well  as  the  common  interests  of  the  empire: 
so  that  they  hoped  the  war  would,  at  least, 
open  in  their  neighbours'  provinces,  for  whose 
defence  they  resolved  to  employ  the  whole 
force  of  their  State;  and  would  have  made  a 
mighty  resistance,  if  the  quarrel  had  begun  at 
any  other  doors,  but  their  own. 

They  could  not  imagine  a  conjunction  be- 
tween England  and  France,  for  the  ruin  of 
their  State;  for,  being  unacquainted  with  our 
constitutions,  they  did  not  foresee,  how  we 
should  find  our  interest  in  it,  and  measured  all 


THE    UNITED    PROVINCES    OF   THE    NETHERLANDS 


145 


states,  by  that  which  they  esteemed  to  be  their 
interest.  Nor  could  they  beUeve,  that  other 
Princes  and  States  of  Europe  would  suffer  such 
an  addition  to  be  made  to  the  power  of  France, 
as  a  conquest  of  Holland. 

Besides  these  public  considerations,  there 
were  others  particular  to  the  factions  among 
them :  and  some  of  their  Ministers  were  neither 
forward  nor  supple  enough  to  endeavour  the 
early  breaking,  or  diverting,  such  conjunc- 
tures, as  threatened  them;  because  they  were 
not  without  hopes,  they  might  end  in  renew- 
ing their  broken  measures  with  France ;  which 
those  of  the  commonwealth-party  were  more 
inclined  to,  by  foreseeing  the  influence  that 
their  alliances  with  Fngland  must  needs  have 
in  time,  towards  the  restoring  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange's  authority:  and  they  thought  at  the 
worst,  that,  whenever  a  pinch  came,  they 
could  not  fail  of  a  safe  bargain,  in  one  market 
or  other,  having  so  vast  a  treasure  ready  to 
employ  upon  any  good  occasion. 

These  considerations  made  them  commit 
three  fatal  oversights  in  their  foreign  negotia- 
tions: for  they  made  an  alliance  with  Eng- 
land, without  engaging  a  confidence  and  friend- 
ship: they  broke  their  measures  with  France, 
without  closing  new  ones  with  Spain :  and  they 
reckoned  upon  the  assistances  of  Sweden,  and 
their  neighbour-Princes  of  Germany,  without 
making  them  sure  by  subsidiary  advances, 
before  a  war  began. 

Lastly,  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  approach- 
ing the  two  and  twentieth  year  of  his  age,  which 
the  States  of  Holland  had,  since  their  alliance 
with  his  Majesty  in  1668,  ever  pretended  should 
be  the  time  of  advancing  him  to  the  charge  of 
Captain-General  and  Admiral  of  their  forces, 
though  without  that  of  Stadtholder.  But  the 
nearer  they  drew  to  this  period,  which  was  like 
to  make  a  new  figure  in  their  government,  the 
more  desirous  some  of  their  Ministers  seemed, 
either  to  decline,  or  to  restrain  it.  On  the 
other  side,  the  Prince  grew  confident  upon  the 
former  promises,  or,  at  least,  intimations,  of 
Holland,  and  the  concurring  dispositions  of  the 
other  six  Provinces  to  his  advancement :  and 
his  party,  spirited  by  their  hopes,  and  the  great 
qualities  of  this  young  Prince  (now  grown 
ripe  for  action,  and  for  enterprise)  resolved  to 
bring  this  point  to  a  sudden  decision ;  against 
which,  the  other  party  prepared,  and  united  all 
their  defences;  so,  as  this  strong  disease,  that 
had  been  so  long  working  in  the  very  bowels 
of  the  State,  seemed  just  upon  its  crisis;  when 
a  conjunction  of  two  mighty   Kings  brought 


upon  them  a  sudden  and  furious  invasion  by 
land  and  sea,  at  the  same  time,  by  a  royal  fleet 
of  above  fourscore  ships,  and  an  army  of  as 
many  thousand  men. 

When  the  States  saw  this  cloud  ready  to 
break  upon  them  (after  a  long  belief,  that  it 
would  blow  over)  they  began,  not  only  to  pro- 
vide shelter  at  home  with  their  usual  vigour, 
but  to  look  out  for  it  abroad  (though  both  too 
late).  Of  the  Princes  that  were  their  allies,  or 
concerned  in  their  danger,  such  as  were  far  of! 
could  not  be  in  time ;  the  nearer  were  unwilling 
to  share  in  a  danger  they  were  not  prepared  for; 
most  were  content  to  see  the  pride  of  this  State 
humbled;  some  the  injuries  they  had  received 
from  them,  revenged;  many  would  have  them 
mortified,  that  would  not  have  them  destroyed; 
and  so  all  resolved  to  leave  them  to  weather 
the  storm,  as  they  could,  for  one  campania;  ' 
which,  they  did  not  believe,  could  go  far  to- 
wards their  ruin,  considering  the  greatness  of 
their  riches,  number  of  their  forces,  and 
strength  of  their  places. 

The  State,  in  the  meantime,  had  increased 
their  troops  to  seventy  thousand  men,  and  had 
begun  to  repair  the  fortifications  of  their  fron- 
tier towns:  but  so  great  a  length  of  their  coun- 
try lay  open  to  the  French  invasion,  by  the 
territories  of  Colen  and  Liege,  and  to  the  Bishop 
of  Munster  (their  inveterate  enemy)  by  West- 
phalia, that  they  knew  not  where  to  e.xpect  or 
provide  against  the  first  danger:  and  while 
they  divided  their  forces  and  endeavours 
towards  the  securing  of  so  many  garrisons, 
they  provided  for  none  to  any  purpose  but 
Maestricht;  which  the  French  left  behind  them, 
and  fell  in  upon  the  towns  of  the  Rhine,  and 
the  heart  of  their  Provinces. 

Besides,  those  Ministers,  who  had  still  the 
direction  of  afifairs,  bent  their  chief  application 
to  the  strength  and  order  of  their  fleet,  rather 
than  of  their  army:  whether  more  pecked  at 
England  than  France,  upon  the  war  and  man- 
ner of  entering  into  it :  or  believing  that  a  vic- 
tory at  sea  would  be  the  way  to  a  peace  with 
this  crown:  or,  hoping  their  towns  would  not 
fall  so  fast,  but  that,  before  three  or  four  were 
lost,  the  business  at  sea  would  be  decided:  or, 
perhaps  content,  that  some  ill  successes  should 
attend  the  Prince  of  Orange  at  his  first  entrance 
upon  the  command  of  their  armies,  and  thereby 
contribute  to  their  designs  of  restraining  his 
authority,  while  they  were  forced  to  leave  him 
the  name  of  Captain-General.     This,  indeed, 

'  campaign 


146 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


was  not  likely  to  fail,  considering  the  ill  con- 
stitution of  their  old  army,  the  hasty  levies  of 
their  new,  and  the  height  of  the  factions  now 
broken  out  in  the  State;  which  left  both  the 
towns  and  the  troops  in  suspense,  under  whose 
banners  they  fought,  and  by  whose  orders  they 
were  to  be  governed,  the  Prince's  or  the  State's. 

There  happened,  at  the  same  time,  an  acci- 
dent unusual  to  their  climate,  which  was  a 
mighty  drought  in  the  beginning  of  the  sum- 
mer, that  left  their  waters  fordable  in  places 
where  they  used  to  be  navigable  for  boats  of 
greatest  burden.  And  this  gave  them  more 
trouble  and  distraction  in  the  defence,  as  their 
enemies  more  facility  in  the  passage  of  those 
great  rivers,  which  were  esteemed  no  small 
security  of  their  country. 

And  in  this  posture  were  the  affairs  of  this 
commonwealth,  when  the  war  broke  out,  with 
those  fatal  events,  that  must  needs  attend  any 
kingdom,  or  state,  where  the  violence  of  a  for- 
eign invasion  happens  to  meet  with  the  dis- 
tracted estate  of  a  domestic  sedition  or  discon- 
tent, which,  like  ill  humours  in  a  body,  make 
any  small  wound  dangerous,  and  a  great  one 
mortal.  They  were  still  a  great  body,  but 
without  their  usual  soul;  they  were  a  State, 
but  it  was  of  the  dis-unikd  Provinces.  Their 
towns  were  without  order;  their  burghers  with- 
out obedience ;  their  soldiers  without  discipline ; 
and  all  without  heart:  whereas,  in  all  sieges, 
the  hearts  of  men  defend  the  walls,  and  not 
walls  the  men:  and  indeed,  it  was  the  name 
of  England  joining  in  the  war  against  them, 
that  broke  their  hearts,  and  contributed  more 
to  the  loss  of  so  many  towns,  and  so  much 
country,  than  the  armies  of  Munster,  or  France. 
So  that,  upon  all  circumstances  considered,  it 
seems  easier  to  give  an  account,  what  it  was 
that  lost  them  so  much,  than  what  saved  them 
the  rest.     *    *    * 

JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 
From   AN  ESSAY   OF  DRAMATIC  POESY 

It  was  that  memorable  day,  in  the  first  sum- 
mer of  the  late  war,  when  our  navy  engaged  the 
Dutch;  a  day  wherein  the  two  most  mighty 
and  best  appointed  fleets  which  any  age  had 
ever  seen,  disputed  the  command  of  the  greater 
half  of  the  globe,  the  commerce  of  nations,  and 
the  riches  of  the  universe:  while  these  vast 
floating  bodies,  on  either  side,  moved  against 
each  other  in  parallel  lines,  and  our  country- 
men, under  the  happy  conduct  of  his  Royal 


Highness,  went  breaking,  by  little  and  little, 
into  the  line  of  the  enemies;  the  noise  of  the 
cannon  from  both  navies  reached  our  ears  about 
the  city;  so  that  all  men  being  alarmed  with  it, 
and  in  a  dreadful  suspense  of  the  event,  which 
they  knew  was  then  deciding,  every  one  went 
following  the  sound  as  his  fancy  led  him;  and 
leaving  the  town  almost  empty,  some  took 
towards  the  Park,  some  cross  the  river,  others 
down  it;  all  seeking  the  noise  in  the  depth  of 
silence. 

Amongst  the  rest,  it  was  the  fortune  of  Eu- 
genius,  Crites,  Lisideius,  and  Neander,  to  be 
in  company  together:  three  of  them  persons 
whom  their  wit  and  quality  have  made  known 
to  all  the  town ;  and  whom  I  have  chose  to  hide 
under  these  borrowed  names,  that  they  may 
not  suffer  by  so  ill  a  relation  as  I  am  going  to 
make  of  their  discourse. 

Taking  then  a  barge,  which  a  servant  of 
Lisideius  had  provided  for  them,  they  made 
haste  to  shoot  the  bridge,  and  left  behind  them 
that  great  fall  of  waters  which  hindered  them 
from  hearing  what  they  desired:  after  which, 
having  disengaged  themselves  from  many 
vessels  which  rode  at  anchor  in  the  Thames, 
and  almost  blocked  up  the  passage  towards 
Greenwich,  they  ordered  the  watermen  to  let 
fall  their  oars  more  gently;  and  then  every  one 
favouring  his  own  curiosity  with  a  strict  silence, 
it  was  not  long  ere  they  perceived  the  air  to 
break  about  them  like  the  noise  of  distant 
thunder,  or  of  swallows  in  a  chimney:  those 
Httle  undulations  of  sound,  though  almost 
vanishing  before  they  reached  them,  yet  still 
seeming  to  retain  somewhat  of  their  first  horror 
which  they  had  betwixt  the  fleets.  After  they 
had  attentively  listened  till  such  time  as  the 
sound  by  little  and  little  went  from  them, 
Eugenius,  lifting  up  his  head,  and  taking  notice 
of  it,  was  the  first  who  congratulated  to  the 
rest  that  happy  omen  of  our  nation's  victory: 
adding,  that  we  had  but  this  to  desire  in  con- 
firmation of  it,  that  we  might  hear  no  more 
of  that  noise  which  was  now  leaving  the  English 
coast.  When  the  rest  had  concurred  in  the 
same  opinion,  Crites,  a  person  of  a  sharp  judg- 
ment, and  somewhat  too  dehcate  a  taste  in  wit, 
which  the  world  hath  mistaken  in  him  for  ill 
nature,  said,  smiling  to  us,  that  if  the  concern- 
ment of  this  battle  had  not  been  so  exceeding 
great,  he  could  scarce  have  wished  the  victory 
at  the  price  he  knew  he  must  pay  for  it,  in  being 
subject  to  the  reading  and  hearing  of  so  many 
ill  verses  as  he  was  sure  would  be  made  on  that 
subject.     Adding,    that    no    argument    could 


AN   ESSAY   OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


147 


'scape  some  of  those  eternal  rhymers,  who 
watch  a  battle  with  more  diligence  than  the 
ravens  and  birds  of  prey;  and  the  worst  of 
them  surest  to  be  first  in  upon  the  quarry; 
while  the  better  able,  either  out  of  modesty 
writ  not  at  all,  or  set  that  due  value  upon  their 
poems,  as  to  let  them  be  often  desired,  and  long 
expected.  There  are  some  of  those  imperti- 
nent people  of  whom  you  speak,  answered 
Lisideius,  who,  to  my  knowledge,  are  already 
so  provided,  either  way,  that  they  can  produce 
not  only  a  panegyric  upon  the  victory,  but,  if 
need  be,  a  funeral  elegy  on  the  duke;  wherein, 
after  they  have  crowned  his  valour  with  many 
laurels,  they  will  at  last  deplore  the  odds  under 
which  he  fell,  concluding,  that  his  courage 
deserved  a  better  destiny.  .  .  . 

If  your  quarrel  (said  Eugenius)  to  those  who 
now  write,  be  grounded  only  on  your  reverence 
to  antiquity,  there  is  no  man  more  ready  to 
adore  those  great  Greeks  and  Romans  than  I 
am :  but,  on  the  other  side,  I  cannot  think  so 
contemptibly  of  the  age  in  which  I  live,  or  so 
dishonourably  of  my  own  country,  as  not  to 
judge  we  equal  the  ancients  in  most  kinds  of 
poesy,  and  in  some  surpass  them ;  neither  know 
I  any  reason  why  I  may  not  be  as  zealous  for 
the  reputation  of  our  age,  as  we  find  the  ancients 
themselves  were  in  reverence  to  those  who  lived 
before  them.  For  you  hear  your  Horace  say- 
ing, 

Indignor  quidquam  reprehendi,  non  quia  crasse 
Compositum,  illepideve  putetur,  sed  quia  nuper.^ 

And  after: 

Si  meliora  dies,  ut  vina,  poemata  reddit. 

Scire  velim,  pretium  chartis  qiiotus  arrogcl  annus  ?^ 

But  I  see  I  am  engaging  in  a  wide  dispute, 
where  the  arguments  are  not  like  to  reach  close 
on  either  side ;  for  poesy  is  of  so  large  an  extent, 
and  so  many,  both  of  the  ancients  and  moderns, 
have  done  well  in  all  kinds  of  it,  that  in  citing 
one  against  the  other,  we  shall  take  up  more 
time  this  evening,  than  each  man's  occasions 
will  allow  him:  therefore  I  would  ask  Crites 
to  what  part  of  poesy  he  would  confine  his  ar- 
guments, and  whether  he  would  defend  the 
general  cause  of  the  ancients  against  the  mod- 

'  I  am  indignant  when  anything  is  blamed,  not 
because  it  is  regarded  as  badly  or  inelegantly  written, 
but   because  it  was  written   recently.  ^  If   time 

makes  poems  better,  as  it  does  wines,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  length  of  years  confers  value  on 
writings. 


ems,  or  oppose  any  age  of  the  moderns  against 
this  of  ours. 

Crites,  a  little  while  considering  upon  this 
demand,  told  Eugenius,  that  if  he  pleased  he 
would  limit  their  dispute  to  Dramatic  Poesy; 
in  which  he  thought  it  not  difficult  to  prove, 
either  that  the  ancients  were  superior  to  the 
moderns,  or  the  last  age  to  this  of  ours. 

Eugenius  was  somewhat  surprised,  when  he 
heard  Crites  make  choice  of  that  subject.  For 
aught  I  see,  said  he,  I  have  undertaken  a  harder 
province  than  I  imagined ;  for,  though  I  never 
judged  the  plays  of  the  Greek  or  Roman  poets 
comparable  to  ours,  yet,  on  the  other  side,  those 
we  now  see  acted  come  short  of  many  which 
were  written  in  the  last  age.  But  my  comfort 
is,  if  we  are  overcome,  it  will  be  only  by  our  own 
countrjTnen :  and  if  we  yield  to  them  in  this 
one  part  of  poesy,  we  more  surpass  them  in  all 
the  other;  for  in  the  epic  or  lyric  way,  it  will 
be  hard  for  them  to  show  us  one  such  amongst 
them,  as  we  have  many  now  living,  or  who 
lately  were.  They  can  produce  nothing  so 
courtly  writ,  or  which  expresses  so  much  the 
conversation  of  a  gentleman,  as  Sir  John  Suck- 
ling; nothing  so  even,  sweet,  and  flowing,  as 
Mr.  Waller;  nothing  so  majestic,  so  correct, 
as  Sir  John  Denham;  nothing  so  elevated,  so 
copious,  and  full  of  spirit,  as  Mr.  Cowley. 
As  for  the  Italian,  French,  and  Spanish  plays, 
I  can  make  it  evident,  that  those  who  now 
write,  surpass  them;  and  that  the  drama  is 
wholly  ours. 

All  of  them  were  thus  far  of  Eugenius  his 
opinion,  that  the  sweetness  of  English  verse 
was  never  understood  or  practised  by  our 
fathers;  even  Crites  himself  did  not  much 
oppose  it:  and  every  one  was  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge how  much  our  poesy  is  improved, 
by  the  happiness  of  some  writers  yet  living; 
who  first  taught  us  to  mould  our  thoughts  into 
easy  and  significant  words,  to  retrench  the 
superfluities  of  expression,  and  to  make  our 
rhyme  so  properly  a  part  of  the  verse,  that  it 
should  never  mislead  the  sense,  but  itself  be 
led  and  governed  by  it. 

Eugenius  was  going  to  continue  this  discourse, 
when  Lisideius  told  him,  that  it  was  necessar}', 
before  they  proceeded  further,  to  take  a  stand- 
ing measure  of  their  controversy;  for  how  was 
it  possible  to  be  decided,  who  wrote  the  best 
plays,  before  we  know  what  a  play  should  be? 
but,  this  once  agreed  on  by  both  parties,  each 
might  have  recourse  to  it,  either  to  prove  his 
own  advantages,  or  to  discover  the  failings  of 
his  adversary. 


148 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


He  had  no  sooner  said  this,  but  all  desired  the 
favour  of  him  to  give  the  definition  of  a  play; 
and  they  were  the  more  importunate,  because 
neither  Aristotle,  nor  Horace,  nor  any  other, 
vi'ho  had  writ  of  that  subject,  had  ever  done  it. 

Lisideius,  after  some  modest  denials,  at  last 
confessed  he  had  a  rude  notion  of  it;  indeed 
rather  a  description  than  a  definition ;  but  which 
served  to  guide  him  in  his  private  thoughts, 
when  he  was  to  make  a  judgment  of  what 
others  writ :  that  he  conceived  a  play  ought  to 
be,  "A  just  and  lively  image  of  human  nature, 
representing  its  passions  and  humours,  and 
the  changes  of  fortune  to  which  it  is  subject, 
for  the  delight  and  instruction  of  mankind." 

This  definition  (though  Crites  raised  a  logi- 
cal objection  against  it  —  that  it  was  only 
a  genere  ct  fine,  and  so  not  altogether  perfect) 
was  yet  well  received  by  the  rest:  and  after 
they  had  given  order  to  the  watermen  to  turn 
their  barge,  and  row  softly,  that  they  might 
take  the  cool  of  the  evening  in  their  return, 
Crites,  being  desired  by  the  company  to  begin, 
spoke  on  behalf  of  the  ancients,  in  this  man- 
ner :  — 

If  confidence  presage  a  victory,  Eugenius, 
in  his  own  opinion,  has  already  triumphed  over 
the  ancients :  nothing  seems  more  easy  to  him, 
than  to  overcome  those  whom  it  is  our  greatest 
praise  to  have  imitated  well ;  for  we  do  not  only 
build  upon  their  foundations,  but  by  their 
models.  Dramatic  Poesy  had  time  enough, 
reckoning  from  Thespis  (who  first  invented  it) 
to  Aristophanes,  to  be  born,  to  grow  up,  and 
to  flourish  in  maturity.  It  has  been  observed 
o'f  arts  and  sciences,  that  in  one  and  the  same 
century  they  have  arrived  to  great  perfection: 
and  no  wonder,  since  every  age  has  a  kind  of 
universal  genius,  which  inclines  those  that  live 
in  it  to  some  particular  studies:  the  work 
then  being  pushed  on  by  many  hands,  must  of 
necessity  go  forward. 

Is  it  not  evident,  in  these  last  hundred  years, 
(when  the  study  of  philosophy  has  been  the 
business  of  all  the  Virtuosi  in  Christendom,) 
that  almost  a  new  nature  has  been  revealed  to 
us?  that  more  errors  of  the  school  have  been 
detected,  more  useful  e.xperiments  in  philoso- 
phy have  been  made,  more  noble  secrets 
in  optics,  medicine,  anatomy,  astronomy, 
discovered,  than  in  all  those  credulous  and 
doting  ages  from  Aristotle  to  us  ?  —  so  true  it 
is,  that  nothing  spreads  more  fast  than  science, 
when  rightly  and  generally  cultivated. 

Add  to  this,  the  more  than  common  emula- 
tion that  was  in  those  times,  of  writing  well; 


which  though  it  be  found  in  all  ages,  and  all 
persons  that  pretend  to  the  same  reputation, 
yet  poesy  being  then  in  more  esteem  than  now 
it  is,  had  greater  honours  decreed  to  the  pro- 
fessors of  it,  and  consequently  the  rivalship 
was  more  high  between  them.  They  had 
judges  ordained  to  decide  their  merit,  and 
prizes  to  reward  it;  and  historians  have  been 
diligent  to  record  of  ^schylus,  Euripides, 
Sophocles,  Lycophron,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
both  who  they  were  that  vanquished  in  these 
wars  of  the  theatre,  and  how  often  they  were 
crowned:  while  the  Asian  kings  and  Grecian 
commonwealths  scarce  afforded  them  a  nobler 
subject,  than  the  unmanly  luxuries  of  a  de- 
bauched court,  or  giddy  intrigues  of  a  factious 
city:  Alit  amiilatio  ingenia,  (says  Paterculus) 
et  nunc  invidia,  nunc  admiratio  incitationem 
accendit:  Emulation  is  the  spur  of  wit;  and 
sometimes  envy,  sometimes  admiration,  quick- 
ens our  endeavours. 

But  now  since  the  rewards  of  honour  are 
taken  away,  that  virtuous  emulation  is  turned 
into  direct  malice ;  yet  so  slothful,  that  it  contents 
itself  to  condemn  and  cry  down  others,  without 
attempting  to  do  better:  'tis  a  reputation  too 
unprofitable,  to  take  the  necessary  pains  for  it ; 
yet  wishing  they  had  it,  that  desire  is  incite- 
ment enough  to  hinder  others  from  it.  And 
this,  in  short,  Eugenius,  is  the  reason,  why 
you  have  now  so  few  good  poets,  and  so  many 
severe  judges.  Certainly,  to  imitate  the  an- 
cients well,  much  labour  and  long  study  is 
required ;  which  pains,  I  have  already  shown, 
our  poets  would  want  encouragement  to  take, 
if  yet  they  had  ability  to  go  through  the  work. 
Those  ancients  have  been  faithful  imitators, 
and  wise  observers  of  that  nature  which  is  so 
torn  and  ill  represented  in  our  plays;  they 
have  handed  down  to  us  a  perfect  resemblance 
of  her;  which  we,  like  ill  copiers,  neglecting 
to  look  on,  have  rendered  monstrous,  and  dis- 
figured. But,  that  you  may  know  how  much 
you  are  indebted  to  those  your  masters,  and  be 
ashamed  to  have  so  ill  requited  them,  I  must 
remember  you,  that  all  the  rules  by  which  we 
practise  the  drama  at  this  day,  (either  such  as 
relate  to  the  justness  and  symmetry  of  the  plot; 
or  the  episodical  ornaments,  such  as  descrip- 
tions, narrations,  and  other  beauties,  which  are 
not  essential  to  the  play;)  were  delivered  to  us 
from  the  observations  which  Aristotle  made, 
of  those  poets,  who  either  lived  before  him, 
or  were  his  contemporaries.  We  have  added 
nothing  of  our  own,  except  we  have  the  con- 
fidence to  say,  our  wit  is  better;  of  which  none 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAIVIATIC    POESY 


149 


boast  in  this  our  age,  but  such  as  understand 
not  theirs.  Of  that  book  which  Aristotle  has 
left  us,  Trepl  t^s  IIotT^rtK^s,  Horace  his  "Art  of 
Poetry,"  is  an  excellent  comment,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, restores  to  us  that  Second  Book  of  his 
concerning  comedy,  which  is  wanting  in  him. 

Out  of  these  two  have  been  extracted  the 
famous  rules  which  the  French  call  Lcs  Trois 
Unites,  or  the  Three  Unities,  which  ought  to 
be  observed  in  every  regular  play;  namely,  of 
time,  place,  and  action. 

The  unity  of  time  they  comprehend  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  the  compass  of  a  natural  day,  or 
as  near  as  it  can  be  contrived ;  and  the  reason 
of  it  is  obvious  to  every  one,  —  that  the  time 
of  the  feigned  action,  or  fable  of  the  play,  should 
be  proportioned  as  near  as  can  be  to  the  dura- 
tion of  that  time  in  which  it  is  represented: 
since  therefore  all  plays  are  acted  on  the  theatre 
in  a  space  of  time  much  within  the  compass 
of  twenty-four  hours,  that  play  is  to  be  thought 
the  nearest  imitation  of  nature,  whose  plot 
or  action  is  confined  within  that  time.  And, 
by  the  same  rule  which  concludes  this  general 
proportion  of  time,  it  follows,  that  all  the  parts 
of  it  are  (as  near  as  may  be)  to  be  equally  sub- 
divided; namely,  that  one  act  take  not  up  the 
supposed  time  of  half  a  day,  which  is  out  of 
proportion  to  the  rest ;  since  the  other  four  are 
then  to  be  straitened  within  the  compass  of 
the  remaining  half:  for  it  is  unnatural,  that  one 
act,  which  being  spoke  or  written,  is  not  longer 
than  the  rest,  should  be  supposed  longer  by 
the  audience;  it  is  therefore  the  poet's  duty, 
to  take  care,  that  no  act  should  be  imagined  to 
exceed  the  time  in  which  it  is  represented  on 
the  stage;  and  that  the  intervals  and  inequali- 
ties of  time  be  supposed  to  fall  out  between 
the  acts. 

This  rule  of  time,  how  well  it  has  been  ob- 
served by  the  ancients,  most  of  their  plays  will 
witness.  You  see  them  in  their  tragedies, 
(wherein  to  follow  this  rule  is  certainly  most 
difficult,)  from  the  very  beginning  of  their 
plays,  falling  close  into  that  part  of  the  story 
which  they  intend  for  the  action,  or  principal 
object  of  it,  leaving  the  former  part  to  be  de- 
Hvered  by  narration :  so  that  they  set  the  au- 
dience, as  it  were,  at  the  post  where  the  race 
is  to  be  concluded ;  and  saving  them  the  tedious 
expectation  of  seeing  the  poet  set  out  and  ride 
the  beginning  of  the  course,  they  suffer  you  not 
to  behold  him,  till  he  is  in  sight  of  the  goal, 
and  just  upon  you. 

For  the  second  unity,  which  is  that  of  place, 
the  ancients  meant  by  it,  that  the  scene  ought 


to  be  continued  through  the  play,  in  the  same 
place  where  it  was  laid  in  the  beginning:  for 
the  stage,  on  which  it  is  represented,  being  but 
one  and  the  same  place,  it  is  unnatural  to  con- 
ceive it  many;  and  those  far  distant  from  one 
another.  I  will  not  deny,  but  by  the  varia- 
tion of  painted  scenes,  the  fancy  (which  in  these 
cases  will  contribute  to  its  own  deceit)  may 
sometimes  imagine  it  several  places,  with  some 
appearance  of  probability;  yet  it  still  carries 
the  greater  likelihood  of  truth,  if  those  places 
be  supposed  so  near  each  other,  as  in  the  same 
town  or  city,  which  may  all  be  comprehended 
under  the  larger  denomination  of  one  place: 
for  a  greater  distance  will  bear  no  jjroportion 
to  the  shortness  of  time  which  is  allotted,  in 
the  acting,  to  pass  from  one  of  them  to  another. 
For  the  o])servation  of  this,  next  to  the  ancients, 
the  French  are  to  be  most  commended.  They 
tie  themselves  so  strictly  to  the  unity  of  place, 
that  you  never  see  in  any  of  their  plays,  a  scene 
changed  in  the  middle  of  an  act:  if  the  act 
begins  in  a  garden,  a  street,  or  chamber,  'tis 
ended  in  the  same  place;  and  that  you  may 
know  it  to  be  the  same,  the  stage  is  so  su{)plied 
with  persons,  that  it  is  never  empty  all  the  time : 
he  who  enters  second,  has  business  with  him 
who  was  on  before;  and  before  the  second 
quits  the  stage,  a  third  appears  who  has  busi- 
ness with  him.  This  Corneille  calls  la  liaison 
des  Scenes,  the  continuity  or  joining  of  the 
scenes;  and  'tis  a  good  mark  of  a  well-con- 
trived play,  when  all  the  persons  are  known 
to  each  other,  and  every  one  of  them  has  some 
affairs  with  all  the  rest. 

As  for  the  third  unity,  which  is  that  of  action, 
the  ancients  meant  no  other  by  it  than  what  the 
logicians  do  by  their  ^;//.?,  the  end  or  scope  of 
any  action;  that  which  is  the  first  in  intention, 
and  last  in  execution.  Now  the  poet  is  to  aim 
at  one  great  and  complete  action,  to  the  carry- 
ing on  of  which  all  things  in  his  play,  even  the 
very  obstacles,  are  to  be  subservient;  and  the 
reason  of  this  is  as  evident  as  any  of  the  former. 

For  two  actions  equally  laboured  and  driven 
on  by  the  writer,  would  destroy  the  unity  of 
the  poem;  it  would  be  no  longer  one  play, 
but  two:  not  but  that  there  may  be  many  ac- 
tions in  a  play,  as  Ben  Jonson  has  observed 
in  his  "Discoveries";  but  they  must  be  all 
subservient  to  the  great  one,  which  our  lan- 
guage happily  expresses  in  the  name  of  under- 
plots: such  as  in  Terence's  "Funuch"  is  the 
difference  and  reconcilement  of  Thais  and 
Phaedria,  which  is  not  the  chief  business  of  the 
play,  but  promotes  the  marriage  of  Cha;rea 


15° 


JOHN   DRYDEN 


and  Chremes's  sister,  principally  intended  by 
the  poet.  There  ought  to  be  but  one  action, 
says  Corneille,  that  is,  one  complete  action, 
which  leaves  the  mind  of  the  audience  in  a  full 
repose;  but  this  cannot  be  brought  to  pass, 
but  by  many  other  imperfect  actions,  which 
conduce  to  it,  and  hold  the  audience  in  a 
delightful  suspense  of  what  will  be. 

If  by  these  rules  (to  omit  many  other  drawn 
from  the  precepts  and  practice  of  the  ancients) 
we  should  judge  our  modern  plays,  'tis  prob- 
able, that  few  of  them  would  endure  the  trial: 
that  which  should  be  the  business  of  a  day, 
takes  up  in  some  of  them  an  age;  instead  of 
one  action,  they  are  the  epitomes  of  a  man's 
life,  and  for  one  spot  of  ground  (which  the  stage 
should  represent)  we  are  sometimes  in  more 
countries  than  the  map  can  show  us. 

But  if  we  allow  the  ancients  to  have  contrived 
well,  we  must  acknowledge  them  to  have  writ- 
ten better.  Questionless  we  are  deprived  of  a 
great  stock  of  wit  in  the  loss  of  Menander  among 
the  Greek  poets,  and  of  Ccccilius,  Afranius, 
and  Varius,  among  the  Romans.  We  may 
guess  at  Menander's  excellency,  by  the  plays 
of  Terence,  who  translated  some  of  his;  and 
yet  wanted  so  much  of  him,  that  he  was  called 
by  C.  Ca;sar  the  half-Menander;  and  may 
judge  of  Varius,  by  the  testimonies  of  Horace, 
Martial,  and  Velleius  Paterculus.  'Tis  prob- 
able that  these,  could  they  be  recovered,  would 
decide  the  controversy;  but  so  long  as  Aris- 
tophanes and  Plautus  are  extant,  while  the 
tragedies  of  Euripides,  Sophocles,  and  Seneca, 
are  in  our  hands,  I  can  never  see  one  of  those 
plays  which  are  now  written,  but  it  increases 
my  admiration  of  the  ancients.  And  yet  I  must 
acknowledge  further,  that  to  admire  them  as 
we  ought,  we  should  understand  them  better 
than  we  do.  Doubtless  many  things  appear 
flat  to  us,  the  wit  of  which  depended  on  some 
custom  or  story,  which  never  came  to  our  know- 
ledge; or  perhaps  on  some  criticism  in  their 
language,  which  being  so  long  dead,  and  only 
remaining  in  their  books,  'tis  not  possible  they 
should  make  us  understand  perfectly.  To 
read  Macrobius,  explaining  the  propriety  and 
elegancy  of  many  words  in  Virgil,  which  I 
had  before  passed  over  without  consideration, 
as  common  things,  is  enough  to  assure  me,  that 
I  ought  to  think  the  same  of  Terence;  and 
that  in  the  purity  of  his  style,  (which  Tully  so 
much  valued,  that  he  ever  carried  his  works 
about  him,)  there  is  yet  left  in  him  great  room 
for  admiration,  if  I  knew  but  where  to  place  it. 
In  the  meantime,  I  must  desire  you  to  take 


notice,  that  the  greatest  man  of  the  last  age 
(Ben  Jonson)  was  willing  to  give  place  to 
them  in  all  things:  he  was  not  only  a  pro- 
fessed imitator  of  Horace,  but  a  learned  plagiary 
of  all  the  others;  you  track  him  everywhere 
in  their  snow.  If  Horace,  Lucan,  Petronius 
Arbiter,  Seneca,  and  Juvenal,  had  their  own 
from  him,  there  are  few  serious  thoughts  which 
are  new  in  him :  you  will  pardon  me,  therefore, 
if  I  presume  he  loved  their  fashion,  when  he 
wore  their  clothes.  But  since  I  have  otherwise 
a  great  veneration  for  him,  and  you,  Eugenius, 
prefer  him  above  all  other  poets,  I  will  use  no 
farther  argument  to  you  than  his  example: 
I  will  produce  before  you  father  Ben,  dressed 
in  all  the  ornaments  and  colours  of  the  ancients; 
you  will  need  no  other  guide  to  our  party,  if 
you  follow  him;  and  whether  you  consider 
the  bad  plays  of  our  age,  or  regard  the  good 
plays  of  the  last,  both  the  best  and  worst  of 
the  modern  poets  will  equally  instruct  you  to 
admire  the  ancients. 

Crites  had  no  sooner  left  speaking,  but 
Eugenius,  who  had  waited  with  some  impa- 
tience for  it,  thus  began :  — 

I  have  observed  in  your  speech,  that  the  for- 
mer part  of  it  is  convincing,  as  to  what  the 
moderns  have  profited  by  the  rules  of  the  an- 
cients; but  in  the  latter  you  are  careful  to 
conceal  how  much  they  have  excelled  them. 
We  own  all  the  helps  we  have  from  them,  and 
want  neither  veneration  nor  gratitude,  while 
we  acknowledge,  that  to  overcome  them  we 
must  make  use  of  the  advantages  we  have 
received  from  them:  but  to  these  assistances 
we  have  joined  our  own  industry;  for,  had  we 
sat  down  with  a  dull  imitation  of  them,  we  might 
then  have  lost  somewhat  of  the  old  perfection, 
but  never  acquired  any  that  was  new.  We 
draw  not  therefore  after  their  lines,  but  those 
of  nature;  and  having  the  life  before  us,  be- 
sides the  experience  of  all  they  knew,  it  is  no 
wonder  if  we  hit  some  airs  and  features  which 
they  have  missed.  I  deny  not  what  you  urge 
of  arts  and  sciences,  that  they  have  flourished 
in  some  ages  more  than  others;  but  your 
instance  in  philosophy  makes  for  me:  for  if 
natural  causes  be  more  known  now  than  in 
the  time  of  Aristotle,  because  more  studied,  it 
follows,  that  poesy  and  other  arts  may,  with 
the  same  pains,  arrive  still  nearer  to  perfection; 
and,  that  granted,  it  will  rest  for  you  to  prove, 
that  they  wrought  more  perfect  images  of  human 
life,  than  we;  which  seeing  in  your  discourse 
you  have  avoided  to  make  good,  it  shall  now 
be  my  task  to  show  you  some  part  of  their  de- 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


T51 


fects,  and  some  few  excellencies  of  the  moderns. 
And  I  think  there  is  none  among  us  can  imagine 
I  do  it  enviously,  or  with  purpose  to  detract 
from  them ;  for  what  interest  of  fame  or  profit 
can  the  living  lose  by  the  reputation  of  the 
dead?  On  the  other  side,  it  is  a  great  truth 
which  Velleius  Paterculus  affirms:  Audita  vi- 
sis  libenlitis  laudamus;  et  prccscntia  invidia, 
prakrita  admiratione  proseqnimur ;  el  Jiis  nos 
obriii,  illis  instrui  credimiis: '  that  praise  or 
censure  is  certainly  the  most  sincere,  which 
unbribed  posterity  shall  give  us. 

Be  pleased  then,  in  the  first  place,  to  take 
notice,  that  the  Greek  poesy,  which  Crites  has 
affirmed  to  have  arrived  to  perfection  in  the 
reign  of  the  old  comedy,  was  so  far  from  it, 
that  the  distinction  of  it  into  acts  was  not 
known  to  them;  or  if  it  were,  it  is  yet  so 
darkly  delivered  to  us,  that  we  cannot  make 
it  out. 

All  we  know  of  it  is,  from  the  singing  of  their 
chorus;  and  that  too  is  so  uncertain,  that  in 
some  of  their  plays  we  have  reason  to  conjec- 
ture they  sung  more  than  five  times.  Aristotle 
indeed  divides  the  integral  parts  of  a  play  into 
four.  First,  the  Protasis,  or  entrance,  which 
gives  light  only  to  the  characters  of  the  persons, 
and  proceeds  very  little  into  any  part  of  the 
action.  Secondly,  the  Epitasis,  or  working  up 
of  the  plot;  where  the  play  grows  warmer, 
the  design  or  action  of  it  is  drawing  on,  and  you 
see  something  promising  that  it  will  come  to 
pass.  Thirdly,  the  Catastasis,  called  by  the 
Romans,  Status,  the  height  and  full  growth  of 
the  play:  we  may  call  it  properly  the  counter- 
turn,  which  destroys  that  expectation,  embroils 
the  action  in  new  difficulties,  and  leaves  you 
far  distant  from  that  hope  in  which  it  found 
you;  as  you  may  have  observed  in  a  violent 
stream,  resisted  by  a  narrow  passage,  —  it 
runs  round  to  an  eddy,  and  carries  back  the 
waters  with  more  swiftness  than  it  brought 
them  on.  Lastly,  the  Catastrophe,  which  the 
Grecians  called  ACcrt?,  the  French  le  denoue- 
ment, and  we  the  discovery,  or  unravelling  of 
the  plot :  there  you  see  all  things  settling  again 
upon  their  first  foundations,  and,  the  obstacles 
which  hindered  the  design  or  action  of  the  play 
once  removed,  it  ends  with  that  resemblance  of 
truth  and  nature,  that  the  audience  are  satis- 
fied with  the  conduct  of  it.     Thus  this  great 

'  We  praise  things  reported  more  willingly  than 
those  seen;  and  things  of  to-day  we  follow  with 
envy,  those  of  yesterday  with  admiration,  believing 
ourselves  to  be  hindered  by  the  former  and  helped 
by  the  latter. 


man  delivered  to  us  the  image  of  a  play;  and 
I  must  confess  it  is  so  lively,  that  from  thence 
much  light  has  been  derived  to  the  forming  it 
more  perfectly  into  acts  and  scenes:  but  what 
poet  first  limited  to  five  the  number  of  the  acts, 
I  know  not ;  only  we  sec  it  so  firmly  established 
in  the  time  of  Horace,  that  he  gives  it  for  a 
rule  in  comedy,  — N^eu  brroior  qiiinto,  ncu  sit 
produclior  actu}  So  that  you  see  the  Grecians 
cannot  be  said  to  have  consummated  this  art ; 
writing  rather  by  entrances,  than  by  acts,  and 
having  rather  a  general  indigested  notion  of 
a  play,  than  knowing  how,  and  where  to  be- 
stow the  particular  graces  of  it. 

But  since  the  Spaniards  at  this  day  allow 
but  three  acts,  which  they  call  Jornadas,  to  a 
play,  and  the  Italians  in  many  of  theirs  follow 
them,  when  I  condemn  the  ancients,  I  declare 
it  is  not  altogether  because  they  have  not  five 
acts  to  every  play,  but  because  they  have  not 
confined  themselves  to  one  certain  number: 
it  is  building  an  house  without  a  model;  and 
when  they  succeeded  in  such  undertakings, 
they  ought  to  have  sacrificed  to  Fortune,  not 
to  the  Muses. 

Next,  for  the  plot,  which  Aristotle  called  to 
jxvOo^,  and  often  twv  TrpayfxaTwv  crvvdeaLS,  and 
from  him  the  Romans  Fabula,  it  has  already 
been  judiciously  observed  by  a  late  writer,  that 
in  their  tragedies  it  was  only  some  tale  derived 
from  Thebes  or  Troy,  or  at  least  something  that 
happened  in  those  two  ages;  which  was  worn 
so  thread-bare  by  the  pens  of  all  the  epic  poets, 
and  even  by  tradition  itself  of  the  talkative 
Greeklings,  (as  Ben  Jonson  calls  them,)  that 
before  it  came  upon  the  stage,  it  was  already 
known  to  all  the  audience;  and  the  people,  so 
soon  as  ever  they  heard  the  name  of  (Edipus, 
knew  as  well  as  the  poet,  that  he  had  killed 
his  father  by  a  mistake,  and  committed  incest 
with  his  mother,  before  the  play;  that  they 
were  now  to  hear  of  a  great  plague,  an  oracle, 
and  the  ghost  of  Laius:  so  that  they  sate  with 
a  yawning  kind  of  expectation,  till  he  was  to 
come  with  his  eyes  pulled  out,  and  speak  a 
hundred  or  more  verses  in  a  tragic  toflc,  in  com- 
plaint of  his  misfortunes.  But  one  Oedipus, 
Hercules,  or  Medea,  had  been  tolerable;  poor 
people,  they  escaped  not  so  good  cheap;  they 
had  still  the  chapon  bouille  ■  set  before  them, 
till  their  appetites  were  cloyed  with  the  same 
dish,  and,  the  novelty  being  gone,  the  pleasure 
vanished;    so  that  one  main  end  of  Dramatic 


'  Let  it  be  neither  shorter  nor  longer  than  five  acts 
^  boiled  chicken 


152 


JOHN   DRYDEN 


Poesy  in  its  definition,  which  was  to  cause  de- 
light, was  of  consequence  destroyed. 

In  their  comedies,  the  Romans  generally 
borrowed  their  plots  from  the  Greek  poets; 
and  theirs  was  commonly  a  little  girl  stolen 
or  wandered  from  her  parents,  brought  back 
unknown  to  the  city,  there  got  with  child  by 
some  lewd  young  fellow,  who,  by  the  help  of 
his  servant,  cheats  his  father;  and  when  her 
time  comes  to  cry  Juno  Lucina,  fer  opem^ 
one  or  other  sees  a  little  bOx  or  cabinet  which 
was  carried  away  with  her,  and  so  discovers 
her  to  her  friends,  if  some  god  do  not  prevent  it, 
by  coming  down  in  a  machine,  and  taking  the 
thanks  of  it  to  himself. 

By  the  plot  you  may  guess  much  of  the  char- 
acters of  the  persons.  An  old  father,  who 
would  willingly,  before  he  dies,  see  his  son  well 
married;  his  debauched  son,  kind  in  his  nature 
to  his  mistress,  but  miserably  in  want  of  money ; 
a  servant  or  slave,  who  has  so  much  wit  to 
strike  in  with  him,  and  help  to  dupe  his  father; 
a  braggadocio  captain,  a  parasite,  and  a  lady 
of  pleasure. 

As  for  the  poor  honest  maid,  on  whom  the 
story  is  built,  and  who  ought  to  be  one  of  the 
principal  actors  in  the  play,  she  is  commonly 
a  mute  in  it ;  she  has  the  breeding  of  the  old 
Elizabeth  way,  which  was  for  maids  to  be  seen, 
and  not  to  be  heard;  and  it  is  enough  you  know 
she  is  willing  to  be  married,  when  the  fifth  act 
requires  it. 

These  are  plots  built  after  the  Italian  mode 
of  houses,  —  you  see  through  them  all  at  once: 
the  characters  are  indeed  the  imitations  of  na- 
ture, but  so  narrow,  as  if  they  had  imitated 
only  an  eye  or  an  hand,  and  did  not  dare  to 
venture  on  the  lines  of  a  face,  or  the  proportion 
of  a  body. 

But  in  how  straight  a  compass  soever  they 
have  bounded  their  plots  and  characters,  we 
will  pass  it  by,  if  they  have  regularly  pursued 
them,  and  perfectly  observed  those  three  uni- 
ties of  time,  place,  and  action ;  the  knowledge 
of  which  you  say  is  derived  to  us  from  them. 
But,  in  thorfirst  place,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you, 
that  the  unity  of  place,  however  it  might  be 
practised  by  them,  was  never  any  of  their  rules: 
we  neither  find  it  in  Aristotle,  Horace,  or  any 
who  have  written  of  it,  till  in  our  age  the  French 
poets  first  made  it  a  precept  of  the  stage.  The 
unity  of  time,  even  Terence  himself,  who  was 
the  best  and  most  regular  of  them,  has  neg- 
lected:   his   ''^Heatitontimorumenos,"   or  Self- 


punisher,  takes  up  visibly  two  days,  says 
Scaliger;  the  two  first  acts  concluding  the  first 
day,  the  three  last  the  day  ensuing;  and 
Euripides,  in  tying  himself  to  one  day,  has 
committed  an  absurdity  never  to  be  forgiven 
him;  for  in  one  of  his  tragedies  he  has  made 
Theseus  go  from  Athens  to  Thebes,  which  was 
about  forty  English  miles,  under  the  walls  of 
it  to  give  battle,  and  appear  victorious  in  the 
next  act;  and  yet,  from  the  time  of  his  depart- 
ure to  the  return  of  the  Nuntius,  who  gives 
the  relation  of  his  victory,  iEthra  and  the 
Chorus  have  but  thirty-six  verses;  which  is 
not  for  every  mile  a  verse. 

The  like  error  is  as  evident  in  Terence  his 
"Eunuch,"  when  Laches,  the  old  man,  enters 
by  mistake  into  the  house  of  Thais;  where, 
betwixt  his  exit,  and  the  entrance  of  Pythias, 
who  comes  to  give  ample  relation  of  the  dis- 
orders he  has  raised  within,  Parmeno,  who  was 
left  upon  the  stage,  has  not  above  five  lines  to 
speak.  Oest  bien  employer  un  temps  si  court,^ 
says  the  French  poet,  who  furnished  me  with 
one  of  the  observations:  and  almost  all  their 
tragedies  will  afford  us  examples  of  the  like 
nature. 

It  is  true,  they  have  kept  the  continuity,  or, 
as  you  called  it,  liaison  des  Scenes,  somewhat 
better:  two  do  not  perpetually  come  in  together, 
talk,  and  go  out  together;  and  other  two  suc- 
ceed them,  and  do  the  same  throughout  the 
act,  which  the  English  call  by  the  name  of  single 
scenes;  but  the  reason  is,  because  they  have 
seldom  above  two  or  three  scenes,  properly 
so  called,  in  every  act ;  for  it  is  to  be  accounted 
a  new  scene,  not  only  every  time  the  stage  is 
empty,  but  every  person  who  enters,  though  to 
others,  makes  it  so;  because  he  introduces  a 
new  business.  Now  the  plots  of  their  plays 
being  narrow,  and  the  persons  few,  one  of  their 
acts  was  written  in  a  less  compass  than  one  of 
our  well-wrought  scenes;  and  yet  they  are  often 
deficient  even  in  this.  To  go  no  farther  than 
Terence,  you  find  in  the  "Eunuch,"  Antipho 
entering  single  in  the  midst  of  the  third  act, 
after  Chremes  and  Pythias  were  gone  ofT:  in 
the  same  play  you  have  likev/ise  Dorias  begin- 
ning the  fourth  act  alone;  and  after  she  has 
made  a  relation  of  what  was  done  at  the  Soldier's 
entertainment,  (which  by  the  way  was  very 
inartificial,  because  she  was  presumed  to  speak 
directly  to  the  audience,  and  to  acquaint  them 
with  what  was  necessary  to  be  known,  but 
yet  should  have  been  so  contrived  by  the  poet, 


'  Help  me,  O  goddess  of  childbearing ! 


'  This  is  making  good  use  of  so  short  a  time. 


AN   ESSAY    OF    DRAIMATIC    POESY 


153 


as  to  have  been  told  by  persons  of  the  dranici 
to  one  another,  and  so  by  them  to  have  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  people,)  she  quits  the 
stage,  and  Pha^dria  enters  next,  alone  likewise  : 
he  also  gives  you  an  account  of  himself,  and  of 
his  returning  from  the  country,  in  monologue ; 
to  which  unnatural  way  of  narration  Terence 
is  subject  in  all  his  plays.  In  his  "Adelphi, 
or  Brothers,"  Syrus  and  Demea  enter  after  the 
scene  was  broken  by  the  departure  of  Sostrata, 
Geta,  and  Canthara;  and  indeed  you  can 
scarce  look  into  any  of  his  comedies,  where  you 
will  not  presently  discover  the  same  interruption. 
But  as  they  have  failed  both  in  laying  of  their 
plots,  and  in  the  management,  swerving  from 
the  rules  of  their  own  art,,  by  misrepresenting 
nature  to  us,  in  which  they  have  ill  satisfied  one 
intention  of  a  play,  which  was  delight;  so  in 
the  instructive  part  they  have  erred  worse: 
instead  of  punishing  vice,  and  rewarding  virtue, 
they  have  often  shown  a  prosperous  wickedness, 
and  an  unhappy  piety :  they  have  set  before  us 
a  bloody  image  of  revenge  in  Medea,  and  given 
her  dragons  to  convey  her  safe  from  punish- 
ment. A  Priam  and  Astyanax  murdered, 
and  Cassandra  ravished,  and  the  lust  and 
murder  ending  in  the  victory  of  him  who  acted 
them.  In  short,  there  is  no  indecorum  in  any 
of  our  modern  plays,  which,  if  I  would  excuse, 
I  could  not  shadow  with  some  authority  from 
the  ancients. 

But,  to  return  from  whence  I  have  digressed, 
to  the  consideration  of  the  ancients'  writing, 
and  their  wit;  of  which,  by  this  time,  you  will 
grant  us  in  some  measure  to  be  fit  judges. 
Though  I  see  many  excellent  thoughts  in 
Seneca,  yet  he  of  them  who  had  a  genius  most 
proper  for  the  stage,  was  Ovid ;  he  had  a  way 
of  writing  so  fit  to  stir  up  a  pleasing  admiration 
and  concernment,  which  are  the  objects  of  a 
tragedy,  and  to  show  the  various  movements 
of  a  soul  combating  betwixt  two  different  pas- 
sions, that  had  he  lived  in  our  age,  or  in  his  own 
could  have  writ  with  our  advantages,  no  man 
but  must  have  yielded  to  him;  and  therefore 
I  am  confident  the  "Medea"  is  none  of  his; 
for  though  I  esteem  it  for  the  gravity  and  sen- 
tentiousness  of  it,  which  he  himself  concludes 
to  be  suitable  to  a  tragedy,  —  Omnc  genus 
scripti  gravitate  Tragcedia  vincit,  —  yet  it 
moves  not  my  soul  enough  to  judge  that  he, 
who  in  the  epic  way  wrote  things  so  near  the 
drama,  as  the  story  of  Myrrha,  of  Caunus  and 
Biblis,  and  the  rest,  should  stir  up  no  more 
concernment  where  he  most  endeavoured  it. 


The  ma.ster-picce  of  Seneca  I  hold  to  be  that 
scene  in  the  "Troades,"  where  Ulysses  is  seek- 
ing for  Astyanax  to  kill  him:  there  you  see 
the  tenderness  of  a  mother,  so  represented  in 
Andromache,  that  it  raises  compassion  to  a  high 
degree  in  the  reader,  and  bears  the  nearest 
resemblance  of  anything  in  the  tragedies  of 
the  ancients,  to  the  excellent  scenes  of  passion 
in  Shakespeare,  or  in  Fletcher.  —  For  love- 
scenes  you  will  find  few  among  them;  their 
tragic  poets  dealt  not  with  that  soft  passion, 
but  with  lust,  cruelty,  revenge,  ambition,  and 
those  bloody  actions  they  produced ;  which  were 
more  capaljle  of  raising  horror  than  compassion 
in  an  audience :  leaving  love  untouched,  whose 
gentleness  would  have  tempered  them,  which 
is  the  most  frequent  of  all  the  passions,  and 
which,  being  the  private  concernment  of  every 
person,  is  soothed  by  viewing  its  own  image  in 
a  public  entertainment. 

Among  their  comedies,  we  find  a  scene  or 
two  of  tenderness,  and  that  where  you  would 
least  expect  it,  in  Plautus;  but  to  speak  gen- 
erally, their  lovers  say  little,  when  they  see 
each  other,  but  anima  mea,vita  mea;  ^wr]  kol 
il^^XOi  'IS  the  women  in  Juvenal's  time  used  to 
cry  out  in  the  fury  of  their  kindness.  Any 
sudden  gust  of  passion  (as  an  ecstasy  of  love 
in  an  unexpected  meeting)  cannot  better  be 
expressed  than  in  a  word,  and  a  sigh,  breaking 
one  another.  Nature  is  dumb  on  such  occa- 
sions; and  to  make  her  speak,  would  be  to 
represent  her  unlike  herself.  But  there  are 
a  thousand  other  concernments  of  lovers,  as 
jealousies,  complaints,  contrivances,  and  the 
like,  where  not  to  open  their  minds  at  large 
to  each  other,  were  to  be  wanting  to  their  own 
love,  and  to  the  expectation  of  the  audience; 
who  watch  the  movements  of  their  minds,  as 
much  as  the  changes  of  their  fortunes.  For 
the  imagining  of  the  first  is  properly  the  work 
of  a  poet;  the  latter  he  borrows  from  the 
historian. 

Eugenius  was  proceeding  in  that  part  of  his 
discourse,  when  Crites  interrupted  him.  I  see, 
said  he,  Eugenius  and  I  are  never  like  to  have 
this  question  decided  betwixt  us;  for  he  main- 
tains, the  moderns  have  acquired  a  new  per- 
fection in  writing,  I  can  only  grant  they  have 
altered  the  mode  of  it.  Homer  described  his 
heroes  men  of  great  appetites,  lovers  of  beef 
broiled  upon  the  coals,  and  good  fellows;  con- 
trary to  the  practice  of  the  French  romances, 
whose  heroes  neither  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  sleep, 
for  love.  Virgil  makes  .^neas  a  bold  avower 
of  his  own  virtues: 


154 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


Sum  pills  Mneas  fama  super  athera  notiis ; ' 

which,  in  the  civility  of  our  poets,  is  the  char- 
acter of  a  fanfaron,  or  Hector:  for  with  us  the 
knight  takes  occasion  to  walk  out,  or  sleep, 
to  avoid  the  vanity  of  telling  his  own  story, 
which  the  trusty  squire  is  ever  to  perform  for 
him.  So  in  their  love-scenes,  of  which  Euge- 
nius  spoke  last,  the  ancients  were  more  hearty, 
we  more  talkative :  they  writ  love  as  it  was  then 
the  mode  to  make  it;  and  I  will  grant  this 
much  to  Eugenius,  that  perhaps  one  of  their 
poets,  had  he  lived  in  our  age, 

Siforet  hoc  nostrum  fato  delapsus  in  cevum, 

as  Horace  says  of  Lucilius,  he  had  altered 
many  things;  not  that  they  were  not  natural 
before,  but  that  he  might  accommodate  himself 
to  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  Yet  in  the  mean- 
time we  are  not  to  conclude  anything  rashly 
against  those  great  men,  but  preserve  to  them 
the  dignity  of  masters,  and  give  that  honour 
to  their  memories,  —  quos  Libitina  sacravit,^ 
—  part  of  which  we  expect  may  be  paid  to  us 
in  future  times. 

This  moderation  of  Crites,  as  it  was  pleasing 
to  all  the  company,  so  it  put  an  end  to  that  dis- 
pute; which  Eugenius,  who  seemed  to  have 
the  better  of  the  argument,  would  urge  no 
farther.  But  Lisideius,  after  he  had  acknow- 
ledged himself  of  Eugenius  his  opinion  concern- 
ing the  ancients,  yet  told  him,  he  had  forborne, 
till  his  discourse  were  ended,  to  ask  him,  why 
he  preferred  the  English  plays  above  those  of 
other  nations?  and  whether  we  ought  not  to 
submit  our  stage  to  the  exactness  of  our  next 
neighbours? 

Though,  said  Eugenius,  I  am  at  all  times 
ready  to  defend  the  honour  of  my  country 
against  the  French,  and  to  maintain,  we  are  as 
well  able  to  vanquish  them  with  our  pens,  as 
our  ancestors  have  been  with  their  swords; 
yet,  if  you  please,  added  he,  looking  upon  Ne- 
ander,  I  will  commit  this  cause  to  my  friend's 
management;  his  opinion  of  our  plays  is  the 
same  with  mine :  and  besides,  there  is  no  reason, 
that  Crites  and  I,  who  have  now  left  the  stage' 
should  reenter  so  suddenly  upon  it;  which  is 
against  the  laws  of  comedy. 

If  the  question  had  been  stated,  replied 
Lisideius,  who  had  writ  best,  the  French  or 
English,  forty  years  ago,  I  should  have  been 
of  your  opinion,  and  adjudged  the  honour  to 
our  own  nation ;   but  since  that  time,  (said  he, 

'  I  am  pious  ^neas,  known  by  fame  beyond  the  sky. 
^  Whom  Death  has  made  sacred. 


turning  towards  Neander,)  we  have  been  so 
long  together  bad  Englishmen,  that  we  had  not 
leisure  to  be  good  poets.     Beaumont,  Fletcher, 
and  Jonson,  (who  were  only  capable  of  bringing 
us  to  that  degree  of  perfection  which  we  have,) 
were  just  then  leaving  the  world;    as  if  in  an 
age  of  so  much  horror,  wit,  and  those  milder 
studies  of  humanity,  had  no  farther  business 
among  us.     But  the  muses,  who  ever  follow 
peace,  went  to  plant  in  another  country:    it 
was  then  that  the  great  Cardinal  of  Richelieu 
began  to  take  them  into  his  protection;    and 
that,  by  his  encouragement,  Corneille,  and  some 
other  Frenchmen,  reformed  their  theatre,  which 
before  was  as  much  below  ours,  as  it  now  sur- 
passes it  and  the  rest  of  Europe.     But  because 
Crites,  in  his  discourse  for  the  ancients,  has 
prevented  me,  by  observing  many  rules  of  the 
stage,  which  the  moderns  have  borrowed  from 
them,  I  shall  only,  in  short,  demand  of  you, 
whether    you    are    not    convinced  that  of    all 
nations  the  French  have  observed  them  ?     In 
the  unity  of  time  you  find  them  so  scrupulous, 
that  it  yet  remains  a  dispute  among  their  poets, 
whether  the  artificial  day  of  twelve  hours,  more 
or  less,  be  not  meant  by  Aristotle,  rather  than 
the  natural  one  of  twenty-four;    and  conse- 
quently,  whether  all   plays  ought   not   to   be 
reduced  into  that  compass.     This  I  can  testify, 
that  in  all  their  dramas  writ  within  these  last 
twenty  years  and  upwards,  I  have  not  observed 
any   that    have   extended    the    time    to   thirty 
hours.     In  the  unity  of  place  they  are  full  as 
scrupulous;    for  many  of  their  critics  limit  it 
to  that  very  spot  of  ground  where  the  play  is 
supposed  to  begin;  none  of  them  exceed  the 
compass  of  the  same  town  or  city. 

The  unity  of  action  in  all  their  plays  is  yet 
more  conspicuous;  for  they  do  not  burden  them 
with  under-plots,  as  the  English  do:  which 
is  the  reason  why  many  scenes  of  our  tragi- 
comedies carry  on  a  design  that  is  nothing  of 
kin  to  the  main  plot;  and  that  we  see  two  dis- 
tinct webs  in  a  play,  like  those  in  ill-wrought 
stuffs;  and  two  actions,  that  is,  two  plays, 
carried  on  together,  to  the  confounding  of  the 
audience;  who,  before  they  are  warm  in  their 
concernments  for  one  part,  are  diverted  to 
another;  and  by  that  means  espouse  the  interest 
of  neither.  From  hence  likewise  it  arises,  that 
the  one  half  of  our  actors  are  not  known  to  the 
other.  They  keep  their  distances,  as  if  they 
were  Montagues  and  Capulets,  and  seldom 
begin  an  acquaintance  till  the  last  scene  of  the 
fifth  act,  when  they  are  all  to  meet  upon  the 
stage.     There  is  no  theatre  in  the  world  has 


AN   ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


155 


anything  so  absurd  as  the  English  tragi- 
comedy; it  is  a  drama  of  our  own  invention, 
and  the  fashion  of  it  is  enough  to  proclaim  it 
so;  here  a  course  of  mirth, 'there  another  of 
sadness  and  passion,  and  a  third  of  honour 
and  a  duel:  thus,  in  two  hours  and  a  half  we 
run  through  all  the  tits  of  Bedlam.  The  French 
affords  you  as  much  variety  on  the  same  day, 
but  they  do  it  not  so  unseasonai^ly,  or  mal  a 
propos,  as  we :  our  poets  present  you  the  play 
and  the  farce  together;  and  our  stages  still 
retain  somewhat  of  the  original  civility  of  the 
Red  Bull: 

Atque  ursiim  el  pugiles  media  inter  carmina  poscunt.^ 

The  end  of  tragedies  or  serious  plays,  says 
Aristotle,  is  to  beget  admiration,  compassion, 
or  concernment;  but  are  not  mirth  and  com- 
passion things  incompatible?  and  is  it  not  evi- 
dent, that  the  poet  must  of  necessity  destroy 
the  former  by  intermingling  of  the  latter?  that 
is,  he  must  ruin  the  sole  end  and  object  of  his 
tragedy,  to  introduce  somewhat  that  is  forced 
into  it,  and  is  not  of  the  body  of  it.  Would 
you  not  think  that  physician  mad,  who,  having 
prescribed  a  purge,  should  immediately  order 
you  to  take  restringents? 

But  to  leave  our  plays,  and  return  to  theirs. 
I  have  noted  one  great  advantage  they  have 
had  in  the  plotting  of  their  tragedies;  that  is, 
they  are  always  grounded  upon  some  known 
history:  according  to  that  of  Horace,  i!;.^  nolo 
fictum  carmen  sequar;^  and  in  that  they  have 
so  imitated  the  ancients,  that  they  have  sur- 
passed them.  For  the  ancients,  as  was  observed 
before,  took  for  the  foundation  of  their  plays 
some  poetical  fiction,  such  as  under  that  con- 
sideration could  move  but  little  concernment 
in  the  audience,  because  they  already  knew 
the  event  of  it.     But  the  French  goes  farther: 

Atque  ita  meniitur,  sic  veris  falsa  remiscct. 
Prima  ne  medium,  medio  ne  discrepet  imum.^ 

He  so  interweaves  truth  with  probable  fiction, 
that  he  puts  a  pleasing  fallacy  upon  us,  mends 
the  intrigues  of  fate,  and  dispenses  with  the 
severity  of  history,  to  reward  that  virtue  which 
has  been  rendered  to  us  there  unfortunate. 
Sometimes  the  story  has  left  the  success  so 

1  And  in  the  midst  of  the  poems  they  call  for  the 
bears  and  the  bo.xers.  ^  On  a  known  fact  I  base  a 
feigned  song.  ^  He  so  mi.xes  false  with  true  that  the 
middle  may  not  disagree  with  the  beginning  nor  the 
end  with  the  middle. 


doubtful,  that  the  writer  is  free,  by  the  privi- 
lege of  a  poet,  to  take  that  which  of  two  or  more 
relations  will  best  suit  with  his  design:    as  for 
example,  in  the  death  of  Cyrus,  whom  Justin 
and  some  others  report  to  have  perished  in  the 
Cythian  war,  but  Xenophon    affirms  to  have 
died   in    his   bed   of   extreme    old    age.     Nay 
more,  when  the  event  is  past  dispute,  even  then 
we  are  willing  to  be  deceived,  and  the  poet,  if 
he  contrives  it  with  appearance  of  truth,  has 
all  the  audience  of  his  party;    at  least  during 
the  time  his  play  is  acting:  so  naturally  we  are 
kind  to  virtue,  when  our  own  interest  is  not  in 
question,  that  we  take  it   up  as  the  general 
concernment  of  mankind.     On  the  other  side, 
if  you  consider  the  historical    plays  of  Shake- 
speare, they  are  rather  so  many  chronicles  of 
kings,  or  the  business  many  times  of  thirty  or 
forty  years,  cramped  into  a  representation  of 
two  hours  and  a  half;   w^hich  is  not  to  imitate 
or  paint   nature,   but   rather  to   draw  her  in 
miniature,  to  take  her  in  little ;  to  look  upon  her 
through  the  wrong  end  of  a  perspective,  and 
receive  her  images   not  only  much   less,   but 
infinitely  more  imperfect  than  the  life:    this, 
instead  of  making  a  play  delightful,  renders  it 
ridiculous : 

Quodcumque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi.^ 

For  the  spirit  of  man  cannot  be  satisfied  but 
with  truth,  or  at  least  verisimilitv;  and  a  jioem 
is  to  contain,  if  not  ra  ervfjui,  yet  irvixoiaiv  bfiola, 
as  one  of  the  Greek  poets  has  expressed  it. 

Another  thing  in  which  the  French  differ 
from  us  and  from  the  Spaniards,  is,  that  they 
do  not  eml)arrass,  or  cumber  themselves  with 
too  much  plot ;  they  only  represent  so  much  of 
a  story  as  will  constitute  one  w^hole  and  great 
action  sufficient  for  a  play:  we,  who  undertake 
more,  do  but  multiply  adventures;  which,  not 
being  produced  from  one  another,  as  effects 
from"  causes,  but  barely  following,  constitute 
many  actions  in  the  drama,  and  consequently 
make  it  many  plavs. 

But  by  pursuing  closely  one  argument, 
which  is  not  cloyed  with  many  turns,  the  French 
have  gained  more  liberty  for  verse,  in  which 
they  write:  they  have  leisure  to  dwell  on  a 
subject  which  deserves  it;  and  to  represent  the 
passions,  (which  we  have  acknowledged  to  be 
the  poet's  work,)  without  being  hurried  from 
one  thing  to  another,  as  we  arc  in  the  plays  of 
Calderon,  which  we  have  seen  lately  upon  our 
theatres,  under  the  name  of  Spanish  plots.     I 

'  Whatever  you  show  me  thus,  I  disbelieve  and  hate. 


156 


JOHN   DRYDEN 


liave  taken  notice  but  of  one  tragedy  of  ours, 
whose  plot  has  that  uniformity  and  unity  of 
design  in  it,  which  I  have  commended  in  the 
French;  and  that  is  "Rollo,"  or  rather,  under 
the  name  of  Rollo,  the  story  of  Bassianus  and 
Geta  in  Herodian:  there  indeed  the  plot  is 
neither  large  nor  intricate,  but  just  enough  to 
fill  the  minds  of  the  audience,  not  to  cloy  them. 
Besides,  you  see  it  founded  upon  the  truth  of 
history,  —  only  the  time  of  the  action  is  not 
reduceable  to  the  strictness  of  the  rules;  and 
you  see  in  some  places  a  little  farce  mingled, 
which  is  below  the  dignity  of  the  other  parts; 
and  in  this  all  our  poets  are  extremely  peccant: 
even  Ben  Jonson  himself,  in  "Sejanus"  and 
"Catiline,"  has  given  us  this  olio  of  a  play, 
this  unnatural  mixture  of  comedy  and  tragedy, 
which  to  me  sounds  just  as  ridiculously  as  the 
history  of  David  with  the  merry  humours  of 
Goliah.  In  "Sejanus"  you  may  take  notice 
of  the  scene  betwixt  Livia  and  the  physician, 
which  is  a  pleasant  satire  upon  the  artificial 
helps  of  beauty:  in  "Catiline"  you  may  see 
the  parliament  of  women;  the  Httle  envies  of 
them  to  one  another;  and  all  that  passes 
betwixt  Curio  and  Fulvia:  scenes  admirable  in 
their  kind,  but  of  an  ill  mingle  with  the  rest. 

But  I  return  again  to  the  French  writers,  who, 
as  I  have  said,  do  not  burden  themselves  too 
much  with  plot,  which  has  been  reproached  to 
them  by  an  ingenious  person  of  our  nation  as 
a  fault ;  for  he  says,  they  commonly  make  but 
one  person  considerable  in  a  play;  they  dwell 
on  him,  and  his  concernments,  while  the  rest 
of  the  persons  are  only  subservient  to  set  him 
off.  If  he  intends  this  by  it,  —  that  there  is 
one  person  in  the  play  who  is  of  greater  dignity 
than  the  rest,  he  must  tax,  not  only  theirs,  but 
those  of  the  ancients,  and,  which  he  would  be 
loth  to  do,  the  best  of  ours ;  for  it  is  impossible 
but  that  one  person  must  be  more  conspicuous 
in  it  than  any  other,  and  consequently  the  great- 
est share  in  the  action  must  devolve  on  him. 
We  see  it  so  in  the  management  of  all  affairs; 
even  in  the  most  equal  aristocracy,  the  balance 
cannot  be  so  justly  poised,  but  some  one  will 
be  superior  to  the  rest,  either  in  parts,  fortune, 
interest,  or  the  consideration  of  some  glorious 
exploit ;  which  will  reduce  the  greatest  part  of 
business  into  his  hands. 

But,  if  he  would  have  us  to  imagine,  that  in 
exalting  one  character  the  rest  of  them  are 
neglected,  and  that  all  of  them  have  not  some 
share  or  other  in  the  action  of  the  play,  I  desire 
him  to  produce  any  of  Corneille's  tragedies, 
wherein  every  person  (like  so  many  servants 


in  a  well-governed  family)  has  not  some  em-, 
ployment,  and  who  is  not  necessary  to  the  car- 
rying on  of  the  plot,  or  at  least  to  your  under- 
standing it. 

There  are  indeed  some  protatic  persons  in 
the  ancients,  whom  they  make  use  of  in  their 
plays,  either  to  hear,  or  give  the  relation :  but 
the  French  avoid  this  with  great  address, 
making  their  narrations  only  to,  or  by  such, 
who  are  some  way  interested  in  the  main  design. 
And  now  I  am  speaking  of  relations,  I  cannot 
take  a  fitter  opportunity  to  add  this  in  favour 
of  the  French,  that  they  often  use  them  with 
better  judgment  and  more  a  propos  than''  the 
English  do.  Not  that  I  commend  narrations 
in  general,  —  but  there  are  two  sorts  of  them ; 
one,  of  those  things  which  are  antecedent  to 
the  play,  and  are  related  to  make  the  conduct 
of  it  more  clear  to  us ;  but  it  is  a  fault  to  choose 
such  subjects  for  the  stage  as  will  force  us  on 
that  rock,  because  we  see  they  are  seldom  lis- 
tened to  by  the  audience,  and  that  is  many  times 
the  ruin  of  the  play;  for,  being  once  let  pass 
without  attention,  the  audience  can  never 
recover  themselves  to  understand  the  plot; 
and  indeed  it  is  somewhat  unreasonable,  that 
they  should  be  put  to  so  much  trouble,  as,  that 
to  comprehend  what  passes  in  their  sight,  they 
must  have  recourse  to  what  was  done,  perhaps, 
ten  or  twenty  years  ago. 

But  there  is  another  sort  of  relations,  that  is, 
of  things  happening  in  the  action  of  the  play, 
and  supposed  to  be  done  behind  the  scenes; 
and  this  is  many  times  both  convenient  and 
beautiful:  for,  by  it  the  French  avoid  the 
tumult  to  which  we  are  subject  in  England, 
by  representing  duels,  battles,  and  the  like; 
which  renders  our  stage  too  like  the  theatres 
where  they  fight  prizes.  For  what  is  more 
ridiculous  than  to  represent  an  army  with  a 
drum  and  five  men  behind  it;  all  which,  the 
hero  of  the  other  side  is  to  drive  in  before  him  ? 
or  to  see  a  duel  fought,  and  one  slain  with  two 
or  three  thrusts  of  the  foils,  which  we  know  are 
so  blunted,  that  we  might  give  a  man  an  hour 
to  kill  another  in  good  earnest  with  them  ? 

I  have  observed,  that  in  all  our  tragedies  the 
audience  cannot  forbear  laughing  when  the 
actors  are  to  die;  it  is  the  most  comic  part 
of  the  whole  play.  All  passions  may  be  lively 
represented  on  the  stage,  if  to  the  well-writing 
of  them  the  actor  supplies  a  good  commanded 
voice,  and  limbs  that  move  easily,  and  without 
stiffness;  but  there  are  many  actions  which 
can  never  be  imitated  to  a  just  height:  dying 
especially  is  a  thing  which  none  but  a  Roman 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


157 


gladiator  could  naturally  perform  on  the  stage, 
when  he  did  not  imitate,  or  represent,  but  do 
it;  and  therefore  it  is  better  to  omit  the  repre- 
sentation of  it. 

The  words  of  a  good  writer,  which  describe 
it  lively,  will  make  a  deeper  impression  of  belief 
in  us,  than  all  the  actor  can  insinuate  into  us, 
when  he  seems  to  fall  dead  before  us;  as  a 
poet  in  the  description  of  a  beautiful  garden, 
or  a  meadow,  will  please  our  imagination  more 
than  the  place  itself  can  please  our  sight.  When 
we  see  death  represented,  we  are  convinced 
it  is  but  fiction ;  but  when  we  hear  it  related, 
our  eyes  (the  strongest  witnesses)  are  wanting, 
which  might  have  undeceived  us;  and  we  are 
all  willing  to  favour  the  slight  when  the  poet 
does  not  too  grossly  impose  on  us.  They, 
therefore,  who  imagine  these  relations  would 
make  no  concernment  in  the  audience,  are 
deceived,  by  confounding  them  with  the  other, 
which  are  of  things  antecedent  to  the  play: 
those  are  made  often  in  cold  blood,  as  I  may 
say,  to  the  audience;  but  these  are  warmed 
with  our  concernments,  which  were  before 
awakened  in  the  play.  What  the  philosophers 
say  of  motion,  that,  when  it  is  once  begun,  it 
continues  of  itself,  and  will  do  so  to  eternity, 
without  some  stop  put  to  it,  is  clearly  true  on 
this  occasion:  the  soul,  being  already  moved 
with  the  characters  and  fortunes  of  those  im- 
aginary persons,  continues  going  of  its  own 
accord ;  and  we  are  no  more  weary  to  hear  what 
becomes  of  them  when  they  are  not  on  the  stage, 
than  we  are  to  listen  to  the  news  of  an  absent 
mistress.  But  it  is  objected,  that  if  one  part 
of  the  play  may  be  related,  then  why  not  all? 
I  answer,  some  parts  of  the  action  are  more  fit 
to  be  represented,  some  to  be  related.  Cor- 
neille  says  judiciously,  that  the  poet  is  not 
obliged  to  expose  to  view  all  particular  actions 
which  conduce  to  the  principal :  he  ought  to 
select  such  of  them  to  be  seen,  which  will 
appear  with  the  greatest  beauty,  either  by  the 
magnificence  of  the  show,  or  the  vehemence 
of  passions  which  they  produce,  or  some  other 
charm  which  they  have  in  them,  and  let  the 
rest  arrive  to  the  audience  by  narration.  It 
is  a  great  mistake  in  us  to  believe  the  French 
present  no  part  of  the  action  on  the  stage: 
every  alteration  or  crossing  of  a  design,  every 
new-sprung  passion,  and  turn  of  it,  is  a  part  of 
the  action,  and  much  the  noblest,  except  we 
conceive  nothing  to  be  action  till  the  players 
come  to  blows;  as  if  the  painting  of  the  hero's 
mind  were  not  more  properly  the  poet's  work, 
than  the  strength  of  his  body. 


******* 
But  I  find  I  have  been  too  long  in  this  dis- 
course, since  the  French  have  many  other 
excellencies  not  common  to  us;  as  that  you 
never  see  any  of  their  plays  end  with  a  con- 
version, or  simple  change  of  will,  which  is 
the  ordinary  way  which  our  poets  use  to  end 
theirs.  It  shows  little  art  in  the  conclusion  of 
a  dramatic  poem,  when  they  who  have  hindered 
the  felicity  during  the  four  acts,  desist  from  it 
in  the  fifth,  without  some  powerful  cause  to 
take  them  off  their  design ;  and  though  I  deny 
not  but  such  reasons  may  be  found,  yet  it  is  a 
path  that  is  cautiously  to  be  trod,  and  the  poet 
is  to  be  sure  he  convinces  the  audience,  that  the 
motive  is  strong  enough.  As  for  example,  the 
conversion  of  the  Usurer  in  "The  Scornful 
Lady,"  seems  to  me  a  little  forced;  for,  being 
an  usurer,  which  implies  a  lover  of  money  to 
the  highest  degree  of  covctousness,  (and  such 
the  poet  has  represented  him,)  the  account  he 
gives  for  the  sudden  change  is,  that  he  has 
been  duped  by  the  wild  young  fellow ;  which  in 
reason  might  render  him  more  wary  another 
time,  and  make  him  punish  himself  with  harder 
fare  and  coarser  clothes  to  get  up  again  what 
he  had  lost:  but  that  he  should  look  on  it  as  a 
judgment,  and  so  repent,  we  may  expect  to 
hear  in  a  sermon,  but  I  should  never  endure  it 
in  a  play. 

I  pass  by  this;  neither  will  I  insist  on  the 
care  they  take,  that  no  person  after  his  first 
entrance  shall  ever  appear,  but  the  business 
which  brings  him  upon  the  stage  shall  be 
evident;  which  rule,  if  observed,  must  needs 
render  all  the  events  in  the  play  more  natural; 
for  there  you  see  the  probability  of  every  acci- 
dent, in  the  cause  that  produced  it;  and  that 
which  appears  chance  in  the  play,  will  seem 
so  reasonable  to  you,  that  you  will  there  find 
it  almost  necessary:  so  that  in  the  exit  of  the 
actor  you  have  a  clear  account  of  his  purpose 
and  design  in  the  next  entrance;  (though,  if 
the  scene  be  well  wrought,  the  event  will  com- 
monly deceive  you;)  for  there  is  nothing  so 
absurd,  says  Corneille,  as  for  an  actor  to  leave 
the  stage,  only  because  he  has  no  more  to  say. 
I  should  now  speak  of  the  beauty  of  their 
rhyme,  and  the  just  reason  I  have  to  prefer 
that  way  of  writing  in  tragedies  before  ours  in 
blank-verse ;  but  because  it  is  partly  received 
by  us,  and  therefore  not  altogether  peculiar  to 
them,  I  will  say  no  more  of  it  in  relation  to 
their  plays.  For  our  own,  I  doubt  not  but  it 
will  exceedingly  beautify  them  ;  and  I  can  see 
but   one   reason  why  it  should  not  generally 


158 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


obtain,  that  is,  because  our  poets  write  so 
ill  in  it.  This  indeed  may  prove  a  more 
prevailing  argument  than  all  others  which 
are  used  to  destroy  it,  and  therefore  I  am 
only  troubled  when  great  and  judicious  poets, 
and  those  who  are  acknowledged  such,  have 
writ  or  spoke  against  it  :  as  for  others, 
they  are  to  be  answered  by  that  one  sen- 
tence of  an  ancient  author:  Sed  ut  pHmo 
ad  consequendos  eos  quos  priorcs  ducimus,^ 
accendimur,  ita  ubi  aut  praeteriri,  aut  acquari 
eos  posse  desperavimus,  studium  cum  spe 
senescit:  quod,  scilicet,  assequi  nan  potest, 
sequi  dcsinit;  —  praeteritoque  eo  in  quo  enii- 
nere  non  possumus,  aliquid  in  quo  nitamur, 
conquirinius} 

Lisideius  concluded  in  this  manner;  and 
Neander,  after  a  little  pause,  thus  answered 
him: 

I  shall  grant  Lisideius,  without  much  dis- 
pute, a  great  part  of  what  he  has  urged  against 
us;  for  I  acknowledge,  that  the  French  con- 
trive their  plots  more  regularly,  and  observe 
the  laws  of  comedy,  and  decorum  of  the  stage, 
(to  speak  generally,)  with  more  exactness  than 
the  English.  Farther,  I  deny  not  but  he  has 
taxed  us  justly  in  some  irregularities  of  ours, 
which  he  has  mentioned;  yet,  after  all,  I  am 
of  opinion,  that  neither  our  faults,  nor  their 
virtues,  are  considerable  enough  to  place  them 
above  us. 

For  the  lively  imitation  of  nature  being  in  the 
definition  of  a  play,  those  which  best  fulfil  that 
law,  ought  to  be  esteemed  superior  to  the  others. 
'Tis  true,  those  beauties  of  the  French  poesy 
are  such  as  will  raise  perfection  higher  where 
it  is,  but  are  not  sufficient  to  give  it  where  it  is 
not:  they  are  indeed  the  beauties  of  a  statue, 
but  not  of  a  man,  because  not  animated  with 
the  soul  of  poesy,  which  is  imitation  of  humour 
and  passions:  and  this  Lisideius  himself,  or 
any  other,  however  biassed  to  their  party,  can- 
not but  acknowledge,  if  he  will  either  compare 
the  humours  of  our  comedies,  or  the  characters 
of  our  serious  plays,  with  theirs.  He  who  will 
look  upon  theirs  which  have  been  written  till 
these  last  ten  years,  or  thereabouts,  will  find 
it  an  hard  matter  to  pick  out  two  or  three  pass- 
able humours  amongst  them.     Corneille  him- 

1  But  as  at  first  we  are  incited  to  follow  those  whom 
we  regard  as  superior,  so  when  we  have  despaired 
of  being  able  either  to  surpass  or  to  equal  them,  zeal 
weakens  as  hope  does:  what,  forsooth,  cannot  be 
overtaken  is  not  pursued; — and  abandoning  that  in 
which  we  cannot  excel,  we  seek  something  in  which 
we  may  contend. 


self,  their  arch-poet,  what  has  he  produced 
except  "The  Liar,"  and  you  know  how  it  was 
cried  up  in  France ;  but  when  it  came  upon  the 
English  stage,  though  well  translated,  and  that 
part  of  Dorant  acted  to  so  much  advantage 
as  I  am  confident  it  never  received  in  its  own 
country,  the  most  favourable  to  it  would  not 
put  it  in  competition  with  many  of  Fletcher's 
or  Ben  Jonson's.  In  the  rest  of  Corneille's 
comedies  you  have  little  humour;  he  tells  you 
himself,  his  way  is,  first  to  show  two  lovers  in 
good  intelligence  with  each  other;  in  the  work- 
ing up  of  the  play,  to  embroil  them  by  some 
mistake,  and  in  the  latter  end  to  clear  it,  and 
reconcile  them. 

But  of  late  years  Moliere,  the  younger  Cor- 
neille, Quinault,  and  some  others,  have  been 
imitating  afar  off  the  quick  turns  and  graces 
of  the  English  stage.  They  have  mixed  their 
serious  plays  with  mirth,  like  our  tragi-come- 
dies,  since  the  death  of  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
which  Lisideius,  and  many  others,  not  observ- 
ing, have  commended  that  in  them  for  a  virtue, 
which  they  themselves  no  longer  practise. 
Most  of  their  new  plays  are,  like  some  of  ours, 
derived  from  the  Spanish  novels.  There  is 
scarce  one  of  them  without  a  veil,  and  a  trusty 
Diego,  who  drolls  much  after  the  rate  of  the 
"Adventures."  But  their  humours,  if  I  may 
grace  them  with  that  name,  are  so  thin  sown, 
that  never  above  one  of  them  comes  up  in  any 
play.  I  dare  take  upon  me  to  find  more 
variety  of  them  in  some  one  play  of  Ben  Jon- 
son's, than  in  all  theirs  together:  as  he  who  has 
seen  the  "Alchemist,"  "The  Silent  Woman," 
or  "Bartholomew  Fair,"  cannot  but  acknow- 
ledge with  me. 

I  grant  the  French  have  performed  what 
was  possible  on  the  ground-work  of  the  Span- 
ish plays ;  what  was  pleasant  before,  they  have 
made  regular:  but  there  is  not  above  one  good 
play  to  be  writ  on  all  those  plots ;  they  are  too 
much  alike  to  please  often,  which  we  need  not 
the  experience  of  our  own  stage  to  justify. 
As  for  their  new  way  of  mingling  mirth  with 
serious  plot,  I  do  not,  with  Lisideius,  condemn 
the  thing,  though  I  cannot  approve  their  man- 
ner of  doing  it.  He  tells  us,  we  cannot  so  speed- 
ily recollect  ourselves  after  a  scene  of  great  pas- 
sion and  concernment,  as  to  pass  to  another 
of  mirth  and  humour,  and  to  enjoy  it  with 
any  relish :  but  why  should  he  imagine  the  soul 
of  man  more  heavy  than  his  senses?  Does 
not  the  eye  pass  from  an  unpleasant  object  to  a 
pleasant,  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  is  required 
to  this  ?  and  does  not  the  unpleasantness  of  the 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


159 


first  commend  the  beauty  of  the  latter?  The 
old  rule  of  logic  might  have  convinced  him, 
that  contraries,  when  placed  near,  set  off  each 
other.  A  continued  gravity  keeps  the  spirit 
too  much  bent;  we  must  refresh  it  sometimes, 
as  we  bait  in  a  journey,  that  we  may  go  on  with 
greater  ease.  A  scene  of  mirth,  mixed  with 
tragedy,  has  the  same  effect  upon  us  which 
our  music  has  betwixt  the  acts;  which  we  find 
a  relief  to  us  from  the  best  plots  and  language 
of  the  stage,  if  the  discourses  have  been  long. 
I  must  therefore  have  stronger  arguments,  ere 
I  am  convinced  that  compassion  and  mirth  in 
the  same  subject  destroy  each  other;  and  in 
the  meantime,  cannot  but  conclude,  to  the 
honour  of  our  nation,  that  we  have  invented, 
increased,  and  perfected,  a  more  pleasant  way 
of  writing  for  the  stage,  than  was  ever  known 
to  the  ancients  or  moderns  of  any  nation,  which 
is  tragi-comedy. 

And  this  leads  me  to  wonder  why  Lisideius 
and  many  others  should  cry  up  the  barrenness 
of  the  French  plots,  above  the  variety  and 
copiousness  of  the  English.  Their  plots  are  sin- 
gle, they  carry  on  one  design,  which  is  pushed 
forward  by  all  the  actors,  every  scene  in  the 
play  contributing  and  moving  towards  it. 
Our  plays,  besides  the  main  design,  have  under- 
plots, or  by-concernments,  of  less  considerable 
persons  and  intrigues,  which  are  carried  on 
with  the  motion  of  the  main  plot:  as  they  say 
the  orb  of  the  fixed  stars,  and  those  of  the 
planets,  though  they  have  motions  of  their  own, 
are  whirled  about  by  the  motion  of  the  primiim 
mobile,  in  which  they  are  contained.  That 
similitude  expresses  much  of  the  English  stage ; 
for  if  contrary  motions  may  be  found  in  nature 
to  agree;  if  a  planet  can  go  east  and  west  at 
the  same  time;  —  one  way  by  virtue  of  his  own 
motion,  the  other  by  the  force  of  the  first 
mover;  —  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  imagine 
how  the  under-plot,  which  is  only  different,  not 
contrary  to  the  great  design,  may  naturally  be 
conducted  along  with  it. 

Eugenius  has  already  shown  us,  from  the 
confession  of  the  French  poets,  that  the 
unity  of  action  is  sufficiently  preserved,  if 
all  the  imperfect  actions  of  the  play  are 
conducing  to  the  main  design;  but  when 
those  petty  intrigues  of  a  play  are  so  ill 
ordered,  that  they  have  no  coherence  with 
the  other,  I  must  grant  that  Lisideius  has 
reason  to  tax  that  want  of  due  connec- 
tion; for  coordination  in  a  play  is  as  dan- 
gerous and  unnatural  as  in  a  state.  In  the 
meantime  he  must  acknowledge,  our  variety, 


if  well  ordered,  will  afford  a  greater  pleasure 
to  the  audience. 

As  for  his  other  argument,  that  by  pursuing 
one  single  theme  they  gain  an  advantage  to 
express  and  work  up  the  passions,  I  wish  any 
example  he  could  bring  from  them  would  make 
it  good;  for  I  confess  their  verses  are  to  me  the 
coldest  I  have  ever  read.  Neither,  indeed,  is 
it  possible  for  them,  in  the  way  they  take,  so 
to  express  passion,  as  that  the  effects  of  it 
should  appear  in  the  concernment  of  an 
audience,  their  speeches  being  so  many  decla- 
mations, which  tire  us  with  the  length ;  so  that 
instead  of  persuading  us  to  grieve  for  their 
imaginary  heroes,  we  are  concerned  for  our 
own  trouble,  as  we  are  in  tedious  visits  of  bad 
company;  we  are  in  pain  till  they  are  gone. 
When  the  French  stage  came  to  be  reformed 
by  Cardinal  Richelieu,  those  long  harangues 
were  introduced,  to  comply  with  the  gravity 
of  a  churchman.  Look  upon  the  "Cinna" 
and  the  "Pompey";  they  are  not  so  properly 
to  be  called  plays,  as  long  discourses  of  reason 
of  state ;  and  "  Polieucte  "  in  matters  of  religion 
is  as  solemn  as  the  long  stops  upon  our  organs. 
Since  that  time  it  is  grown  into  a  custom,  and 
their  actors  speak  by  the  hour-glass,  like  our 
parsons;  nay,  they  account  it  the  grace  of 
their  parts,  and  think  themselves  disparaged 
by  the  poet,  if  they  may  not  twice  or  thrice  in 
a  play  entertain  the  audience  wdth  a  speech 
of  an  hundred  lines.  I  deny  not  but  this  may 
suit  well  enough  with  the  French;  for  as  we, 
who  are  a  more  sullen  people,  come  to  be 
diverted  at  our  plays,  so  they,  who  are  of  an 
airy  and  gay  temper,  come  thither  to  make 
themselves  more  serious:  and  this  I  conceive 
to  be  one  reason,  w^hy  comedies  are  more  pleas- 
ing to  us,  and  tragedies  to  them.  But  to  speak 
generally:  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  short 
speeches  and  replies  are  more  apt  to  move  the 
passions,  and  beget  concernment  in  us,  than 
the  other;  for  it  is  unnatural  for  any  one,  in 
a  gust  of  passion,  to  speak  long  together;  or 
for  another,  in  the  same  condition,  to  suffer 
him  without  interruption.  Grief  and  passion 
are  like  floods  raised  in  little  brooks  by  a  sudden 
rain ;  they  are  quickly  up,  and  if  the  concern- 
ment be  poured  unexpectedly  in  upon  us,  it 
overflows  us:  But  a  long  sober  shower  gives 
them  leisure  to  run  out  as  they  came  in,  without 
troubling  the  ordinary  current.  As  for  comedy, 
repartee  is  one  of  its  chiefest  graces;  the  great- 
est pleasure  of  the  audience  is  a  chace  of  wit, 
kept  up  on  both  sides,  and  swiftly  managed. 
And  this  our  forefathers,  if  not  we,  have  had 


i6o 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


in  Fletcher's  plays,  to  a  much  higher  degree  of 
perfection,  than  the  French  poets  can  reason- 
ably hope  to  reach. 

******* 
But  to  leave  this,  and  pass  to  the  latter  part 
of  Lisideius's  discourse,  which  concerns  rela- 
tions, I  must  acknowledge  with  him,  that  the 
French  have  reason  to  hide  that  part  of  the 
action  which  would  occasion  too  much  tumult 
on  the  stage,  and  to  choose  rather  to  have  it 
made  known  by  narration  to  the  audience. 
Farther,  I  think  it  very  convenient,  for  the 
reasons  he  has  given,  that  all  incredible  actions 
were  removed;  but,  whether  custom  has  so 
insinuated  itself  into  our  countrymen  or  nature 
has  so  formed  them  to  fierceness,  I  know  not ; 
but  they  will  scarcely  suffer  combats  and  other 
objects  of  horror  to  be  taken  from  them.  And, 
indeed,  the  indecency  of  tumults  is  all  which 
can  be  objected  against  fighting:  for  why  may 
not  our  imagination  as  well  suffer  itself  to  be 
deluded  with  the  probability  of  it,  as  with 
any  other  thing  in  the  play?  For  my  part, 
I  can  with  as  great  ease  persuade  myself,  that 
the  blows  are  given  in  good  earnest,  as  I  can, 
that  they  who  strike  them  are  kings  or  princes, 
or  those  persons  which  they  represent.  For 
objects  of  incredibility,  —  I  would  be  satisfied 
from  Lisideius,  whether  we  have  any  so  re- 
moved from  all  appearance  of  truth,  as  are  those 
of  Corneille's  "  Andromede" ;  a  play  which  has 
been  frequented  the  most  of  any  he  has  writ. 
If  the  Perseus,  or  the  son  of  an  heathen  god, 
the  Pegasus,  and  the  Monster,  were  not  capable 
to  choke  a  strong  belief,  let  him  blame  any 
representation  of  ours  hereafter.  Those  indeed 
were  objects  of  delight;  yet  the  reason  is  the 
same  as  to  the  probability ;  for  he  makes  it  not 
a  ballet,  or  masque,  but  a  play,  which  is  to 
resemble  truth.  But  for  death,  that  it  ought 
not  to  be  represented,  I  have,  besides  the  argu- 
ments alleged  by  Lisideius,  the  authority  of 
Ben  Jonson,  who  has  forborne  it  in  his  trage- 
dies; for  both  the  death  of  Sejanus  and  Catiline 
are  related;  though,  in  the  latter,  I  cannot  but 
observe  one  irregularity  of  that  great  poet; 
he  has  removed  the  scene  in  the  same  act,  from 
Rome  to  Catiline's  army,  and  from  thence 
again  to  Rome;  and  besides,  has  allowed  a 
very  considerable  time  after  Catiline's  speech, 
for  the  striking  of  the  battle,  and  the  return 
of  Petreius,  who  is  to  relate  the  event  of  it  to 
the  senate ;  which  I  should  not  animadvert  on 
him,  who  was  otherwise  a  painful  observer  of 
TO  TrpcTTov,  or  the  decorum  of  the  stage,  if  he  had 
not   used  extreme   severity   in   his  judgment 


on  the  incomparable  Shakespeare  for  the  same 
fault.  To  conclude  on  this  subject  of  relations, 
if  we  are  to  be  blamed  for  showing  too  much 
of  the  action,  the  French  are  as  faulty  for  dis- 
covering too  little  of  it;  a  mean  betwixt  both 
should  be  observed  by  every  judicious  writer, 
so  as  the  audience  may  neither  be  left  unsatis- 
fied by  not  seeing  what  is  beautiful,  or  shocked 
by  beholding  what  is  either  incredible  or  un- 
decent. 

I  hope  I  have  already  proved  in  this  discourse, 
that  though  we  are  not  altogether  so  punctual 
as  the  French,  in  observing  the  laws  of  comedy, 
yet  our  errors  are  so  few,  and  little,  and  those 
things  wherein  we  excel  them  so  considerable, 
that  we  ought  of  right  to  be  preferred  before 
them.  But  what  will  Lisideius  say,  if  they 
themselves  acknowledge  they  are  too  strictly 
bounded  by  those  laws,  for  breaking  which 
he  has  blamed  the  English  ?  I  will  allege  Cor- 
neille's words,  as  I  find  them  in  the  end  of  his 
Discourse  of  the  three  Unities:  //  est  facile  aux 
spcciilatifs  d'estre  severes,  etc.  "It  is  easy  for 
speculative  persons  to  judge  severely;  but  if 
they  would  produce  to  public  view  ten  or  twelve 
pieces  of  this  nature,  they  would  perhaps  give 
more  latitude  to  the  rules  than  I  have  done, 
when,  by  experience,  they  had  known  how 
much  we  are  limited  and  constrained  by  them, 
and  how  many  beauties  of  the  stage  they  ban- 
ished from  it."  To  illustrate  a  little  what  he 
has  said :  —  by  their  servile  observations  of  the 
unities  of  time  and  place,  and  integrity  of  scenes, 
they  have  brought  on  themselves  that  dearth 
of  plot,  and  narrowness  of  imagination,  which 
may  be  observed  in  all  their  plays.  How  many 
beautiful  accidents  might  naturally  happen  in 
two  or  three  days,  which  cannot  arrive  with 
any  probability  in  the  compass  of  twenty-four 
hours?  There  is  time  to  be  allowed  also  for 
maturity  of  design,  which  amongst  great  and 
prudent  persons,  such  as  are  often  represented 
in  tragedy,  cannot,  with  any  likelihood  of  truth, 
be  brought  to  pass  at  so  short  a  warning. 
Farther,  by  tying  themselves  strictly  to  the  unity 
of  place,  and  unbroken  scenes,  they  are  forced 
many  times  to  omit  some  beauties  which  cannot 
be  shown  where  the  act  began;  but  might,  if 
the  scene  were  interrupted,  and  the  stage  cleared 
for  the  persons  to  enter  in  another  place ;  and 
therefore  the  French  poets  are  often  forced 
upon  absurdities:  for  if  the  act  begins  in  a 
chamber,  all  the  persons  in  the  play  must  have 
some  business  or  other  to  come  thither,  or  else 
they  are  not  to  be  shown  that  act;  and  some- 
times their  characters  are  very   unfitting   to 


AN    ESSAY    OF    DRAMATIC    POESY 


i6i 


appear  there:  as  suppose  it  were  the  king's 
bed-chamber,  yet  the  meanest  man  in  the  trag- 
edy must  come  and  despatch  his  business  lliere, 
rather  than  in  the  lobby,  or  court-yard,  (which 
is  fitter  for  him,)  for  fear  the  stage  should  be 
cleared,  and  the  scenes  broken.  Many  times 
they  fall  by  it  into  a  greater  inconvenience; 
for  they  keep  their  scenes  unbroken,  and  yet 
change  the  place;  as  in  one  of  their  newest 
plays,  where  the  act  begins  in  the  street.  There 
a  gentleman  is  to  meet  his  friend;  he  sees  him 
with  his  man,  coming  out  from  his  father's 
house;  they  talk  together,  and  the  first  goes 
out:  the  second,  who  is  a  lover,  has  made  an 
appointment  with  his  mistress;  she  appears  at 
the  window,  and  then  we  are  to  imagine  the 
scene  lies  under  it.  This  gentleman  is  called 
away,  and  leaves  his  servant  with  his  mistress: 
presently  her  father  is  heard  from  within;  the 
young  lady  is  afraid  the  serving-man  should 
be  discovered,  and  thrusts  him  into  a  place 
of  safety,  which  is  supposed  to  be  her  closet. 
After  this,  the  father  enters  to  the  daughter, 
and  now  the  scene  is  in  a  house :  for  he  is  seek- 
ing from  one  room  to  another  for  this  poor 
Philipin,  or  French  Diego,  who  is  heard  from 
within,  drolling  and  breaking  many  a  miserable 
conceit  on  the  subject  of  his  sad  condition.  In 
this  ridiculous  manner  the  play  goes  forward, 
the  stage  being  never  empty  all  the  while: 
so  that  the  street,  the  window,  the  two  houses, 
and  the  closet,  are  made  to  walk  about,  and  the 
persons  to  stand  still.  Now,  what,  I  beseech 
you,  is  more  easy  than  to  write  a  regular  French 
play,  or  more  difiicult  than  to  write  an  irregular 
English  one,  like  those  of  Fletcher,  or  of  Shake- 
speare ? 

If  they  content  themselves,  as  Corneille  did, 
with  some  flat  design,  which,  like  an  ill  riddle, 
is  found  out  ere  it  be  half  proposed,  such  plots 
we  can  make  every  way  regular  as  easily  as 
they;  but  whenever  they  endeavour  to  rise  to 
any  quick  turns  and  counter-turns  of  plot,  as 
some  of  them  have  attempted,  since  Corneille's 
plays  have  been  less  in  vogue,  you  see  they 
write  as  irregularly  as  we,  though  they  cover 
it  more  speciously.  Hence  the  reason  is  per- 
spicuous, why  no  French  plays,  when  trans- 
lated, have,  or  ever  can  succeed  on  the  English 
stage.  For,  if  you  consider  the  plots,  our  own 
are  fuller  of  variety;  if  the  writing,  ours  are 
more  quick  and  fuller  of  spirit;  and  therefore 
'tis  a  strange  mistake  in  those  who  decry  the 
way  of  writing  plays  in  verse,  as  if  the  English 
therein  imitated  the  French.  We  have  bor- 
rowed nothing  from  them ;  our  plots  are  weavcd 


in  English  looms:  we  endeavour  therein  to 
follow  the  variety  and  greatness  of  characters, 
which  are  derived  to  us  from  Shakespeare  and 
Fletcher;  the  copiousness  and  well-knitting  of 
the  intrigues  we  have  from  Jonson;  and  for 
the  verse  itself  we  have  English  precedents  of 
elder  date  than  any  of  Corneille's  plays.  Not 
to  name  our  old  comedies  before  Shakespeare, 
which  were  all  writ  in  verse  of  si.x  feet,  or 
Alexandrines,  such  as  the  French  now  use,  — 
I  can  show  in  Shakespeare,  many  scenes  of 
rhyme  together,  and  the  like  in  Ben  Jonson's 
tragedies:  in  "Catiline"  and  "Sejanus"  some- 
times thirty  or  forty  lines,  —  I  mean  besides  the 
chorus,  or  the  monologues;  which,  by  the  way, 
showed  Ben  no  enemy  to  this  way  of  writing, 
especially  if  you  read  his  "Sad  Shepherd," 
which  goes  sometimes  on  rhyme,  sometimes 
on  blank  verse,  like  an  horse  who  eases  himself 
on  trot  and  amble.  You  find  him  likewise 
commending  Fletcher's  pastoral  of  "The 
Faithful  Shepherdess,"  which  is  for  the  most 
part  rhyme,  though  not  refined  to  that  purity 
to  which  it  hath  since  been  brought.  And 
these  examples  are  enough  to  clear  us  from  a 
servile  imitation  of  the  French. 

But  to  return  whence  I  have  digressed:  I 
dare  boldly  affirm  these  two  things  of  the 
English  drama;  —  First,  that  we  have  many 
plays  of  ours  as  regular  as  any  of  theirs,  and 
which,  besides,  have  more  variety  of  plot  and 
characters;  and,  secondly,  that  in  most  of  the 
irregular  plays  of  Shakespeare  or  Fletcher, 
(for  Ben  Jonson's  are  for  the  most  part  regular,) 
there  is  a  more  masculine  fancy,  and  greater 
spirit  in  the  writing,  than  there  is  in  any  of 
the  French.  I  could  produce  even  in  Shake- 
speare's and  Fletcher's  works,  some  plays  which 
are  almost  exactly  formed;  as  the  "Merr}' 
Wives  of  Windsor,"  and  "The  Scomful  Lady"  : 
but,  because  (generally  speaking)  Shakespeare, 
who  writ  first,  did  not  perfectly  observe  the  laws 
of  comedy,  and  Fletcher,  who  came  nearer  to 
perfection,  yet  through  carelessness  made  many 
faults;  I  will  take  the  pattern  of  a  perfect 
play  from  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  a  careful  and 
learned  observer  of  the  dramatic  laws,  and  from 
all  his  comedies  I  shall  select  "The  Silent 
Woman  ;"  of  which  I  will  make  a  short  e.xamen, 
according  to  those  rules  which  the  French 
observe. 

As  Neander  was  beginning  to  examine  "The 
Silent  Woman,"  Eugenius,  earnestly  regarding 
him:  I  beseech  you,  Neander,  said  he,  gratify 
the  company,  and  me  in  particular,  so  fir  as, 
before  you  speak  of  the  play,  to  give  us  a  charac- 


1 62 


JOHN    DRYDEN 


ter  of  the  author;  and  tell  us  frankly  your  opin- 
ion, whether  you  do  not  think  all  writers,  both 
French  and  English,  ought  to  give  place  to  him  ? 

I  fear,  replied  Neander,  that,  in  obeying  your 
commands,  I  shall  draw  some  envy  on  myself. 
Besides,  in  {performing  them,  it  will  be  first 
necessary  to  speak  somewhat  of  Shakespeare 
and  Fletcher,  his  rivals  in  poesy;  and  one  of 
them,  in  my  opinion,  at  least  his  equal,  perhaps 
his  superior. 

To  begin  then  with  Shakespeare.  He  was 
the  man  who  of  all  modem,  and  perhaps  an- 
cient poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  compre- 
hensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were 
still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  labo- 
riously, but  luckily:  when  he  describes  any- 
thing, you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too. 
Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning, 
give  him  the  greater  commendation:  he  was 
naturally  learned ;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles 
of  books  to  read  nature;  he  looked  inwards, 
and  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  every- 
where alike;  were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury 
to  compare  him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind. 
He  is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic  wit 
degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling 
into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great,  when 
some  great  occasion  is  presented  to  him:  no 
man  can  say,  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his 
wit,  and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above 
the  rest  of  poets, 

Quantum  Icnla  solent  inter  vihurna  cupressi.^ 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales 
of  Eton  say,  that  there  was  no  subject  of  which 
any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  produce  it 
much  better  done  in  Shakespeare;  and  how- 
ever others  are  now  generally  preferred  before 
him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  which  had 
contemporaries  with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jonson, 
never  equalled  them  to  him  in  their  esteem: 
and  in  the  last  king's  court,  when  Ben's  repu- 
tation was  at  highest.  Sir  John  Suckling,  and 
with  him  the  greater  part  of  the  courtiers,  set 
our  Shakespeare  far  above  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am  next 
to  speak,  had,  with  the  advantage  of  Shake- 
speare's wit,  which  was  their  precedent,  great 
natural  gifts,  improved  by  study;  Beaumont 
especially  being  so  accurate  a  judge  of  plays, 
that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he  lived,  submitted 
all  his  writings  to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought, 
used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not  contriv- 
ing, all  his  plots.     What  value  he  had  for  him, 

'  As  do  the  tall  cypresses  above  the  laggard  shrubs. 


appears  by  the  verses  he  writ  to  him ;  and  there- 
fore I  need  speak  no  farther  of  it.  The  first 
play  that  brought  Fletcher  and  him  in  esteem, 
was  their  "Philaster";  for  before  that,  they 
had  written  two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully: 
as  the  like  is  reported  of  Ben  Jonson,  before 
he  writ  "Every  Man  in  his  Humour."  Their 
plots  were  generally  more  regular  than  Shake- 
speare's, especially  those  which  were  made  be- 
fore Beaumont's  death;  and  they  understood 
and  imitated  the  conversation  of  gentlemen 
much  better;  whose  wild  debaucheries,  and 
quickness  of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before 
them  could  paint  as  they  have  done.  Humour, 
which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particular 
persons,  they  made  it  not  their  business  to 
describe :  they  represented  all  the  passions  very 
lively,  but  above  all,  love.  I  am  apt  to  believe 
the  English  language  in  them  arrived  to  its 
highest  perfection ;  what  words  have  since  been 
taken  in,  are  rather  superfluous  than  orna- 
mental. Their  plays  are  now  the  most  pleas- 
ant and  frequent  entertainments  of  the  stage; 
two  of  theirs  being  acted  through  the  year  for 
one  of  Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's :  the  reason  is, 
because  there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  come- 
dies, and  pathos  in  their  more  serious  plays, 
which  suits  generally  with  all  men's  humours. 
Shakespeare's  language  is  likewise  a  little 
obsolete,  and  Ben  Jonson's  wit  comes  short 
of  theirs. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now 
arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  while  he  was  him- 
self, (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his  dotages,) 
I  think  him  the  most  learned  and  judicious 
writer  which  any  theatre  ever  had.  He  was  a 
most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  others. 
One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that 
he  was  frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little 
to  retrench  or  alter.  Wit  and  language,  and 
humour  also  in  some  measure,  we  had  before 
him ;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the 
drama,  till  he  came.  He  managed  his  strength 
to  more  advantage  than  any  who  preceded  him. 
You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  any  of  his 
scenes,  or  endeavouring  to  move  the  passions; 
his  genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do 
it  gracefully,  especially  when  he  knew  he  came 
after  those  who  had  performed  both  to  such  an 
height.  Humour  was  his  proper  sphere  ;  and 
in  that  he  delighted  most  to  represent  mechanic 
people.  He  was  deeply  conversant  in  the 
ancients,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  bor- 
rowed boldly  from  them:  there  is  scarce  a 
poet  or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors  of 
those  times,  whom  he  has  not  translated  in 


JOHN    LOCKE 


163 


"Sejanus"  and  "Catiline."  But  he  has  done 
his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he 
fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades 
authors  like  a  monarch;  and  what  would  be 
theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him. 
With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  represents 
old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites,  ceremonies,  and 
customs,  that  if  one  of  their  poets  had  written 
either  of  his  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it 
than  in  him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his 
language,  it  was,  that  he  weaved  it  too  closely 
and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  especially: 
perhaps  too,  he  did  a  little  too  much  Romanize 
our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which  he  trans- 
lated almost  as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them: 
wherein,  though  he  learnedly  followed  their 
language,  he  did  not  enough  comply  with  the 
idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare  him  with 
Shakespeare,  I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more 
correct  poet,  but  Shakespeare  the  greater  wit. 
Shakespeare  was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our 
dramatic  poets;  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the 
pattern  of  elaborate  writing;  I  admire  him, 
but  I  love  Shakespeare.  To  conclude  of  him ; 
as  he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so 
in  the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in  his 
"  Discoveries,"  we  have  as  many  and  profitable 
rules  for  perfecting  the  stage,  as  any  wherewith 
the  French  can  furnish  us. 


JOHN   LOCKE  (1632-1704) 

OF    THE    CONDUCT    OF    THE    UNDER- 
STANDING 

I.  Introduction. — The  last  resort  a  man 
has  recourse  to,  in  the  conduct  of  himself,  is 
his  understanding;  for  though  we  distinguish 
the  faculties  of  the  mind,  and  give  the  supreme 
command  to  the  will,  as  to  an  agent,  yet  the 
truth  is,  the  man,  who  is  the  agent,  determines 
himself  to  this  or  that  voluntary  action,  upon 
some  precedent  knowledge,  or  appearance  of 
knowledge,  in  the  understanding.  No  man 
ever  sets  himself  about  anything  but  upon  some 
view  or  other,  which  serves  him  for  a  reason  for 
what  he  does:  and  whatsoever  faculties  he 
employs,  the  understanding,  with  such  light  as 
it  has,  well  or  ill  informed,  constantly  leads; 
and  by  that  light,  true  or  false,  all  his  opera- 
tive powers  are  directed.  The  will  itself,  how 
absolute  and  uncontrollable  soever  it  may  be 
thought,  never  fails  in  its  obedience  to  the 
dictates  of  the  understanding.  Temples  have 
their  sacred  images,  and  we  see  what  influence 
they  have  always  had  over  a  great  part  of  man- 


kind. But  in  truth,  the  ideas  and  images  in 
men's  minds  are  the  invisible  powers  that  con- 
stantly govern  them,  and  to  these  they  all 
universally  pay  a  ready  submission.  It  is 
therefore  of  the  highest  concernment  that  great 
care  should  be  taken  of  the  understanding,  to 
conduct  it  right  in  the  search  of  knowledge, 
and  in  the  judgments  it  makes. 

The  logic  now  in  use  has  so  long  possessed 
the  chair,  as  the  only  art  taught  in  the  schools, 
for  the  direction  of  the  mind  in  the  study  of 
the  arts  and  sciences,  that  it  would  perhaps  be 
thought  an  affectation  of  novelty  to  suspect  that 
rules  that  have  served  the  learned  world  these 
two  or  three  thousand  years,  and  which,  with- 
out any  complaint  of  defects,  the  learned  have 
rested  in,  are  not  sufficient  to  guide  the  under- 
standing. And  I  should  not  doubt  but  this 
attempt  would  be  censured  as  vanity  or  pre- 
sumption, did  not  the  great  Lord  Verulam's 
authority  justify  it;  who,  not  servilely  thinking 
learning  could  not  l)e  advanced  beyond  what  it 
was,  because  for  many  ages  it  had  not  been, 
did  not  rest  in  the  lazy  approbation  and  ap- 
plause of  what  was,  because  it  was,  but  enlarged 
his  mind  to  what  it  might  be.  In  his  preface 
to  his  Novum  Organum,  concerning  logic,  he 
pronounces  thus:  ^'Qui  summas  dialecticac 
partes  tribucrnnt,  atque  inde  Jidissima  scicntiis 
pracsidia  comparari  putarunt,  verissime  ei 
optirne  videriint  intellectiim  humanum,  sibi 
perniissum,  mcrito  siispectum  esse  debere. 
Verum  infirmior  omnino  est  mala  medicina  ; 
nee  ipsa  mali  ex  per  s.  Siquidem  dialectica, 
quae  recepta  est,  licet  ad  civilia  et  artes,  quae  in 
sermone  et  opinione  positae  sunt,  rectissime  ad- 
hibcatur;  naturae  tamen  subtiUtatem  lougo 
inten'allo  nan  attingit,  et  prensando  quod  nan 
capit,  ad  errores  potius  stabiliendos  et  quasi 
figendos,  quam  ad  viam  veritati  aperiendam 
valuit." 

"They,"  says  he,  "who  attributed  so  much 
to  logic,  perceived  very  well  and  truly  that  it 
was  not  safe  to  trust  the  understanding  to  itself 
without  the  guard  of  any  rules.  But  the 
remedy  reached  not  the  evil,  but  became  a 
part  of  it,  for  the  logic  which  took  place, 
though  it  might  do  well  enough  in  civil  affairs 
and  the  arts,  which  consisted  in  talk  and 
opinion,  yet  comes  very  far  short  of  subtlety 
in  the  real  performances  of  nature;  and, 
catching  at  what  it  cannot  reach,  has  ser\-ed 
to  confirm  and  establish  errors,  rather  than  to 
open  a  way  to  truth."  And  therefore  a  little 
after  he  says,  "That  it  is  absolutely  necessar)' 
that  a  better  and  perfecter  use  and  employ- 


164 


JOHN    LOCKE 


ment  of  the  mind  and  understanding  should 
be  introduced."  "Necessario  reqiiiritur  ut 
melior  et  perfectior  mentis  et  intcllcctus  hiimani 
usiis  et  adoperatio  introducatur." 

2.  Parts.  —  There  is,  it  is  visible,  great 
variety  in  men's  understandings,  and  their 
natural  constitutions  put  so  wide  a  difference 
between  some  men  in  this  respect,  that  art 
and  industry  would  never  be  able  to  master, 
rnd  their  very  natures  seem  to  want  a  founda- 
tion to  raise  on  it  that  which  other  men  easily 
attain  unto.  Amongst  men  of  equal  education 
there  is  great  inequality  of  parts.  And  the 
woods  of  America,  as  well  as  the  schools  of 
Athens,  produce  men  of  several  abilities  in 
the  same  kind.  Though  this  be  so,  yet  I 
imagine  most  men  come  very  short  of  what 
they  might  attain  unto,  in  their  several  degrees, 
by  a  neglect  of  their  understandings.  A  few 
rules  of  logic  are  thought  sufficient  in  this  case 
for  those  who  pretend  to  the  highest  improve- 
ment, whereas  I  think  there  are  a  great  many 
natural  defects  in  the  understanding  capable 
of  amendment,  which  are  overlooked  and 
wholly  neglected.  And  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
that  men  are  guilty  of  a  great  many  faults  in 
the  exercise  and  improvement  of  this  faculty  of 
the  mind,  which  hinder  them  in  their  progress, 
and  keep  them  in  ignorance  and  error  all  their 
lives.  Some  of  them  I  shall  take  notice  of, 
and  endeavour  to  point  out  proper  remedies 
for,  in  the  following  discourse. 

3.  Reasoning.  —  Besides  the  want  of  deter- 
mined ideas,  and  of  sagacity  and  exercise  in 
finding  out  and  laying  in  order  intermediate 
ideas,  there  are  three  miscarriages  that  men 
are  guilty  of,  in  reference  to  their  reason, 
whereby  this  faculty  is  hindered  in  them  from 
that  service  it  might  do  and  was  designed  for. 
And  he  that  reflects  upon  the  actions  and  dis- 
courses of  mankind  will  find  their  defects  in 
this  kind  very  frequent  and  very  observable. 

I.  The  first  is  of  those  who  seldom  reason 
at  all,  but  do  and  think  according  to  the 
example  of  others,  whether  parents,  neigh- 
bours, ministers,  or  who  else  they  are  pleased 
to  make  choice  of  to  have  an  implicit  faith  in, 
for  the  saving  of  themselves  the  pains  and 
trouble  of  thinking  and  examining  for  them- 
selves. 

2  The  second  is  of  those  who  put  passion 
in  the  place  of  reason,  and  being  resolved  that 
shall  govern  their  actions  and  arguments, 
neither  use  their  own,  nor  hearken  to  other 
people's  reason,  any  further  than  it  suits  their 
humour,   interest,   or   party;    and   these   one 


may  observe  commonly  content  themselves 
with  words  which  have  no  distinct  ideas  to 
them,  though  in  other  matters,  that  they  come 
with  an  unbiassed  indifferency  to,  they  want 
not  abilities  to  talk  and  hear  reason,  where 
they  have  no  secret  inclination  that  hinders 
them  from  being  tractable  to  it. 

3.  The  third  sort  is  of  those  who  readily 
and  sincerely  follow  reason,  but  for  want  of 
having  that  which  one  may  call  large,  sound, 
roundabout  sense,  have  not  a  full  view  of  all 
that  relates  to  the  question,  and  may  be  of 
moment  to  decide  it.  We  are  all  shortsighted, 
and  very  often  see  but  one  side  of  a  matter; 
our  views  are  not  extended  to  all  that  has  a 
connection  with  it.  From  this  defect  I  think 
no  man  is  free.  We  see  but  in  part,  and  we 
know  but  in  part,  and  therefore  it  is  no  wonder 
we  conclude  not  right  from  our  partial  views. 
This  might  instruct  the  proudest  esteemer  of 
his  own  parts,  how  useful  it  is  to  talk  and  con- 
sult with  others,  even  such  as  come  short  of 
him  in  capacity,  quickness,  and  penetration; 
for  since  no  one  sees  all,  and  we  generally 
have  different  prospects  of  the  same  thing  ac- 
cording to  our  different,  as  I  may  say,  positions 
to  it,  it  is  not  incongruous  to  think,  nor  be- 
neath any  man  to  try,  whether  another  may 
not  have  notions  of  things  which  have  escaped 
him,  and  which  his  reason  would  make  use  of 
if  they  came  into  his  mind.  The  faculty  of 
reasoning  seldom  or  never  deceives  those  who 
trust  to  it;  its  consequences,  from  what  it 
builds  on,  are  evident  and  certain;  but  that 
which  it  oftenest,  if  not  only,  misleads  us  in  is, 
that  the  principles  from  which  we  conclude 
the  grounds  upon  which  we  bottom  our  rea- 
soning, are  but  a  part;  something  is  left  out 
which  should  go  into  the  reckoning,  to  make  it 
just  and  exact.  Here  we  may  imagine  a  vast 
and  almost  infinite  advantage  that  angels  and 
separate  spirits  may  have  over  us,  who  in  their 
several  degrees  of  elevation  above  us  may  be 
endowed  with  more  comprehensive  faculties; 
and  some  of  them  perhaps,  having  perfect  and 
exact  views  of  all  finite  beings  that  come  un- 
der their  consideration,  can,  as  it  were,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  collect  together  all  their 
scattered  and  almost  boundless  relations.  A 
mind  so  furnished,  what  reason  has  it  to 
acquiesce  in  the  certainty  of  its  conclusions! 

In  this  we  may  see  the  reason  why  some 
men  of  study  and  thought,  that  reason  right 
and  are  lovers  of  truth,  do  make  no  great 
advances  in  their  discoveries  of  it.  Error  and 
truth  are  uncertainly  blended  in  their  minds; 


THE  CONDUCT  OF  THE  UNDERSTANDING 


165 


their  decisions  are  lame  and  defective,  and 
they  are  very  often  mistaken  in  their  judg- 
ments: the  reason  whereof  is,  they  converse 
but  with  one  sort  of  men,  they  read  but  one 
sort  of  books,  they  will  not  come  in  the  hear- 
ing but  of  one  sort  of  notions;  the  truth  is, 
they  canton  out  to  themselves  a  little  Goshen 
in  the  intellectual  world,  where  light  shines, 
and  as  they  conclude,  day  blesses  them;  but 
the  rest  of  that  vast  expansum  they  give  up 
to  night  and  darkness,  and  so  avoid  coming 
near  it.  They  have  a  pretty  traffic  with 
known  correspondents,  in  some  little  creek; 
within  that  they  confine  themselves,  and  are 
dexterous  managers  enough  of  the  wares  and 
products  of  that  corner  with  which  they  con- 
tent themselves,  but  will  not  venture  out  into 
the  great  ocean  of  knowledge,  to  survey  the 
riches  that  nature  hath  stored  other  parts 
with,  no  less  genuine,  no  less  solid,  no  less 
useful  than  what  has  fallen  to  their  lot,  in  the 
admired  plenty  and  sufficiency  of  their  own 
little  spot,  which  to  them  contains  whatsoever 
is  good  in  the  universe.  Those  who  live  thus 
mewed  up  within  their  own  contracted  terri- 
tories, and  will  not  look  abroad  beyond  the 
boundaries  that  chance,  conceit,  or  laziness 
has  set  to  their  inquiries,  but  live  separate 
from  the  notions,  discourses,  and  attainments 
of  the  rest  of  mankind,  may  not  amiss  be  rep- 
resented by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Marian 
Islands,  who,  being  separated  by  a  large  tract 
of  sea  from  all  communion  with  the  habitable 
parts  of  the  earth,  thought  themselves  the 
only  people  of  the  world.  And  though  the 
straitness  of  the  conveniences  of  life  amongst 
them  had  never  reached  so  far  as  to  the  use  of 
fire,  till  the  Spaniards,  not  many  years  since, 
in  their  voyages  from  Acapulco  to  Manilla, 
brought  it  amongst  them;  yet,  in  the  want 
and  ignorance  of  almost  all  things,  they  looked 
upon  themselves,  even  after  that  the  Spaniards 
had  brought  amongst  them  the  notice  of  va- 
riety of  nations,  abounding  in  sciences,  arts 
and  conveniences  of  life,  of  which  they  knew 
nothing;  they  looked  upon  themselves,  I  say, 
as  the  happiest  and  wisest  people  of  the  uni- 
verse. But  for  all  that,  nobody,  I  think,  will 
imagine  them  deep  naturalists  or  solid  meta- 
physicians; nobody  will  deem  the  quickest- 
sighted  amongst  them  to  have  very  enlarged 
views  in  ethics  or  politics;  nor  can  any  one 
allow  the  most  capable  amongst  the'm  to  be 
advanced  so  far  in  his  understanding  as  to 
have  any  other  knowledge  but  of  the  few  little 
things   of  his   and   the   neighbouring   islands 


within  his  commerce;  but  far  enough  from 
that  comprehensive  enlargement  of  mind 
which  adorns  a  soul  devoted  to  truth,  assisted 
with  letters,  and  a  free  generation  of  the 
several  views  and  sentiments  of  thinking  men 
of  all  sides.  Let  not  men,  therefore,  that 
would  have  a  sight  of  what  every  one  pretends 
to  be  desirous  to  have  a  sight  of,  truth  in  its 
full  extent,  narrow  and  blind  their  own  pros- 
pect. Let  not  men  think  there  is  not  truth 
but  in  the  sciences  that  they  study,  or  books 
that  they  read.  To  prejudge  other  men's 
notions,  before  we  have  looked  into  them,  is 
not  to  show  their  darkness,  but  to  put  out  our 
own  eyes.  "Try  all  things,  hold  fast  that 
which  is  good,"  is  a  divine  rule,  coming  from 
the  Father  of  light  and  truth,  and  it  is  hard  to 
know  what  other  way  men  can  come  at  truth, 
to  lay  hold  of  it,  if  they  do  not  dig  and  search 
for  it  as  for  gold  and  hid  treasure;  but  he 
that  does  so  must  have  much  earth  and  rub- 
bish before  he  gets  the  pure  metal;  sand  and 
pebbles  and  dross  usually  lie  blended  with  it, 
but  the  gold  is  nevertheless  gold,  and  will  en- 
rich the  man  that  employs  his  pains  to  seek 
and  separate  it.  Neither  is  there  any  danger 
he  should  be  deceived  by  the  mixture.  Every 
man  carries  about  him  a  touchstone,  if  he 
will  make  use  of  it,  to  distinguish  substantial 
gold  from  superficial  glitterings,  truth  from 
appearances.  And,  indeed,  the  use  and  benefit 
of  this  touchstone,  which  is  natural  reason,  is 
spoiled  and  lost  only  by  assuming  prejudices, 
overweening  presumption,  and  narrowing  our 
minds.  The  want  of  exercising  it  in  the  full 
extent  of  things  intelligible,  is  that  which 
weakens  and  extinguishes  this  noble  faculty  in 
us.  Trace  it  and  see  whether  it  be  not  so. 
The  day-labourer  in  a  country  village  has 
commonly  but  a  small  pittance  of  knowledge, 
because  his  ideas  and  notions  have  been  con- 
fined to  the  narrow  bounds  of  a  poor  conver- 
sation and  employment:  the  low  mechanic  of 
a  country  town  docs  somewhat  outdo  him: 
porters  and  cobblers  of  great  cities  surpass 
them.  A  country  gentleman  who,  leaving 
Latin  and  learning  in  the  university,  removes 
thence  to  his  mansionhouse,  and  associates 
with  neighbours  of  the  same  strain,  who  relish 
nothing  but  hunting  and  a  bottle:  with  those 
alone  he  spends  his  time,  with  those  alone  he 
converses,  and  can  away  with  no  company 
whose  discourse  goes  beyond  what  claret  and 
dissoluteness  inspire.  Such  a  patriot,  formed 
in  this  happy  way  of  improvement,  cannot 
fail,  as  we  sec,  to  give  notable  decisions  upon 


i66 


JOHN   LOCKE 


the  bench  at  quarter-sessions,  and  eminent 
proofs  of  his  skill  in  politics,  when  the  strength 
of  his  purse  and  party  have  advanced  him  to 
a  more  conspicuous  station.  To  such  a  one, 
truly,  an  ordinary  cofTee-house  gleaner  of  the 
city  is  an  arrant  statesman,  and  as  much 
suf)erior  to  as  a  man  conversant  about  White- 
hall and  the  court  is  to  an  ordinary  shop- 
keeper. To  carry  this  a  little  further:  here  is 
one  mufBed  up  in  the  zeal  and  infallibility  of 
his  own  sect,  and  will  not  touch  a  book  or 
enter  into  debate  with  a  person  that  will  ques- 
tion any  of  those  things  which  to  him  are 
sacred.  Another  surveys  our  differences  in  re- 
ligion with  an  equitable  and  fair  indifference, 
and  so  finds,  probably,  that  none  of  them  are 
in  everything  unexceptionable.  These  divi- 
sions and  systems  were  made  by  men,  and 
carry  the  mark  of  fallible  on  them;  and  in 
those  whom  he  differs  from,  and  till  he  opened 
his  eyes  had  a  general  prejudice  against,  he 
meets  with  more  to  be  said  for  a  great  many 
things  than  before  he  was  aware  of,  or  could 
have  imagined.  Which  of  these  two  now  is 
most  likely  to  judge  right  in  our  religious  con- 
troversies, and  to  be  most  stored  with  truth, 
the  mark  all  pretend  to  aim  at?  All  these 
men  that  I  have  instanced  in,  thus  unequally 
furnished  with  truth  and  advanced  in  know- 
ledge, I  suppose,  of  equal  natural  parts;  all  the 
odds  between  them  has  been  the  different  scope 
that  has  been  given  to  their  understandings  to 
range  in,  for  the  gathering  up  of  information 
and  furnishing  their  heads  with  ideas  and 
notions  and  observations,  whereon  to  employ 
their  mind  and  form  their  understandings. 

It  will  possibly  be  objected,  "who  is  suf- 
ficient for  all  this?"  I  answer,  more  than 
can  be  imagined.  Every  one  knows  what  his 
proper  business  is,  and  what,  according  to  the 
character  he  makes  of  himself,  the  world  may 
justly  expect  of  him;  and  to  answer  that,  he 
will  find  he  will  have  time  and  opportunity 
enough  to  furnish  himself,  if  he  will  not  de- 
prive himself  by  a  narrowness  of  spirit  of 
those  helps  that  are  at  hand.  I  do  not  say, 
to  be  a  good  geographer,  that  a  man  should 
visit  every  mountain,  river,  promontory,  and 
creek  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  view  the 
buildings  and  survey  the  land  everywhere,  as 
if  he  were  going  to  make  a  purchase ;  but  yet 
every  one  must  allow  that  he  shall  know  a 
country  better  that  makes  often  sallies  into  it 
and  traverses  up  and  down,  than  he  that  like 
a  mill-horse  goes  still  round  in  the  same  track, 
or  keeps  within  the  narrow  bounds  of  a  field 


or  two  that  delight  him.  He  that  will  inquire 
out  the  best  books  in  every  science,  and  in- 
form himself  of  the  most  material  authors  of 
the  several  sects  of  philosophy  and  religion, 
will  not  find  it  an  infinite  work  to  acquaint 
himself  with  the  sentiments  of  mankind  con- 
cerning the  most  weighty  and  comprehensive 
subjects.  Let  him  exercise  the  freedom  of  his 
reason  and  understanding  in  such  a  latitude 
as  this,  and  his  mind  will  be  strengthened,  his 
capacity  enlarged,  his  faculties  improved ;  and 
the  light  which  the  remote  and  scattered  parts 
of  truth  will  give  to  one  another  will  so  assist 
his  judgment,  that  he  will  seldom  be  widely 
out,  or  miss  giving  proof  of  a  clear  head  and 
a  comprehensive  knowledge.  At  least,  this  is 
the  only  way  I  know  to  give  the  understanding 
its  due  improvement  to  the  full  extent  of 
its  capacity,  and  to  distinguish  the  two  most 
different  things  I  know  in  the  world,  a  logi- 
cal chicaner  from  a  man  of  reason.  Only,  he 
that  would  thus  give  the  mind  its  flight,  and 
send  abroad  his  inquiries  into  all  parts  after 
truth,  must  be  sure  to  settle  in  his  head  deter- 
mined ideas  of  all  that  he  employs  his  thoughts 
about,  and  never  fail  to  judge  himself,  and 
judge  unbiassedly,  of  all  that  he  receives  from 
others,  either  in  their  writings  or  discourses. 
Reverence  or  prejudice  must  not  be  suffered 
to  give  beauty  or  deformity  to  any  of  their 
opinions. 

4.  Of  Practice  and  Hahils.  —  We  are  born 
with  faculties  and  powers  capable  almost  of 
anything,  such  at  least  as  would  carry  us  further 
than  can  easily  be  imagined :  but  it  is  only  the 
exercise  of  those  powers  which  gives  us  ability 
and  skill  in  anything,  and  leads  us  towards 
perfection. 

A  middle-aged  ploughman  will  scarce  ever 
be  brought  to  the  carriage  and  language  of  a 
gentleman,  though  his  body  be  as  well-pro- 
portioned, and  his  joints  as  supple,  and  his 
natural  parts  not  any  way  inferior.  The  legs 
of  a  dancing-master  and  the  fingers  of  a 
musician  fall  as  it  were  naturally,  without 
thought  or  pains,  into  regular  and  admirable 
motions.  Bid  them  change  their  parts,  and 
they  will  in  vain  endeavour  to  produce  Hke 
motions  in  the  members  not  used  to  them, 
and  it  will  require  length  of  time  and  long 
practice  to  attain  but  some  degrees  of  a  like 
ability.  What  incredible  and  astonishing  ac- 
tions do  we  find  rope-dancers  and  tumblers 
bring  their  bodies  to !  Not  but  that  sundry  in 
almost  all  manual  arts  are  as  wonderful;  but 
I  name  Ihose  which  the  world  takes  notice  of 


THE  CONDUCT  OF  THE  UNDERSTANDING 


167 


for  such,  because  on  that  very  account  they 
give  money  to  see  them.  All  these  admired 
motions,  beyond  the  reach  and  almost  con- 
ception of  unpractised  spectators,  are  nothing 
but  the  mere  effects  of  use  and  industry  in 
men  whose  bodies  have  nothing  peculiar  in 
them  from  those  of  the  amazed  lookers-on. 

As  it  is  in  the  body,  so  it  is  in  the  mind: 
practice  makes  it  what  it  is;  and  most  even 
of  those  excellencies  which  are  looked  on 
as  natural  endowments,  will  be  found,  when 
examined  into  more  narrowly,  to  be  the  prod- 
uct of  exercise,  and  to  be  raised  to  that  pitch 
only  by  repeated  actions.  Some  men  are  re- 
marked for  pleasantness  in  raillery;  others  for 
apologues  and  apposite  diverting  stories.  This 
is  apt  to  be  taken  for  the  effect  of  pure  nature, 
and  that  the  rather  because  it  is  not  got  by 
rules,  and  those  who  excel  in  either  of  them 
never  purposely  set  themselves  to  the  study  of 
it  as  an  art  to  be  learnt.  But  yet  it  is  true, 
that  at  first  some  lucky  hit,  which  took  with 
somebody  and  gained  him  commendation,  en- 
couraged him  to  try  again,  inclined  his  thoughts 
and  endeavours  that  way,  till  at  last  he  in- 
sensibly got  a  facility  in  it,  without  perceiving 
how;  and  that  is  attributed  wholly  to  nature 
which  was  much  more  the  effect  of  use  and 
practice.  I  do  not  deny  that  natural  dis- 
position may  often  give  the  first  rise  to  it,  but 
that  never  carries  a  man  far  without  use  and 
exercise,  and  it  is  practice  alone  that  brings 
the  powers  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  those  of  the 
body,  to  their  perfection.  Many  a  good  poetic 
vein  is  buried  under  a  trade,  and  never  pro- 
duces anything  for  want  of  improvement.  We 
see  the  ways  of  discourse  and  reasoning  are 
very  different,  even  concerning  the  same 
matter,  at  court  and  in  the  university.  And 
he  that  will  go  but  from  Westminster-hall  to 
the  Exchange  will  find  a  different  genius  and 
turn  in  their  v/ays  of  talking;  and  yet  one 
cannot  think  that  all  whose  lot  fell  in  the  city 
were  born  with  different  parts  from  those  who 
were  bred  at  the  university  or  inns  of  court. 

To  what  purpose  all  this  but  to  show  that 
the  difference  so  observable  in  men's  under- 
standings and  parts  does  not  arise  so  much 
from  their  natural  faculties  as  acquired  habits. 
He  would  be  laughed  at  that  should  go  about 
to  make  a  fine  dancer  out  of  a  country  hedger 
at  past  fifty.  And  he  will  not  have  much 
better  success  who  shall  endeavour  at  that 
age  to  make  a  man  reason  well,  or  speak 
handsomely,  who  has  never  been  used  to  it, 
though  you  should  lay  before  him  a  collection 


of  all  the  best  precepts  of  logic  or  oratory. 
Nobody  is  made  anything  by  hearing  of  rules 
or  laying  them  up  in  his  memory;  practice 
must  settle  the  habit  of  doing  without  reflect- 
ing on  the  rule;  and  you  may  as  well  hope  to 
make  a  good  painter  or  musician  extempore, 
by  a  lecture  and  instruction  in  the  arts  of 
music  and  painting,  as  a  coherent  thinker  or  a 
strict  reasoner  by  a  set  of  rules  showing  him 
wherein  right  reasoning  consists. 

This  being  so  that  defects  and  weakness  in 
men's  understanding,  as  well  as  other  facul- 
ties, come  from  want  of  a  right  use  of  their 
own  minds,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  fault  is 
generally  mislaid  upon  nature,  and  there  is 
often  a  complaint  of  want  of  parts  when  the 
fault  lies  in  want  of  a  due  improvement  of 
them.  We  see  men  frequently  dexterous  and 
sharp  enough  in  making  a  bargain  who,  if  you 
reason  with  them  about  matters  of  religion, 
appear  perfectly  stupid. 

5.  Ideas.  — ■  I  will  not  here,  in  what  relates 
to  the  right  conduct  and  improvement  of  the 
understanding,  repeat  again  the  getting  clear 
and  determined  ideas,  and  the  employing  our 
thoughts  rather  about  them  than  about  sounds 
put  for  them,  nor  of  settling  the  signification 
of  words  which  we  use  with  ourselves  in  the 
search  of  truth,  or  with  others  in  discoursing 
about  it.  Those  hindrances  of  our  under- 
standings in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  I  have 
sufiiciently  enlarged  upon  in  another  place, 
so  that  nothing  more  needs  here  to  be  said  of 
those  matters. 

6.  Principles.  —  There  is  another  fault  that 
stops  or  misleads  men  in  their  knowledge 
which  I  have  also  spoken  something  of,  but 
yet  is  necessary  to  mention  here  again,  that 
we  may  examine  it  to  the  bottom  and  see  the 
root  it  springs  from,  and  that  is,  a  custom  of 
taking  up  with  principles  that  are  not  self- 
evident,  and  very  often  not  so  much  as  true. 
It  is  not  unusual  to  see  men  rest  their  opinions 
upon  foundations  that  have  no  more  certainty 
and  solidity  than  the  propositions  built  on 
them  and  embraced  for  their  sake.  Such 
foundations  are  these  and  the  like,  viz.,  the 
founders  or  leaders  of  my  party  are  good  men, 
and  therefore  their  tenets  are  true;  it  is  the 
opinion  of  a  sect  that  is  erroneous,  therefore 
it  is  false;  it  hath  been  long  received  in  the 
world,  therefore  it  is  true;  or,  it  is  new,  and 
thei"efore  false. 

These,  and  many  the  like,  which  are  by  no 
means  the  measures  of  truth  and  falsehood, 
the  generality  of  men  make  the  standards  by 


i68 


SAMUEL   PEPYS 


which  they  accustom  their  understanding  to 
judge.  And  thus,  they  falling  into  a  habit  of 
determining  of  truth  and  falsehood  by  such 
wrong  measures,  it  is  no  wonder  they  should 
embrace  error  for  certainty,  and  be  very  posi- 
tive in  things  they  have  no  ground  for. 

There  is  not  any  who  pretends  to  the  least 
reason,  but  when  any  of  these  his  false  maxims 
are  brought  to  the  test,  must  acknowledge 
them  to  be  fallible,  and  such  as  he  will  not 
allow  in  those  that  differ  from  him;  and  yet 
after  he  is  convinced  of  this  you  shall  see  him 
go  on  in  the  use  of  them,  and  the  very  next 
occasion  that  offers  argue  again  upon  the  same 
grounds.  Would  one  not  be  ready  to  think 
that  men  are  willing  to  impose  upon  them- 
selves, and  mislead  their  own  understandings, 
who  conduct  them  by  such  wrong  measures, 
even  after  they  see  they  cannot  be  relied  on? 
But  yet  they  will  not  appear  so  blamable  as 
may  be  thought  at  first  sight;  for  I  think 
there  are  a  great  many  that  argue  thus  in 
earnest,  and  do  it  not  to  impose  on  themselves 
or  others.  They  are  persuaded  of  what  they 
say,  and  think  there  is  weight  in  it,  though  in 
a  like  case  they  have  been  convinced  there  is 
none;  but  men  would  be  intolerable  to  them- 
selves and  contemptible  to  others  if  they  should 
embrace  opinions  without  any  ground,  and 
hold  what  they  could  give  no  manner  of  reason 
for.  True  or  false,  solid  or  sandy,  the  mind 
must  have  some  foundation  to  rest  itself  upon, 
and,  as  I  have  remarked  in  another  place,  it 
no  sooner  entertains  any  proposition  but  it 
presently  hastens  to  some  hypothesis  to  bot- 
tom it  on;  till  then  it  is  unquiet  and  unsettled. 
So  much  do  our  own  very  tempers  dispose  us 
to  a  right  use  of  our  understandings  if  we 
would  follow,  as  we  should,  the  inclinations  of 
our  nature. 

In  some  matters  of  concernment,  especially 
those  of  religion,  men  are  not  permitted  to  be 
always  wavering  and  uncertain,  they  must  em- 
brace and  profess  some  tenets  or  other;  and 
it  would  be  a  shame,  nay  a  contradiction  too 
heavy  for  any  one's  mind  to  he  constantly 
under,  for  him  to  pretend  seriously  to  be  per- 
suaded of  the  truth  of  any  religion,  and  yet  not 
to  be  able  to  give  any  reason  of  his  belief,  or 
to  say  anything  for  his  preference  of  this  to 
any  other  opinion:  and  therefore  they  must 
make  use  of  some  principles  or  other,  and  those 
can  be  no  other  than  such  as  they  have  and 
can  manage;  and  to  say  they  are  not  in  ear- 
nest persuaded  by  them,  and  do  not  rest  upon 
those  they  make  use  of,  is  contrary  to  experi- 


ence, and  to  allege  that  they  are  not  misled, 
when  we  complain  they  are 

SAMUEL  PEPYS   (1633-1703) 
From  HIS  DIARY 

Aug.  22d.,  1661.  To  the  Privy-Seale,  and 
sealed :  '  so  home  at  noon,  and  there  took  my 
wife  by  coach  to  my  uncle  Fenner's,  where 
there  was  both  at  his  house  and  the  Sessions 
great  deal  of  company,  but  poor  entertain- 
ment, which  I  wonder  at;  and  the  house  so 
hot,  that  my  uncle  Wight,  my  father,  and  I 
were  fain  to  go  out,  and  stay  at  an  alehouse 
awhile  to  cool  ourselves.  Then  back  again 
and  to  church  —  my  father's  family  being  all 
in  mourning,  doing  him  '  the  greatest  honour, 
the  world  believing  that  he  did  give  us  it:  so 
to  church,  and  staid  out  the  sermon. 

23d.  To  W.  Joyce's,  where  my  wife  was, 
and  I  took  her  to  the  Opera,  and  showed  her 
the  "Witts,"  ^  which  I  had  seen  already  twice, 
and  was  most  highly  pleased  with  it. 

24th.  Called  to  Sir  W.  Batten's,  to  see  the 
strange  creature  that  Captain  Holmes  hath 
brought  with  him  from  Guiny;  it  is  a  great 
baboon,  but  so  much  like  a  man  in  most 
things,  that,  though  they  say  there  is  a  species 
of  them,  yet  I  cannot  believe  but  that  it  is  a 
monster  got  of  a  man  and  she-baboon.  I  do 
believe  that  it  already  understands  much 
EngHsh,  and  I  am  of  the  mind  that  it  might 
be  taught  to  speak  or  make  signs.  To  the 
Opera,  and  there  saw  "Hamlet,  Prince  of 
Denmarke,"  done  with  scenes  ^  very  well,  but 
above  all,  Betterton  did  the  Prince's  part  be- 
yond imagination. 

25th.  (Lord's  day.)  Home;  found  my 
Lady  Batten  and  her  daughter  to  look  some- 
thing askew  upon  my  wife,  because  my  wife 
do  not  buckle  to  them,  and  is  not  solicitous 
for  their  acquaintance. 

27th.  Casting  up  my  father's  accounts,  and 
upon  the  whole  I  find  that  all  he  hath  in  money 
of  his  own  due  to  him  in  the  world  is  45/., 
and  he  owes  about  the  same  sum:  so  that  I 
cannot  but  think  in  what  a  condition  he  had 
left  my  mother,  if  he  should  have  died  before 

1  Pepys  was  deputy  for  his  kinsman  and  patron, 
the  Earl  of  Sandwich,  Keeper  of  the  Great  Wardrobe 
and   Clerk   of   the   Privy    Seal.  ^  Pepys's    Uncle 

Robert,  who  had  died  early  in  July.  ^  a  play  by 

Davenant  ^  The    use  of    modern  painted  scenes 

had    only  recently  been   introduced   on  the   English 
stage. 


HIS    DIARY 


169 


my  uncle  Robert.  To  the  Theatre,  and  saw 
the  "Antipodes,"  '  wherein  there  is  much 
mirth,  but  no  great  matter  else.  I  found  a 
letter  from  my  Lord  Sandwich,  who  is  now 
very  well  again  of  his  feaver,  but  not  yet  gone 
from  Alicante,  where  he  lay  sick,  and  was 
twice  there  bled.  This  letter  dated  the  22nd. 
July  last,  which  puts  me  out  of  doubt  of  his 
being  ill. 

27th.  This  morning  to  the  Wardrobe,  and 
there  took  leave  of  my  Lord  Hinchingbroke 
and  his  brother,  and  saw  them  go  out  by 
coach  toward  Rye  in  their  way  to  France, 
whom  God  bless.  Then  I  was  called  up  to 
my  Lady's  ^  bedside,  where  we  talked  an  hour 
about  Mr.  Edward  Montagu's  disposing  of  the 
5000/.  for  my  Lord's  preparation  for  Portugal, 
and  our  fears  that  he  will  not  do  it  to  my 
Lord's  honour,  and  less  to  his  profit,  which  I 
am  to  inquire  a  little  after.  My  wife  and  I  to 
the  theatre,  and  there  saw  "The  Jovial  Crew," 
where  the  King,  Duke,  and  Duchess,  and 
Madame  Palmer,  were;  and  my  wife,  to  her 
great  content,  had  a  full  sight  of  them  all  the 
while.     The  play  full  of  mirth. 

28th.  This  day,  I  counterfeited  a  letter  to 
Sir  W.  Pen,  as  from  the  thief  that  stole  his 
tankard  lately,  only  to  abuse  and  laugh  at 
him. 

29th.  My  aunt  Bell  came  to  dine  with  me, 
and  we  were  very  merry.  Mr.  Evans,  the 
taylor,  whose  daughter  we  have  had  a  mind 
to  get  a  wife  for  Tom,  told  us  that  he  hath  not 
to  except  against  us  or  our  motion,  but  that 
the  estate  that  God  hath  blessed  him  with  is 
too  great  to  give,  where  there  is  nothing  in 
present  possession  but  a  trade  and  house;  and 
so  we  friendly  ended. 

30th.  My  wife  and  I  to  Drury  Lane  to  the 
French  comedy,  which  was  so  ill  done,  and 
the  scenes  and  company  and  everything  else 
so  nasty  and  out  of  order  and  poor,  that  I  was 
sick  all  the  while  in  my  mind  to  be  there. 
Here  my  wife  met  with  a  son  of  my  Lord 
Somerset,  whom  she  knew  in  France,  a  pretty 
gentleman,  but  I  showed  him  no  great  coun- 
tenance, to  avoid  further  acquaintance.  That 
done,  there  being  nothing  pleasant  but  the 
foolery  of  the  farce,  we  went  home. 

31st.  To  Bartholomew  fair,^  and  there  met 
with  my  Ladies  Jemimah  and  Paulina,  with 
Mr.   Pickering  and    Mademoiselle,   at    seeing 

'  a  comedy  by  Brome  ^  the  Countess  of  Sand- 
wich ^  a  famous  fair,  held  in  Smithfield,  London, 
from  1 1 33  to  1853 


the  monkeys  dance,  which  was  much  to  see, 
wlien  they  could  be  brought  to  do  so,  but  it 
troubled  me  to  sit  among  such  nasty  company. 
After  that,  with  them  into  Christ's  Hospital, 
and  there  Mr.  Pickering  brought  them  some 
fairings,  and  I  did  give  every  one  of  them  a 
bauble,  which  was  the  little  globes  of  glass 
with  things  hanging  in  them,  which  pleased 
the  ladies  very  well.  After  that,  home  with 
them  in  their  coach,  and  there  was  called  up 
to  my  Lady,  and  she  would  have  me  stay  to 
talk  with  her,  which  I  did  I  think  a  full 
hour.  .   .   . 

Thus  ends  the  month.  My  mayde  Jane 
newly  gone,  and  Pall  '  left  now  to  do  all  the 
work  till  another  mayde  comes,  which  shall  not 
be  till  she  goes  away  into  the  country  with  my 
mother.  No  money  comes  in,  so  that  I  have 
been  forced  to  borrow  a  great  deal  for  my  own 
expenses,  and  to  furnish  my  father,  to  leave 
things  in  order.  I  have  some  trouble  about 
my  brother  Tom,  who  is  now  left  to  keep  my 
father's  trade,  in  which  I  have  great  fears  that 
he  will  miscarry  for  want  of  brains  and  care. 
At  Court  things  are  in  very  ill  condition,  there 
being  so  much  emulacion,  poverty,  and  the 
vices  of  drinking,  swearing,  and  loose  amours, 
that  I  know  not  what  will  be  the  end  of  it, 
but  confusion.  And  the  Clergy  so  high,  that 
all  people  that  I  meet  with  do  protest  against 
their  practice.  In  short,  I  see  no  content  or 
satisfaction  any  where,  in  any  one  sort  of 
people.  The  Benevolence  -  proves  so  little, 
and  an  occasion  of  so  much  discontent  every- 
where, that  it  had  better  it  had  never  been  set 
up.  I  think  to  subscribe  20/.  We  are  at  our 
Office  quiet,  only  for  lack  of  money  all  things 
go  to  rack.  Our  very  bills  offered  to  be  sold 
upon  the  Exchange  at  10  per  cent.  loss.  We 
are  upon  getting  Sir  R.  Ford's  house  added  to 
our  office;  but  I  see  so  many  difficulties  will 
follow  in  pleasing  of  one  another  in  the  divid- 
ing of  it,  and  in  becoming  bound  personally 
to  pay  the  rent  of  200/.  per  annum,  that  I  do 
believe  it  will  yet  scarce  come  to  pass.  The 
season  very  sickly  evcr^-where  of  strange  and 
fatal  fevers. 

September  ist.  (Lord's  day.)  Last  night 
being  very  rainy,  (the  water)  broke  into  my 
house,  the  gutter  being  stopped,  and  spoiled 
all  my  ceilings  almost.  At  church  in  the  morn- 
ing. After  dinner  we  were  very  merry  with 
Sir  W.   Pen   about  the   loss  of  his  tankard, 

'  Pepys's  sister  Paulina  -  a  voluntary   contri- 

bution of  the  people  to  the  King 


1 70 


SAMUEL    PEPYS 


though  all  be  but  a  cheate,  and  he  do  not  yet 
understand  it;  but  the  tankard  was  stole  by 
Sir  W.  Batten,  and  the  letter,  as  from  the 
thief,  wrote  by  me,  which  makes  very  good 
sport.  Captain  Holmes  and  I  by  coach  to 
White  Hall;  in  our  way,  I  found  him  by  dis- 
course to  be  a  great  friend  of  my  Lord's,  and 
he  told  me  there  was  a  many  did  seek  to  re- 
move him ;  but  they  were  old  seamen,  such  as 
Sir  J.  Minnes,  but  he  would  name  no  more, 
though  he  do  believe  Sir  W.  Batten  is  one  of 
them  that  do  envy  him,  but  he  says  he  knows 
that  the  King  do  so  love  him,  and  the  Duke 
of  York  too,  that  there  is  no  fear  of  him.  He 
seems  to  be  very  well  acquainted  with  the 
King's  mind,  and  with  all  the  several  factions 
at  Court,  and  spoke  all  with  so  much  frank- 
ness, that  I  do  take  him  to  be  my  Lord's 
good  friend,  and  one  able  to  do  him  great 
service,  being  a  cunning  fellow,  and  one,  by 
his  own  confession  to  me,  that  can  put  on  two 
several  faces,  and  look  his  enemies  in  the  face 
with  as  much  love  as  his  friends.  But,  good 
God!  what  an  age  is  this,  and  what  a  world 
is  this !  that  a  man  cannot  live  without  play- 
ing the  knave  and  dissimulation. 

2d.  Mr.  Pickering  and  I  to  Westminster 
Hall  again,  and  there  walked  an  houre  or  two 
talking,  and,  though  he  be  a  fool,  yet  he  keeps 
much  company,  and  will  tell  all  he  sees  or 
hears,  and  so  a  man  may  understand  what  the 
common  talk  of  the  town  is.  And  I  find  that 
there  are  endeavours  to  get  my  Lord  out  of 
play  at  sea,  which  I  believe  Mr.  Coventry  and 
the  Duke  do  think  will  make  them  more  abso- 
lute; but  I  hope  for  all  this,  they  will  not  be 
able  to  do  it.  My  wife  tells  me  that  she  met 
at  Change  with  my  young  ladies  of  the  Ward- 
robe, and  there  helped  them  to  buy  things, 
and  also  with  Mr.  Somerset,  who  did  give  her 
a  bracelet  of  rings,  which  did  a  little  trouble 
me,  though  I  know  there  is  no  hurt  yet  in  it, 
but  only  for  fear  of  further  acquaintance. 

3d.  Dined  at  home,  and  then  with  my 
wife  to  the  Wardrobe,  where  my  Lady's  child 
was  christened,  my  Lord  Crewe  and  his  lady, 
and  my  Lady  Montagu,  my  Lord's  mother-in- 
law,  were  the  witnesses,  and  named  Catherine, 
the  Queen  elect's  name;  but  to  my  and  all 
our  trouble,  the  Parson  of  the  parish  christened 
her,  and  did  not  sign  the  child  with  the  sign 
of  the  cross.  After  that  was  done,  we  had  a 
very  fine  banquet. 

4th.  My  wife  come  to  me  to  Whitehall, 
and  we  went  and  walked  a  good  while  in  St. 
James's  Parke  to  see  the  brave  alterations. 


5th.  Put  my  mother  and  Pall  into  the 
wagon,  and  saw  them  going  presently  —  Pall 
crying  exceedingly.  To  my  uncle  Fenner's  to 
dinner,  in  the  way  meeting  a  French  footman 
with  feathers,  who  was  in  quest  of  my  wife, 
and  spoke  with  her  privately,  but  I  could  not 
tell  what  it  was,  only  my  wife  promised  to  go 
to  some  place  to-morrow  morning,  which  do 
trouble  my  mind  how  to  know  whither  it  was. 
My  wife  and  I  to  the  fair,  and  I  showed  her 
the  Italians  dancing  the  ropes,  and  the  women 
that  do  strange  tumbling  tricks. 

6th.  I  went  to  the  Theatre,  and  saw 
"Elder  Brother"  acted;  meeting  here  with  Sir 
J.  Askew,  Sir  Theophilus  Jones,  and  another 
knight,  with  Sir  W.  Pen,  we  to  the  Ship  taverne, 
and  there  staid,  and  were  merry  till  late  at 
night. 

7th.  Having  appointed  the  young  ladies  at 
the  Wardrobe  to  go  with  them  to  the  play  to- 
day, my  wife  and  I  took  them  to  the  Theatre, 
where  we  seated  ourselves  close  by  the  King, 
and  Duke  of  York,  and  Madame  Palmer, 
which  was  great  content;  and,  indeed,  I  can 
never  enough  admire  her  beauty.  And  here 
was  "Bartholomew  Fayre,'"  with  the  puppet- 
showe,  acted  to-day,  which  had  not  been  these 
forty  years,  it  being  so  satyrical  against  Puri- 
tanism, they  durst  not  till  now,  which  is 
strange  they  should  already  dare  to  do  it,  and 
the  King  to  countenance  it,  but  I  do  never  a 
whit  like  it  the  better  for  the  puppets,  but 
rather  the  worse.  Thence  home  with  the 
ladies,  it  being  by  reason  of  our  staying  a 
great  while  for  the  King's  coming,  and  the 
length  of  the  play,  near  nine  o'clock  before  it 
was  done. 

8th.  (Lord's  day.)  To  church,  and  com- 
ing home  again,  found  our  new  mayd  Doll 
asleep,  that  she  could  not  hear  to  let  us  in, 
so  that  we  were  fain  to  send  a  boy  in  at  a 
window  to  open  the  door  to  us.  Begun  to 
look  over  my  accounts,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
I  do  find  myself,  by  what  I  can  yet  see,  worth 
near  600/,  for  which  God  be  blessed. 

9th.  To  Salisbury  Court  play-house,  where 
was  acted  the  first  time,  "'Tis  pity  she's  a 
W — e,"  ^  a  simple  play,  and  ill  acted,  only  it 
was  my  fortune  to  sit  by  a  most  pretty  and 
most  ingenious  lady,  which  pleased  me  much. 
To  the  Dolphin,  to  drink  the  305.  that  we  got 
the  other  day  of  Sir  W.  Pen  about  his  tankard. 
Here  was  Sir  R.  Slingsby,  Holmes,  Captain 


'  a    comedy   by  Ben  Jonson 
John  Ford 


2  a  tragedy   by 


HIS    DIARY 


171 


Allen,  Mr.  Turner,  his  wife  and  daughter,  my 
Lady  Batten,  and  Mrs.  Martha,  &c.,  and  an 
excellent  company  of  fiddlers;  so  we  exceed- 
ing merry  till  late;  and  then  we  begun  to  tell 
Sir  W.  Pen  the  business,  but  he  had  been 
drinking  to-day,  and  so  is  almost  gone,  that 
we  could  not  make  him  understand  it,  which 
caused  us  more  sport. 

nth.  To  Dr.  Williams,  who  did  carry  me 
into  his  garden,  where  he  hath  abundance  of 
grapes:  and  he  did  show  me  how  a  dog  that 
he  hath  do  kill  all  the  cats  that  come  thither 
to  kill  his  pigeons,  and  do  afterwards  bury 
them ;  and  do  it  with  so  much  care  that  they 
shall  be  quite  covered;  that  if  the  tip  of  the 
tail  hangs  out,  he  will  take  up  the  cat  again, 
and  dig  the  hole  deeper,  which  is  very  strange; 
and  he  tells  me,  that  he  do  believe  he  hath 
killed  above  100  cats.  Home  to  my  house  to 
dinner,  where  I  found  my  wife's  brother  Baity 
as  fine  as  hands  could  make  him,  and  his 
servant,  a  Frenchman,  to  wait  on  him,  and 
come  to  have  my  wife  visit  a  young  lady 
which  he  is  a  servant  '  to,  and  have  hope  to 
trepan,  and  get  for  his  wife.  I  did  give  way 
for  my  wife  to  go  with  him.  Walking  through 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  observed  at  the  Opera 
a  new  play,  "Twelfth  Night,"  was  acted  there, 
and  the  King  there:  so  I,  against  my  own 
mind  and  resolution,  could  not  forbear  to  go 
in,  which  did  make  the  play  seem  a  burthen 
to  me;  and  I  took  no  pleasure  at  all  in  it: 
and  so,  after  it  was  done,  went  home  with  my 
mind  troubled  for  my  going  thither,  after  my 
swearing  to  my  wife  that  I  would  never  go  to 
a  play  without  her.  My  wife  was  with  her 
brother  to  see  his  mistress  to-day,  and  says 
she  is  young,  rich,  and  handsome,  but  not 
likely  for  him  to  get. 

1 2th.  To  my  Lady's  to  dinner  at  the  Ward- 
robe; and  in  my  way  upon  the  Thames,  I  saw 
the  King's  new  pleasure-boat  that  is  come  now 
for  the  King  to  take  pleasure  in  above  bridge, 
and  also  two  Gundaloes,^  that  are  lately 
brought,  which  are  very  rich  and  fine.  Called 
at  Sir  W.  Batten's,  and  there  hear  that  Sir 
W.  Pen  do  take  our  jest  of  the  tankard  very 
ill,  which  I  am  sorry  for. 

13th.  I  was  sent  for  by  my  uncle  Fenner 
to  come  and  advise  about  the  burial  of  my 
aunt,  the  butcher,  who  died  yesterday.  Thence 
to  the  Wardrobe,  where  I  found  my  wife,  and 
thence  she  and  I  to  the  water  to  spend  the 


afternoon  in  pleasure,  and  so  we  went  to  old 
George's,  and  there  eat  as  much  as  we  would 
of  a  hot  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  so  to  boat 
again  and  home. 

14th.  Before  we  had  dined  comes  Sir  R. 
Slingsby,  and  his  lady,  and  a  great  deal  of 
company,  to  take  my  wife  and  I  out  by  barge, 
to  show  them  the  King's  and  Duke's  yachts. 
We  had  great  pleasure,  seeing  all  four  yachts, 
viz.,  these  two,  and  the  two  Dutch  ones. 

iSth.  (Lord's  day.)  To  my  aunt  Kite's  in 
the  morning,  to  help  my  uncle  Fenner  to  put 
things  in  order  against  anon  for  the  burial. 
After  sermon,  with  my  wife  to  the  burial  of 
my  aunt  Kite,  where,  besides  us  and  my  uncle 
Fenner's  family,  there  was  none  of  any  quality, 
but  poor  and  rascally  people.  So  we  went  to 
church  with  the  corps,  and  there  had  service 
read  at  the  grave,  and  back  again  with  Pegg 
Kite,  who  will  be,  I  doubt,  a  troublesome  car- 
rion to  us  executors,  but  if  she  will  not  be 
ruled,  I  shall  fling  up  my  executorship. 

1 6th.  Word  is  brought  me  from  my  brother's, 
that  there  is  a  fellow  come  from  my  father  out 
of  the  country,  on  purpose  to  speak  with  me, 
and  he  made  a  story  how  he  had  lost  his  letter, 
but  he  was  sure  it  was  for  me  to  come  into  the 
country,  which  I  believed,  but  I  afterwards 
found  that  it  was  a  rogue  that  did  use  to  play 
such  tricks  to  get  money  of  people,  but  he  got 
none  of  me.  Letters  from  my  father  informing 
me  of  the  Court,'  and  that  I  must  come  down 
and  meet  him  at  Impington,  which  I  presently 
resolved  to  do. 

17th.  Got  up,  telling  my  wife  of  my  journey, 
and  she  got  me  to  hire  her  a  horse  to  go  along 
with  me.  So  I  went  to  my  Lady's,  and  of 
Mr.  Townsend  did  borrow  a  very  fine  side- 
saddle for  my  wife,  and  so,  after  all  things  were 
ready,  she  and  I  took  coach  to  the  end  of  the 
towne  towards  Kingsland,  and  there  got  upon 
my  horse,  and  she  upon  her  pretty  mare  that 
I  hired  for  her,  and  she  rides  very  well.  By 
the  mare  at  one  time  falling,  she  got  a  fall,  but 
no  harm ;  so  we  got  to  Ware,  and  there  supped, 
and  went  to  bed. 

i8th.  Up  early,  and  begun  our  march:  the 
way  about  Puckridge  very  bad,  and  my  wife, 
in  the  very  last  dirty  place  of  all,  got  a  fall, 
but  no  hurt,  though  some  dirt.  At  last,  she 
begun,  poor  wretch,  to  be  tired,  and  I  to  be 
angry  at  it,  but  I  was  to  blame ;  for  she  is  a  very 
good  companion  as  long  as  she  is  well.     In 


^  suitor        2  Two  gondolas,  presented  to  the  King 
by  the  Duke  of  Venice. 


'  The  manorial  court  under  which  Pepys  held  some 
of  his  copyhold  estates. 


172 


SAMUEL   PEPYS 


the  afternoon,  we  got  to  Cambridge,  where  I 
left  my  wife  at  my  cozen  Angler's,  while  I  went 
to  Christ's  College,  and  there  found  my  brother 
in  his  chamber,  and  talked  with  him,  and  so  to 
the  barber's,  and  then  to  my  wife  again,  and 
remounted  for  Impington,  where  my  uncle 
received  me  and  my  wife  very  kindly. 

19th.  Up  early,  and  my  father  and  I  alone 
talked  about  our  business,  and  then  we  all 
horsed  away  to  Cambridge,  where  my  father 
and  I,  having  left  my  wife  at  the  Beare,  with 
my  brother,  went  to  Mr.  Sedgewicke,  the  stew- 
ard of  Gravely,  and  there  talked  with  him,  but 
could  get  little  hopes  from  anything  that  he 
would  tell  us;  but  at  last  I  did  give  him  a  fee, 
and  then  he  was  free  to  tell  me  what  I  asked, 
which  was  something,  though  not  much  com- 
fort. From  thence  to  our  horses,  and,  with  my 
wife,  went  and  rode  through  Sturbridge  fayre, 
but  the  fayre  was  almost  done.  Set  out  for 
Brampton,  where  we  come  in  very  good  time. 

20th.  Will  Stankes  and  I  set  out  in  the  morn- 
ing betimes  for  Gravely,  where  to  an  alehouse 
and  drank,  and  then,  going  to  the  Court  House, 
met  my  uncle  Thomas  and  his  son  Thomas, 
with  Bradly,  the  rogue  that  had  betrayed  us, 
and  one  Young,  a  cunning  fellow,  who  guides 
them.  I  said  little,  till  by  and  by  that  we  come 
to  the  Court,  which  was  a  simple  meeting  of  a 
company  of  country  rogues,  with  the  Steward, 
and  two  Fellows  of  Jesus  College,  that  are 
lords  of  the  towne;  and  I  producing  no  sur- 
render, though  I  told  them  I  was  sure  there  is 
and  must  be  one  somewhere,  they  found  my 
uncle  Thomas  heire  at  law,  as  he  is;  and  so 
my  uncle  was  admitted  and  his  son  also  in  re- 
version. The  father  paid  a  year  and  a  half  for 
his  fine,  and  the  son  half  a  year,  in  all,  48/., 
besides  about  3/.  fees ;  so  that  I  do  believe  the 
charges  of  his  journeys,  and  what  he  gives  those 
two  rogues,  and  other  expenses  herein,  cannot 
be  less  than  70/.,  which  will  be  a  sad  thing  for 
him,  if  a  surrender  be  found.  After  all  was 
done,  I  openly  wished  them  joy  in  it. 

2ist.  After  dinner  (there  coming  this  morn- 
ing my  aunt  Hanes  and  her  son  from  London, 
that  is  to  live  with  my  father),  I  rode  to  Hunt- 
ingdon, and  so  to  Hinchingbroke,  where  Mr. 
Barnwell  showed  me  the  condition  of  the  house, 
which  is  yet  very  backward,  and  I  fear  will  be 
ver\-  dark  in  the  cloyster  when  it  is  done. 

22d.  (Lord's  day.)  To  church,  where  we 
had  common  prayer,  and  a  dull  sermon  by  one 
Mr.  Case,  who  yet  I  heard  sing  very  well. 

23d.  We  took  horse,  and  got  early  to  Bald- 
wick,  where  there  was  a  fair,  and  we  put  in. 


and  eat  a  mouthful  of  porke,  which  they  made 
us  pay  I4</.  for,  which  vexed  me  much.  And 
so  away  to  Stevenage,  and  staid  till  a  shower 
was  over,  and  so  rode  easily  to  Welling.  We 
supped  well,  and  had  two  beds  in  the  room, 
and  so  lay  single. 

24th.  We  rose,  and  set  forth,  but  found  a  most 
sad  alteration  in  the  roade,  by  reason  of  last 
night's  rains,  they  being  now  all  dirty  and 
washy,  though  not  deep.  So  we  rode  easily 
through,  and  only  drinking  at  HoUoway,  at 
the  sign  of  a  woman  with  cakes  in  one  hand, 
and  a  pot  of  ale  in  the  other,  which  did  give 
good  occasion  of  mirth,  resembling  her  to  the 
maid  that  served  us,  we  got  home  very  timely 
and  well,  and  finding  there  all  well,  and  letters 
from  sea,  that  speak  of  my  Lord's  being  well ; 
and  his  Action,  though  not  considerable  of  any 
side,  at  Alg'ers. 

25th.  Sir  W.  Pen  told  me  that  I  need  not 
fear  any  reflection  upon  my  Lord  for  their  ill 
success  at  Argier,  for  more  could  not  be  done. 
Meeting  Sir  R.  Slingsby  in  St.  Martin's  Lane, 
he  and  I  in  his  coach  through  the  Mewes, 
which  is  the  way  that  now  all  coaches  are 
forced  to  go,  because  of  a  stop  at  Charing 
Crosse,  by  reason  of  digging  of  a  draj-ne  there 
to  clear  the  streets.  To  my  Lord  Crewe's,  and 
dined  with  him,  where  I  was  used  with  all  im- 
aginable kindness  both  from  him  and  her. 
And  I  see  that  he  is  afraid  my  Lord's  reputacon 
will  a  little  suffer  in  common  talk  by  this  late 
successe;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it  now. 
The  Queen  of  England,  as  she  is  now  owned 
and  called,  I  hear,  doth  keep  open  court,  and 
distinct  at  Lisbone.  To  the  Theatre,  and  saw 
"The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  ill  done. 

26th.  With  my  wife  by  coach  to  the  Theatre, 
to  show  her  "  King  and  no  King,"  it  being  very 
well  done. 

27th.  At  noon,  met  my  wife  at  the  Ward- 
robe; and  there  dined,  where  we  found  Cap- 
tain Country,  my  little  Captain  that  I  loved, 
who  carried  me  to  the  Sound,  with  some  grapes 
and  millons '  from  my  Lord  at  Lisbone,  the 
first  that  ever  I  saw;  but  the  grapes  are  rare 
things.  In  the  afternoon  comes  Mr.  Edward 
Montagu,  by  appointment  this  morning,  to  talk 
with  my  Lady  and  me  about  the  provisions 
fit  to  be  bought  and  sent  to  my  Lord  along  with 
him.  And  told  us,  that  we  need  not  trouble 
ourselves  how  to  buy  them,  for  the  King  would 
pay  for  all,  and  that  he  would  take  care  to  get 
them:  which  put  my  Lady  and  me  into  a  great 

*  melons 


ROBERT    SOUTH 


173 


deal  of  ease  of  mind.  Here  we  stayed  and 
supped  too;  and,  after  my  wife  had  put  up 
some  of  the  grapes  in  a  basket  for  to  be  sent  to 
the  King,  we  took  coach  and  home,  where  we 
found  a  hamper  of  millons  sent  to  me  also. 

28th.  Sir  W.  Pen  and  his  daughter,  and  I 
and  my  wife,  to  the  Theatre,  and  there  saw 
"Father's  own  Son,"  '  a  very  good  play,  and 
the  first  time  I  ever  saw  it. 

29th.  (Lord's  day.)  What  at  dinner  and 
supper  I  drink,  I  know  not  how,  of  my  own 
accord,  so  much  wine,  that  I  was  even  almost 
foxed,  and  my  head  ached  all  night;  so  home 
and  to  bed,  without  prayers,  which  I  never  did 
yet,  since  I  come  to  the  house,  of  a  Sunday 
night :  I  being  now  so  out  of  order  that  I  durst 
not  read  prayers,  for  fear  of  being  perceived  by 
my  servants  in  what  case  I  was. 

ROBERT   SOUTH   (1634-17 16) 

From  A  SERMON  PREACHED  ON  MAY  9, 
1686 

OF   THE   FATAL   IMPOSTURE  AND  FORCE 
OF    WORDS 

The  generality  of  mankind  is  wholly  and 
absolutely  governed  by  words  and  names; 
■without;  nay,  for  the  most  part,  even  against 
the  knowledge  men  have  of  things.  The 
multitude,  or  common  rout,  like  a  drove  of 
sheep,  or  an  herd  of  oxen,  may  be  managed 
by  any  noise,  or  cry,  which  their  drivers  shall 
accustom  them  to. 

And,  he  who  will  set  up  for  a  skilful  manager 
of  the  rabble,  so  long  as  they  have  but  ears  to 
hear,  needs  never  inquire,  whether  they  have 
any  understanding  whereby  to  judge;  but  with 
two  or  three  popular,  empty  words,  such  as 
popery  and  superstition,  right  of  the  subject, 
liberty  of  conscience.  Lord  Jesus  Christ  well 
tuned  and  humoured;  may  whistle  them 
backwards  and  forwards,  upwards  and  down- 
wards, till  he  is  weary;  and  get  up  upon  their 
backs  when  he  is  so. 

As  for  the  meaning  of  the  word  itself,  that  may 
shift  for  itself;  and,  as  for  the  sense  and  reason 
of  it,  that  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  here ;  only 
let  it  sound  full  and  round,  and  chime  right  to 
the  humour,  which  is  at  present  agog,  (just 
as  a  big,  long,  rattling  name  is  said  to  com- 
mand even  adoration  from  a  Spaniard,)  and, 
no  doubt,  with  this  powerful,  senseless  engine 
the  rabble-driver  shall  be  able  to  carry  all  be- 

*  an  old  play,  by  an  unknown  author 


fore  him,  or  to  draw  all  after  him,  as  he  pleases. 
For,  a  plausible,  insignificant  word,  in  the  mouth 
of  an  expert  demagogue,  is  a  dangerous  and  a 
dreadful  weapon. 

You  know,  when  Cjesar's  army  mutinied, 
and  grew  troublesome,  no  argument  from 
interest,  or  reason,  could  satisfy  or  appease 
them:  but,  as  soon  as  he  gave  them  the  appel- 
lation of  Quirites,  the  tumult  was  immediately 
hushed;  and  all  were  quiet  and  content,  and 
took  that  one  word  in  good  payment  for  all. 
Such  is  the  trivial  slightness  and  levity  of  most 
minds.  And  indeed,  take  any  passion  of  the 
soul  of  man,  while  it  is  predominant,  and 
afloat,  and,  just  in  the  critical  height  of  it,  nick 
it  with  some  lucky,  or  nnlucky  word,  and  you 
may  as  certainly  overrule  into  your  own  pur- 
pose, as  a  spark  of  fire,  falling  upon  gunpowder, 
will  infallibly  blow  it  up. 

The  truth  is,  he  who  shall  duly  consider 
these  matters,  will  find  that  there  is  a  certain 
bcwitchcry,  or  fascination  in  words,  which  makes 
them  operate  with  a  force  beyond  what  we 
can  naturally  give  an  account  of.  For,  would 
not  a  man  think,  ill  deeds,  and  shrewd  turns, 
should  reach  further,  and  strike  deeper  than 
ill  words?  And  yet  many  instances  might  be 
given,  in  which  men  have  much  more  easily 
pardoned  ill  things  done,  than  ill  things  said 
against  them:  such  a  peculiar  rancour  and 
venom  do  they  leave  behind  them  in  men's 
minds,  and  so  much  more  poisonously  and  in- 
curably does  the  serpent  bite  with  his  tongue, 
than  with  his  teeth. 

Nor  are  men  prevailed  upon  at  this  odd, 
unaccountable  rate,  by  bare  words,  only 
through  a  defect  of  knowledge;  but  sometimes 
also  do  they  suffer  themselves  to  be  carried 
away  with  these  puffs  of  wind,  even  contrary 
to  knowledge  and  experience  itself.  For  other- 
wise, how  could  men  be  brought  to  surrender 
up  their  reason,  their  interest,  and  their  credit 
to  flattery?  Gross,  fulsome,  abusive  flattery; 
indeed  more  abusive  and  reproachful  upon  a 
true  estimate  of  things  and  persons,  than  the 
rudest  scoffs,  and  the  sharpest  invectives. 
Yet  so  it  is,  that  though  men  know  themselves 
utterly  void  of  those  qualities  and  perfections, 
which  the  imprudent  sycophant,  at  the  same 
time,  both  ascribes  to  them,  and  in  his  sleeve 
laughs  at  them  for  believing;  nay,  though 
they  know  that  the  flatterer  himself  knows  the 
falsehood  of  his  own  flatteries,  yet  they  swallow 
the  fallacious  morsel,  love  the  impostor,  and 
with  both  arms  hug  the  abuse ;  and  that  to  such 
a  degree,  that  no  otlices  of  friendship,  no  real 


174 


ROBERT    SOUTH 


services  shall  be  able  to  lie  in  the  balance 
against  those  luscious  falsehoods,  which  flattery 
shall  feed  the  mind  of  a/oo/  in  power  with ;  the 
sweetness  of  the  one  infinitely  overcomes  the 
substance  of  the  other. 

And  therefore,  you  shall  seldom  see,  that  such 
an  one  cares  to  have  men  of  worth,  honesty, 
and  veracity  about  him;  for,  such  persons 
cannot  fall  down  and  worship  stocks  and 
stones,  though  they  are  placed  never  so 
high  above  them.  But  their  yea  is  yea,  and 
their  nay,  nay;  and,  they  cannot  admire  a 
fox  for  his  sincerity,  a  wolf  for  his  generosity, 
nor  an  ass  for  his  wit  and  ingenuity;  and 
therefore  can  never  be  acceptable  to  those 
whose  whole  credit,  interest,  and  advantage 
lies  in  their  not  appearing  to  the  world,  what 
they  are  really  in  themselves.  None  are,  or 
can  be  welcome  to  such,  but  those  who  speak 
paint  and  wash  ;  for  that  is  the  thing  they  love; 
and,  no  wonder,  since  it  is  the  thing  they  need. 

There  is  hardly  any  rank,  order,  or  degree 
of  men,  but  more  or  less  have  been  captivated, 
and  enslaved  by  words.  It  is  a  weakness,  or 
rather  a  fate,  which  attends  both  high  and  low. 
The  statesman,  who  holds  the  helm,  as  well  as 
the  peasant  who  holds  the  plough.  So  that  if 
ever  you  find  an  ignoramus  in  place  or  power, 
and  can  have  so  little  conscience,  and  so  much 
confidence,  as  to  tell  him  to  his  face,  that  he 
has  a  wit  and  understanding  above  all  the  world 
beside;  and  that  what  his  own  reason  cannot 
suggest  to  him,  neither  can  the  united  reasons 
of  all  mankind  put  together;  I  dare  undertake, 
that,  as  fulsome  a  dose  as  you  give  him,  he 
shall  readily  take  it  down,  and  admit  the  com- 
mendation, though  he  cannot  believe  the  thing: 
Blanditiae  etiam  cum  excluduntur  placent; ' 
says  Seneca.  Tell  him,  that  no  history  or 
antiquity  can  match  his  policies  and  his  con- 
duct ;  and  presently  the  sot  (because  he  knows 
neither  history,  nor  antiquity)  shall  begin  to 
measure  himself  by  himself,  (which  is  the  only 
sure  way  for  him  not  to  fall  short) ;  and  so  imme- 
diately amongst  his  outward  admirers,  and  his 
inward  despisers,  vouched  also  by  a  teste  me- 
ipso,  he  steps  forth  an  exact  politician;  and, 
by  a  wonderful,  and  new  way  of  arguing, 
proves  himself  no  fool,  because,  forsooth,  the 
sycophant,  who  tells  him  so,  is  an  egregious 
knave. 

But  to  give  you  a  yet  grosser  instance  of  the 
force  of  words,  and  of  the  extreme  variety  of 
man's  nature  in    being    influenced  by  them, 

'  Flattery  pleases  even  when  rejected. 


hardly  shall  you  meet  with  any  person,  man  or 
woman,  so  aged,  or  ill-favoured,  but  if  you  will 
venture  to  commend  them  for  their  comeliness ; 
nay,  and  for  their  youth  too;  though  time  out 
of  mind  is  wrote  upon  every  line  of  their  face ; 
yet  they  shall  take  it  very  well  at  your  hands, 
and  begin  to  think  with  themselves,  that  cer- 
tainly they  have  some  perfections,  which  the 
generality  of  the  world  are  not  so  happy  as 
to  be  aware  of. 

But  now,  are  not  these  (think  we)  strange 
self-delusions,  and  yet  attested  by  common 
experience,  almost  every  day?  But  whence, 
in  the  meantime,  can  all  this  proceed,  but  from 
that  besotting  intoxication,  which  this  verbal 
magic  (as  I  may  so  call  it)  brings  upon  the 
mind  of  man?  For,  can  anything  in  nature 
have  a  more  certain,  deep,  and  undeniable 
effect,  than  folly  has  upon  man's  mind,  and  age 
upon  his  body?  And  yet  we  see,  that  in  both 
these,  words  are  able  to  persuade  men  out  of 
what  they  find  and  feel,  to  reverse  the  very 
impressions  of  sense,  and  to  amuse  men  with 
fancies  and  paradoxes  even  in  spite  of  nature, 
and  experience.  But,  since  it  would  be  end- 
less to  pursue  all  the  particulars  in  which  this 
humour  shows  itself;  whosoever  would  have 
one  full,  lively,  and  complete  view  of  an  empty, 
shallow,  self-opinioned  grandee,  surrounded  by 
his  flatterers,  (like  a  choice  dish  of  meat  by 
a  company  of  fellows  commending,  and  devour- 
ing it  at  the  same  time),  let  him  cast  his  eye 
upon  Ahab  in  the  midst  of  his  false  Prophets, 
I  Kings  22.  Where  we  have  them  all  with  one 
voice  for  giving  him  a  cast  of  their  court-proph- 
ecy, and  sending  him,  in  a  compliment,  to 
be  knocked  on  the  head  at  Ramoth  Gilead. 
But,  says  Jehoshaphat,  (who  smelt  the  parasite 
through  the  prophet)  in  the  7th  verse,  Is 
there  not  a  Prophet  of  the  Lord  besides,  that  we 
may  inquire  of  him?  Why  yes,  says  Ahab, 
there  is  yet  one  man  by  whom  we  may  inquire 
of  the  Lord;  but  I  hate  him,  for  he  doth  not 
prophesy  good  concerning  me,  but  evil.  Ah ! 
that  was  his  crime ;  the  poor  man  was  so  good 
a  subject,  and  so  bad  a  courtier,  as  to  venture 
to  serve,  and  save  his  Prince,  whether  he  would 
or  no ;  for,  it  seems,  to  give  Ahab  such  warning, 
as  might  infallibly  have  prevented  his  destruc- 
tion, was  esteemed  by  him  evil,  and  to  push  him 
on  headlong  into  it,  because  he  was  fond  of 
it,  was  accounted  good.  These  were  his  new 
measures  of  good  and  evil.  And  therefore, 
those  who  knew  how  to  make  their  court  better, 
(as  the  word  is)  tell  him  a  liold  lie  in  God's 
name,  and  therewith  sent  him  packing  to  his 


THE    FATAL    IMPOSTURE    AND    FORCE    OF    WORDS 


175 


certain  doom ;  thus  calling  evil  good  at  the  cost 
of  their  Prince's  crown,  and  his  life  too.  But 
what  cared  they?  they  knew  that  it  would 
please,  and  that  was  enough  for  them;  there 
being  always  a  sort  of  men  in  the  world,  (whom 
others  have  an  interest  to  serve  by,)  who  had 
rather  a  great  deal  be  pleased,  than  be  safe. 
Strike  them  under  the  fifth  rib;  provided  at 
the  same  time  you  kiss  them  too,  as  Joab  served 
Abner,  and  you  may  both  destroy  and  oblige 
them  with  the  same  blow. 

Accordingly  in  the  30th  of  Isaiah  we  find 
some  arrived  to  that  pitch  of  sottishness,  and 
so  much  in  love  with  their  own  ruin,  as  to  own 


plainly  and  roundly  what  they  would  be  at; 
in  the  loth  verse;  Prophesy  not  unto  us,  say 
they,  right  things,  but  prophesy  to  us  smooth 
things.  As  if  they  had  said,  do  but  oil  the  razor 
for  us,  and  let  us  alone  to  cut  our  own  throats. 
Such  an  enchantment  is  there  in  words;  and  so 
fine  a  thing  does  it  seem  to  some,  to  be  ruined 
plausibly,  and  to  be  ushered  to  their  destruc- 
tion with  panegyric  and  acclamation ;  a  shame- 
ful, though  irrefragai)le  argument  of  the  absurd 
empire  and  usurpation  of  words  over  things; 
and,  that  the  greatest  affairs,  and  most  impor- 
tant interests  of  the  world,  are  carried  on  by 
things,  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  are  called. 


THE    EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 


DANIEL  DEFOE   (i66i?-i73i) 

From    THE     LIFE,    ADVENTURES,    AND 

PIR.\CIES,   OF   THE   FAMOUS 

CAPTAIN   SINGLETON 

We  cruised  near  two  years  in  those  seas, 
chiefly  upon  the  Spaniards;  not  that  we  made 
any  difficulty  of  taking  English  ships,  or  Dutch, 
or  French,  if  they  came  in  our  way;  and 
particularly.  Captain  Wilmot  attacked  a  New 
England  ship  bound  from  the  Madeiras  to 
Jamaica,  and  another  bound  from  New  York 
to  Barbados,  with  provisions;  which  last  was 
a  very  happy  supply  to  us.  But  the  reason 
why  we  meddled  as  little  with  English  vessels 
as  we  could,  was,  first,  because,  if  they  were 
ships  of  any  force,  we  were  sure  of  more  re- 
sistance from  them ;  and,  secondly,  because  we 
found  the  English  ships  had  less  booty  when 
taken,  for  the  Spaniards  generally  had  money 
on  board,  and  that  was  what  we  best  knew 
what  to  do  with.  Captain  Wilmot  was,  in- 
deed, more  particularly  cruel  when  he  took  any 
English  vessel,  that  they  might  not  too  soon 
have  advice  of  him  in  England;  and  so  the 
men-of-war  have  orders  to  look  out  for  him. 
But  this  part  I  bury  in  silence  for  the  present. 

We  increased  our  stock  in  these  two  years 
considerably,  having  taken  60,000  pieces  of 
eight  in  one  vessel,  and  100,000  in  another; 
and  being  thus  first  grown  rich,  we  resolved  to 
be  strong  too,  for  we  had  taken  a  brigantine 
built  at  Virginia,  an  excellent  sea-boat,  and  a 
good  sailer,  and  able  to  carry  twelve  guns; 
and  a  large  Spanish  frigate-built  ship,  that  sailed 
incomparably  well  also,  and  which  afterwards, 
by  the  help  of  good  carpenters,  we  fitted  up  to 
carry  twenty-eight  guns.  And  now  we  wanted 
more  hands,  so  we  put  away  for  the  Bay  of 
Campeachy,  not  doubting  we  should  ship  as 
many  men  there  as  we  pleased ;  and  so  we  did. 

Here  we  sold  the  sloop  that  I  was  in;  and 
Captain  Wilmot  keeping  his  own  ship,  I  took 
the  command  of  the  Spanish  frigate  as  captain, 
and  my  comrade  Harris  as  eldest  lieutenant, 
and  a  bold  enterprising  fellow  he  was,  as  any 
the  world  afforded.     One  culverdine  was  put 


into  the  brigantine,  so  that  we  were  now  three 
stout  ships,  well  manned,  and  victualled  for 
twelve  months ;  for  we  had  taken  two  or  three 
sloops  from  New  England  and  New  York, 
laden  with  flour,  peas,  and  barrelled  beef  and 
pork,  going  for  Jamaica  and  Barbados;  and 
for  more  beef  we  went  on  shore  on  the  island  of 
Cuba,  where  we  killed  as  many  black  cattle  as 
we  pleased,  though  we  had  very  little  salt  to 
cure  them. 

Out  of  all  the  prizes  we  took  here  we  took 
their  powder  and  bullet,  their  small-arms  and 
cutlasses;  and  as  for  their  men,  we  always 
took  the  surgeon  and  the  carpenter,  as  persons 
who  were  of  particular  use  to  us  upon  many 
occasions;  nor  were  they  always  unwilling  to 
go  with  us,  though  for  their  own  security,  in 
case  of  accidents,  they  might  easily  pretend 
they  were  carried  away  by  force;  of  which  I 
shall  give  a  pleasant  account  in  the  course  of 
my  other  expeditions. 

We  had  one  very  merry  fellow  here,  a 
Quaker,  whose  name  was  William  Walters, 
whom  we  took  out  of  a  sloop  bound  from  Penn- 
sylvania to  Barbados.  He  was  a  surgeon, 
and  they  called  him  doctor;  but  he  was  not 
employed  in  the  sloop  as  a  surgeon,  but  was 
going  to  Barbados  to  get  a  berth,  as  the  sailors 
call  it.  However,  he  had  all  his  surgeon's 
chests  on  board,  and  we  made  him  go  with 
us,  and  take  all  his  implements  with  him.  He 
was  a  comic  fellow  indeed,  a  man  of  very  good 
solid  sense,  and  an  excellent  surgeon;  but, 
what  was  worth  all,  very  good-humoured  and 
pleasant  in  his  conversation,  and  a  bold,  stout, 
brave  fellow  too,  as  any  we  had  among  us. 

I  found  William,  as  I  thought,  not  very 
averse  to  go  along  with  us,  and  yet  resolved  to 
do  it  so  that  it  might  be  apparent  he  was  taken 
away  by  force,  and  to  this  purpose  he  comes  to 
me.  "Friend,"  says  he,  "thou  sayest  I  must 
go  with  thee,  and  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  resist 
thee  if  I  would;  but  I  desire  thou  wilt  oblige 
the  master  of  the  sloop  which  I  am  on  board  to 
certify  under  his  hand,  that  I  was  taken  away 
by  force  and  against  my  will."  And  this  he 
said  with  so  much  satisfaction  in  his  face,  that 


176 


THE  LIFE,  ADVENTURES,  AND  PIRACIES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON     177 


I  could  not  but  understand  him.  "Ay,  ay," 
says  I,  "whether  it  be  against  your  will  or  no, 
I'll  make  him  and  all  the  men  give  you  a  cer- 
tificate of  it,  or  I'll  take  them  all  along  with  us, 
and  keep  them  till  they  do."  So  I  drew  up  a 
certificate  myself,  wherein  I  wrote  that  he  was 
taken  away  by  main  force,  as  a  prisoner,  by  a 
pirate  ship;  that  they  carried  away  his  chest 
and  instruments  first,  and  then  bound  his 
hands  behind  him  and  forced  him  into  their 
boat;  and  this  was  signed  by  the  master  and 
all  his  men. 

Accordingly  I  fell  a-swearing  at  him,  and 
called  to  my  men  to  tie  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  so  we  put  him  into  our  boat  and  carried 
him  away.  When  I  had  him  on  board,  I 
called  him  to  me.  "Now,  friend,"  says  I, 
"I  have  brought  you  away  by  force,  it  is  true, 
but  I  am  not  of  the  opinion  I  have  brought  you 
away  so  much  against  your  will  as  they  imagine. 
Come,"  says  I,  "you  will  be  a  useful  man  to  us, 
and  you  shall  have  very  good  usage  among  us." 
So  I  unbound  his  hands,  and  first  ordered  all 
things  that  belonged  to  him  to  be  restored  to 
him,  and  our  captain  gave  him  a  dram. 

"Thou  hast  dealt  friendly  by  me,"  says  he, 
"and  I  will  be  plain  with  thee,  whether  I  came 
willingly  to  thee  or  not.  I  sliall  make  myself 
as  useful  to  thee  as  I  can,  but  thou  knowest  it 
is  not  my  business  to  meddle  when  thou  art 
to  fight."  "No,  no,"  says  the  captain,  "but 
you  may  meddle  a  little  when  we  share  the 
money."  "Those  things  are  useful  to  furnish 
a  surgeon's  chest,"  says  William,  and  smiled, 
"but  I  shall  1)6  moderate." 

In  short,  William  was  a  most  agreeable 
companion ;  but  he  had  the  better  of  us  in  this 
part,  that  if  we  were  taken  we  were  sure  to  be 
hanged,  and  he  was  sure  to  escape;  and  he 
knew  it  well  enough.  But,  in  short,  he  was  a 
sprightly  fellow,  and  fitter  to  be  captain  than 
any  of  us.  I  shall  have  often  an  occasion  to 
speak  of  him  in  the  rest  of  the  story. 

Our  cruising  so  long  in  these  seas  began  now 
to  be  so  well  known,  that  not  in  England  only, 
but  in  France  and  Spain,  accounts  had  been 
made  public  of  our  adventures,  and  many  sto- 
ries told  how  we  murdered  the  people  in  cold 
blood,  tying  them  back  to  back,  and  throw- 
ing them  into  the  sea;  one-half  of  which,  how- 
ever, was  not  true,  though  more  was  done  than 
is  fit  to  speak  of  here. 

The  consequence  of  this,  however,  was,  that 
several  English  men-of-war  were  sent  to  the 
West  Indies,  and  were  particularly  instructed 
to  cruise  in  the  Bay  of  Mexico,  and  the  Gulf 


of  Florida,  and  among  the  Bahama  Islands,  if 
possiljle,  to  attack  us.  We  were  not  so  ignorant 
of  things  as  not  to  expect  this,  after  so  long  a 
stay  in  that  part  of  the  world;  but  the  first 
certain  account  we  had  of  them  was  at  Hon- 
duras, when  a  vessel  coming  in  from  Jamaica 
told  us  that  two  English  men-of-war  were 
coming  directly  from  Jamaica  thither  in  quest 
of  us.  We  were  indeed  as  it  were  embayed, 
and  could  not  have  made  the  least  shift  to  have 
got  off,  if  they  had  come  directly  to  us;  but, 
as  it  happened,  somebody  had  informed  them 
that  we  were  in  the  Bay  of  Campeachy,  and 
they  went  directly  thither,  by  which  we  were 
not  only  free  of  them,  but  were  so  much  to  the 
windward  of  them,  that  they  could  not  make 
any  attempt  upon  us,  though  they  had  known 
we  were  there. 

We  took  this  advantage,  and  stood  away  for 
Carthagena,  and  from  thence  w'ith  great  diffi- 
culty beat  it  up  at  a  distance  from  under  the 
shore  for  St.  Martha,  till  we  came  to  the  Dutch 
island  of  Curagoa,  and  from  thence  to  the  island 
of  Tobago,  which,  as  before,  was  our  rendez- 
vous; which,  being  a  deserted,  uninhabited 
island,  we  at  the  same  time  made  use  of  for  a  re- 
treat. Here  the  captain  of  the  brigantine  died, 
and  Captain  Harris,  at  that  time  my  lieuten- 
ant, took  the  command  of  the  brigantine. 

Here  we  came  to  a  resolution  to  go  away 
to  the  coast  of  Brazil,  and  from  thence  to  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  so  for  the  East  Indies; 
but  Captain  Harris,  as  I  have  said,  being  now 
captain  of  the  brigantine,  alleged  that  his  ship 
was  too  small  for  so  long  a  voyage,  but  that,  if 
Captain  Wilmot  would  consent,  he  would  take 
the  hazard  of  another  cruise,  and  he  would 
follow  us  in  the  first  ship  he  could  take.  So  we 
appointed  our  rendezvous  to  be  at  Madagascar, 
which  was  done  by  my  recommendation  of  the 
place,  and  the  plenty  of  provisions  to  be  had 
there. 

Accordingly,  he  went  away  from  us  in  an  evil 
hour;  for,  instead  of  taking  a  ship  to  follow 
us,  he  was  taken,  as  I  heard  afterwards,  by  an 
English  man-of-war,  and  being  laid  in  irons, 
died  of  mere  grief  and  anger  before  he  came  to 
England.  His  lieutenant,  I  have  heard,  was 
afterwards  executed  in  England  for  a  pirate; 
and  this  was  the  end  of  the  man  who  first  brought 
me  into  this  unhappy  trade. 

We  parted  from  Tol^ago  three  days  after, 
bending  our  course  for  the  coast  of  Brazil, 
but  had  not  been  at  sea  above  twenty-four 
hours,  when  we  were  separated  by  a  terrible 
storm,  which  held  three  days,  with  very  little 


DANIEL    DEFOE 


abatement  or  intermission.  In  this  juncture 
Captain  Wilmot  happened,  unluckily,  to  be  on 
board  my  ship,  to  his  great  mortification;  for 
we  not  only  lost  sight  of  his  ship,  but  never  saw 
her  more  till  we  came  to  Madagascar,  where 
she  was  cast  away.  In  short,  after  having 
in  this  tempest  lost  our  fore-topmast,  we  were 
forced  to  put  back  to  the  isle  of  Tobago  for 
shelter,  and  to  repair  our  damage,  which  brought 
us  all  very  near  our  destruction. 

We  were  no  sooner  on  shore  here,  and  all 
very  busy  looking  out  for  a  piece  of  timber  for 
a  topmast,  but  we  perceived  standing  in  for  the 
shore  an  English  man-of-war  of  thirty-six  guns. 
It  was  a  great  surprise  to  us  indeed,  because  we 
were  disabled  so  much ;  but,  to  our  great  good 
fortune,  we  lay  pretty  snug  and  close  among 
the  high  rocks,  and  the  man-of-war  did  not  see 
us,  but  stood  off  again  upon  his  cruise.  So  we 
only  observed  which  way  she  went,  and  at  night, 
leaving  our  work,  resolved  to  stand  off  to  sea, 
steering  the  contrary  way  from  that  which  we 
observed  she  went;  and  this,  we  found,  had 
the  desired  success,  for  we  saw  him  no  more. 
We  had  gotten  an  old  mizzen-topmast  on 
board,  which  made  us  a  jury  fore-topmast  for 
the  present ;  and  so  we  stood  away  for  the  isle 
of  Trinidad,  where,  though  there  were  Span- 
iards on  shore,  yet  we  landed  some  men  with 
our  boat,  and  cut  a  very  good  piece  of  fir  to 
make  us  a  new  topmast,  which  we  got  fitted 
up  effectually;  and  also  we  got  some  cattle 
here  to  eke  out  our  provisions;  and  calling  a 
council  of  war  among  ourselves,  we  resolved  to 
quit  those  seas  for  the  present,  and  steer  away 
for  the  coast  of  Brazil. 

The  first  thing  we  attempted  here  was  only 
getting  fresh  water,  but  we  learned  that  there 
lay  the  Portuguese  fleet  at  the  bay  of  All  Saints, 
bound  for  Lisbon,  ready  to  sail,  and  only  waited 
for  a  fair  wind.  This  made  us  lie  by,  wishing 
to  see  them  put  to  sea,  and,  accordingly  as  they 
were  with  or  without  convoy,  to  attack  or  avoid 
them. 

It  sprung  up  a  fresh  gale  in  the  evening  at 
S.W.  by  W.,  which,  being  fair  for  the  Portugal 
fleet,  and  the  weather  pleasant  and  agreeable, 
we  heard  the  signal  given  to  unmoor,  and 
running  in  under  the  island  of  Si — ,  we  hauled 
our  mainsail  and  foresail  up  in  the  brails, 
lowered  the  topsail  upon  the  cap,  and  clewed 
them  up,  that  we  might  lie  as  snug  as  we  could, 
expecting  their  coming  out,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing saw  the  whole  fleet  come  out  accordingly, 
but  not  at  all  to  our  satisfaction,  for  they  con- 
sisted of  twenty-six  sail,  and  most  of  them  ships 


of  force,  as  well  as  burthen,  both  merchant- 
men and  men-of-war;  so,  seeing  there  was  no 
meddling,  we  lay  still  where  we  were  also,  till 
the  fleet  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  stood  off 
and  on,  in  hopes  of  meeting  with  further 
purchase. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  saw  a  sail,  and 
immediately  gave  her  chase;  but  she  proved 
an  excellent  sailer,  and,  standing  out  to  sea,  we 
saw  plainly  she  trusted  to  her  heels  —  that  is  to 
say,  to  her  sails.  However,  as  we  were  a  clean 
ship,  we  gained  upon  her,  though  slowly,  and 
had  we  had  a  day  before  us,  we  should  certainly 
have  come  up  with  her;  but  it  grew  dark  apace, 
and  in  that  case  we  knew  we  should  lose  sight 
of  her. 

Our  merry  Quaker,  perceiving  us  to  crowd 
still  after  her  in  the  dark,  wherein  we  could  not 
see  which  way  she  went,  came  very  dryly  to 
me.  "Friend  Singleton,"  says  he,  "dost  thee 
know  what  we  are  a-doing?"  Says  I,  "Yes; 
why,  we  are  chasing  yon  ship,  are  we  not?" 
"And  how  dost  thou  know  that?"  said  he, 
very  gravely  still.  "Nay,  that's  true,"  says 
I  again;  "we  cannot  be  sure."  "Yes,  friend," 
says  he,  "I  think  we  may  be  sure  that  we  are 
running  away  from  her,  not  chasing  her.  I 
am  afraid,"  adds  he,  "thou  art  turned  Quaker, 
and  hast  resolved  not  to  use  the  hand  of  power, 
or  art  a  coward,  and  art  flying  from  thy  enemy." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  says  I  (I  think  I 
swore  at  him).  "What  do  you  sneer  at  now? 
You  have  always  one  dry  rub  or  another  to  give 
us." 

"Nay,"  says  he,  "it  is  plain  enough  the  ship 
stood  off  to  sea  due  east,  on  purpose  to  lose  us, 
and  thou  mayest  be  sure  her  business  does  not 
lie  that  way;  for  what  should  she  do  at  the 
coast  of  Africa  in  this  latitude,  which  should 
be  as  far  south  as  Congo  or  Angola?  But  as 
soon  as  it  is  dark,  that  we  would  lose  sight  of 
her,  she  will  tack  and  stand  away  west  again 
for  the  Brazil  coast  and  for  the  bay,  where  thou 
knowest  she  was  going  before ;  and  are  we  not, 
then,  running  away  from  her?  I  am  greatly 
in  hopes,  friend,"  says  the  dry,  gibing  creature, 
"thou  wilt  turn  Quaker,  for  I  see  thou  art  not 
for  fighting." 

"Very  well,  William,"  says  I;  "then  I  shall 
make  an  excellent  pirate."  However,  William 
was  in  the  right,  and  I  apprehended  what  he 
meant  immediately;  and  Captain  Wilmot,  who 
lay  very  sick  in  his  cabin,  overhearing  us,  un- 
derstood him  as  well  as  I,  and  called  out  to 
me  that  William  was  right,  and  it  was  our  best 
way  to  change  our  course,  and  stand  away  for 


THE  LIFE,  ADVENTURES,  AND  PIRACIES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON     179 


the  bay,  where  it  was  ten  to  one  but  we  should 
snap  her  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly  we  went  about-ship,  got  our  lar- 
board tacks  on  board,  set  the  top-gallant  sails, 
and  crowded  for  the  bay  of  All  Saints,  where 
we  came  to  an  anchor  early  in  the  morning, 
just  out  of  gunshot  of  the  forts;  we  furled  our 
sails  with  rope-yarns,  that  we  might  haul  home 
the  sheets  without  going  up  to  loose  them,  and, 
lowering  our  main  and  foreyards,  looked  just 
as  if  we  had  lain  there  a  good  while. 

In  two  hours  afterwards  we  saw  our  game 
standing  in  for  the  bay  with  all  the  sail  she  could 
make,  and  she  came  innocently  into  our  very 
mouths,  for  we  lay  still  till  we  saw  her  almost 
within  gunshot,  when,  our  foremost  gears  being 
stretched  fore  and  aft,  we  first  ran  up  our  yards, 
and  then  hauled  home  the  topsail  sheets,  the 
rope-yams  that  furled  them  giving  way  of 
themselves;  the  sails  were  set  in  a  few  minutes; 
at  the  same  time  slipping  our  cable,  we  came 
upon  her  before  she  could  get  under  way  upon 
the  other  tack.  They  were  so  surprised  that 
they  made  little  or  no  resistance,  but  struck 
after  the  first  broadside. 

We  were  considering  what  to  do  with  her, 
when  William  came  to  me.  "Hark  thee, 
friend,"  says  he,  "thou  hast  made  a  fine  piece 
of  work  of  it  now,  hast  thou  not,  to  borrow  thy 
neighbour's  ship  here  just  at  thy  neighbour's 
door,  and  never  ask  him  leave?  Now,  dost 
thou  not  think  there  are  some  men-of-war  in 
the  port?  Thou  hast  given  them  the  alarm 
sufficiently;  thou  wilt  have  them  upon  thy 
back  before  night,  depend  upon  it,  to  ask  thee 
wherefore  thou  didst  so." 

"Truly,  William,"  said  I,  "for  aught  I  know, 
that  may  be  true;  what,  then,  shall  we  do 
next?"  Says  he,  "Thou  hast  but  two  things 
to  do;  either  to  go  in  and  take  all  the  rest,  or 
else  get  thee  gone  before  they  come  out  and  take 
thee;  for  I  see  they  are  hoisting  a  topmast  to 
yon  great  ship,  in  order  to  put  to  sea  immedi- 
ately, and  they  won't  be  long  before  they  come  to 
talk  with  thee,  and  what  wilt  thou  say  to  them 
when  they  ask  thee  why  thou  borrowedst  their 
ship  without  leave?" 

As  William  said,  so  it  was.  We  could  see  by 
our  glasses  they  were  all  in  a  hurry,  manning 
and  fitting  some  sloops  they  had  there,  and  a 
large  man-of-war,  and  it  was  plain  they  would 
soon  be  with  us.  But  we  were  not  at  a  loss  what 
to  do;  we  found  the  ship  we  had  taken  was  la- 
den with  nothing  considerable  for  our  purpose, 
except  some  cocoa,  some  sugar,  and  twenty  bar- 
rels of  flour;  the  rest  of  her  cargo  was  hides;  so 


we  took  out  all  we  thought  fit  for  our  turn,  and, 
among  the  rest,  all  her  ammunition,  great  shot, 
and  small  arms,  and  turned  her  off.  We  also 
took  a  cable  and  three  anchors  she  had,  which 
were  for  our  purpose,  and  some  of  her  sails. 
She  had  enough  left  just  to  carry  her  into  port, 
and  that  was  all. 

Having  done  this,  we  stood  on  upon  the 
Brazil  coast,  southward,  till  we  came  to  the 
mouth  of  the  river  Janeiro.  But  as  we  had 
two  days  the  wind  blowing  hard  at  S.E.  and 
S.S.E.,  we  were  obliged  to  come  to  an  anchor 
under  a  little  island,  and  wait  for  a  wind.  In 
this  time  the  Portuguese  had,  it  seems,  given 
notice  over  land  to  the  governor  there,  that  a 
pirate  was  upon  the  coast;  so  that,  when  we 
came  in  view  of  the  port,  we  saw  two  men-of- 
war  riding  just  without  the  bar,  whereof  one, 
we  found,  was  getting  under  sail  with  all  pos- 
sible speed,  having  slipped  her  cable  on  pur- 
pose to  speak  with  us;  the  other  was  not  so 
forward,  but  was  preparing  to  follow.  In 
less  than  an  hour  they  stood  both  fair  after  us, 
with  all  the  sail  they  could  make. 

Had  not  the  night  come  on,  William's  words 
had  been  made  good ;  they  would  certainly  have 
asked  us  the  question  what  we  did  there,  for 
we  found  the  foremost  ship  gained  upon  us, 
especially  upon  one  tack,  for  we  plied  away 
from  them  to  windward ;  but  in  the  dark  losing 
sight  of  them,  we  resolved  to  change  our  course 
and  stand  away  directly  for  sea,  not  doubting 
that  we  should  lose  them  in  the  night. 

Whether  the  Portuguese  commander  guessed 
we  would  do  so  or  no,  I  know  not;  but  in  the 
morning,  when  the  daylight  appeared,  instead 
of  having  lost  him,  we  found  him  in  chase  of 
us  about  a  league  astern;  only,  to  our  great 
good  fortune,  we  could  see  but  one  of  the  two. 
However,  this  one  was  a  great  ship,  carried 
six-and-forty  guns,  and  an  admirable  sailer,  as 
appeared  by  her  outsailing  us;  for  our  ship  was 
an  excellent  sailer  too,  as  I  have  said  before. 

When  I  found  this,  I  easily  saw  there  was  no 
remedy,  but  we  must  engage;  and  as  we  knew 
we  could  expect  no  quarter  from  these  scoun- 
drels the  Portuguese,  a  nation  I  had  an  original 
aversion  to,  I  let  Captain  Wilmot  know  how  it 
was.  The  captain,  sick  as  he  was,  jumped 
up  in  the  cabin,  and  would  be  led  out  upon  the 
deck  (for  he  was  very  weak)  to  see  how  it  was. 
"Well,"  says  he,  "we'll  fight  them!" 

Our  men  were  all  in  good  heart  before,  but 
to  see  the  captain  so  brisk,  who  had  lain  ill 
of  a  calenture  ten  or  eleven  days,  gave  them 
double  courage,  and  they  went  all  hands  to 


i8o 


DANIEL    DEFOE 


work  to  make  a  clear  ship  and  be  ready.  Will- 
iam, the  Quaker,  comes  to  me  with  a  kind  of 
a  smile.  "Friend,"  says  he,  "what  does  yon 
ship  follow  us  for?"  "Why,"  says  I,  "to 
fight  us,  you  may  be  sure."  "Well,"  says  he, 
"and  will  he  come  up  with  us,  dost  thou  think  ? ' ' 
"Yes,"  said  I,  "you  see  she  will."  "Why, 
then,  friend,"  says  the  dry  wretch,  "why  dost 
thou  run  from  her  still,  when  thou  seest  she 
will  overtake  thee?  Will  it  be  better  for  us 
to  be  overtaken  farther  off  than  here?" 
"Much  as  one  for  that,"  says  I;  "why,  what 
would  you  have  us  do?"  "Do!"  says  he; 
"let  us  not  give  the  poor  man  more  trouble 
than  needs  must ;  let  us  stay  for  him  and  hear 
what  he  has  to  say  to  us."  "He  will  talk  to 
us  in  powder  and  ball,"  said  I.  "Very  well, 
then,"  says  he,  "  if  that  be  his  country  language, 
we  must  talk  to  him  in  the  same,  must  we  not  ? 
or  else  how  shall  he  understand  us?"  "Very 
well,  William,"  says  I,  "we  understand  you." 
And  the  captain,  as  ill  as  he  was,  called  to  me, 
"William's  right  again,"  says  he;  "as  good 
here  as  a  league  farther."  So  he  gives  a  word 
of  command,  "Haul  up  the  main-sail;  we'll 
shorten  sail  for  him." 

Accordingly  we  shortened  sail,  and  as  we 
expected  her  upon  our  lee-side,  we  being  then 
upon  our  starboard  tack,  brought  eighteen  of 
our  guns  to  the  larboard  side,  resolving  to  give 
him  a  broadside  that  should  warm  him.  It 
was  about  half-an-hour  before  he  came  up 
with  us,  all  which  time  we  luffed  up,  that  we 
might  keep  the  wind  of  him,  by  which  he  was 
obliged  to  run  up  under  our  lee,  as  we  designed 
him;  when  we  got  him  upon  our  quarter,  we 
edged  down,  and  received  the  fire  of  five  or 
six  of  his  guns.  By  this  time  you  may  be  sure 
all  our  hands  were  at  their  quarters,  so  we 
clapped  our  helm  hard  a-weather,  let  go  the 
lee-braces  of  the  main-topsail,  and  laid  it  a-back 
and  so  our  ship  fell  athwart  the  Portuguese 
ship's  hawse;  then  we  immediately  poured  in 
our  broadside,  raking  them  fore  and  aft,  and 
killed  them  a  great  many  men. 

The  Portuguese,  we  could  see,  were  in  the 
utmost  confusion ;  and  not  being  aware  of  our 
design,  their  ship  having  fresh  way,  ran  their 
bowsprit  into  the  fore  part  of  our  main  shrouds, 
as  that  they  could  not  easily  get  clear  of  us, 
and  so  we  lay  locked  after  that  manner.  The 
enemy  could  not  bring  above  five  or  six  guns, 
besides  their  small  arms,  to  bear  upon  us,  while 
we  played  our  whole  broadside  upon  him. 

In  the  middle  of  the  heat  of  this  fight,  as  I 
was  very  busy  upon  the  quarter-deck,  the  cap- 


tain calls  to  me,  for  he  never  stirred  from  us, 
"What  the  devil  is  friend  William  a-doing 
yonder?"  says  the  captain;  "has  he  any 
business  upon  deck?"  I  stepped  forward,  and 
there  was  friend  William,  with  two  or  three 
stout  fellows,  lashing  the  ship's  bowsprit  fast 
to  our  main -masts,  for  fear  they  should  get 
away  from  us;  and  every  now  and  then  he 
pulled  a  bottle  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gave  the 
men  a  dram  to  encourage  them.  The  shot 
flew  about  his  ears  as  thick  as  may  be  supposed 
in  such  an  action,  where  the  Portuguese,  to 
give  them  their  due,  fought  very  briskly,  be- 
lieving at  first  they  were  sure  of  their  game, 
and  trusting  to  their  superiority;  but  there  was 
William,  as  composed,  and  in  as  perfect  tran- 
quillity as  to  danger,  as  if  he  had  been  over  a 
bowl  of  punch,  only  very  busy  securing  the 
matter,  that  a  ship  of  forty-six  guns  should 
not  run  away  from  a  ship  of  eight-and- 
twenty. 

This  work  was  too  hot  to  hold  long;  our  men 
behaved  bravely:  our  gunner,  a  gallant  man, 
shouted  below,  pouring  in  his  shot  at  such  a 
rate,  that  the  Portuguese  began  to  slacken  their 
fire;  we  had  dismounted  several  of  their  guns 
by  firing  in  at  their  forecastle,  and  raking  them, 
as  I  said,  fore  and  aft.  Presently  comes  Will- 
iam up  to  me.  "Friend,"  says  he,  very  calmly, 
"what  dost  thou  mean?  Why  dost  thou  not 
visit  thy  neighbour  in  the  ship,  the  door  being 
open  for  thee  ?  "  I  understood  him  immediately, 
for  our  guns  had  so  torn  their  hull,  that  we  had 
beat  two  port-holes  into  one,  and  the  bulk- 
head of  their  steerage  was  split  to  pieces,  so 
that  they  could  not  retire  to  their  close  quarters ; 
so  I  gave  the  word  immediately  to  board  them. 
Our  second  lieutenant,  with  about  thirty  men, 
entered  in  an  instant  over  the  forecastle,  fol- 
lowed by  some  more  with  the  boatswain,  and 
cutting  in  pieces  about  twenty-five  men  that 
they  found  upon  the  deck,  and  then  throwing 
some  grenadoes  into  the  steerage,  they  entered 
there  also;  upon  which  the  Portuguese  cried 
quarter  presently,  and  we  mastered  the  ship, 
contrary  indeed  to  our  own  expectation;  for 
we  would  have  compounded  with  them  if  they 
would  have  sheered  off:  but  laying  them 
athwart  the  hawse  at  first,  and  following  our 
fire  furiously,  without  giving  them  any  time  to  get 
clear  of  us  and  work  their  ship;  by  this  means, 
though  they  had  six-and-forty  guns,  they  were 
not  able  to  fight  above  five  or  six,  as  I  said 
above,  for  we  beat  them  immediately  from  their 
guns  in  the  forecastle,  and  killed  them  abun- 
dance of  men  between  decks,  so  that  when  we 


THE  LIFE,  ADVENTURES,  AND  PIRACIES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON    i8i 


entered  they  had  harrlly  found  men  enough  to 
fight  us  hand  lo  hand  upon  their  deck. 

The  surprise  of  joy  to  hear  the  Portuguese 
cry  quarter,  and  sec  their  ancient  struck,  was 
so  great  to  our  captain,  who,  as  I  have  said, 
was  reduced  very  weak  with  a  high  fever, 
that  it  gave  him  new  life.  Nature  conquered 
the  distemper,  and  the  fever  abated  that  very 
night;  so  that  in  two  or  three  days  he  was 
sensibly  better,  his  strength  began  to  come,  and 
he  was  able  to  give  his  orders  effectually  in  every- 
thing that  was  material,  and  in  about  ten  days 
was  entirely  well  and  about  the  ship. 

In  the  meantime  I  took  possession  of  the 
Portuguese  man-of-war;  and  Captain  Wilmot 
made  me,  or  rather  I  made  myself,  captain  of 
her  for  the  present.  About  thirty  of  their  sea- 
men took  service  with  us,  some  of  which  were 
French,  some  Genoese;  and  we  set  the  rest  on 
shore  the  next  day  on  a  little  island  on  the  coast 
of  Brazil,  except  some  wounded  men,  who  were 
not  in  a  condition  to  be  removed,  and  whom 
we  were  bound  to  keep  on  board;  but  we  had 
an  occasion  afterwards  to  dispose  of  them  at 
the  Cape,  where,  at  their  own  request,  we  set 
them  on  shore. 

Captain  Wilmot,  as  soon  as  the  ship  was 
taken,  and  the  prisoners  stowed,  was  for 
standing  in  for  the  river  Janeiro  again,  not 
doubting  but  we  should  meet  with  the  other 
man-of-war,  who,  not  having  been  able  to  find 
us,  and  having  lost  the  company  of  her  com- 
rade, would  certainly  be  returned,  and  might 
be  surprised  by  the  ship  we  had  taken,  if  we 
carried  Portuguese  colours;  and  our  men  were 
all  for  it. 

But  our  friend  William  gave  us  better  counsel, 
for  he  came  to  me,  "Friend,"  says  he,  "I  under- 
stand the  captain  is  for  sailing  back  to  the  Rio 
Janeiro,  in  hopes  to  meet  with  the  other  ship 
that  was  in  chase  of  thee  yesterday.  Is  it 
true,  dost  thou  intend  it?"  "Why,  yes," 
says  I,  "William,  pray  why  not?"  "Nay," 
says  he,  "thou  mayest  do  so  if  thou  wilt." 
"Well,  I  know  that  too,  William,"  said  I, 
"but  the  captain  is  a  man  will  be  ruled  by  rea- 
son; what  have  you  to  say  to  it?"  "Why," 
says  William  gravely,  "I  only  ask  what  is  thy 
business,  and  the  business  of  all  the  people 
thou  hast  with  thee?  Is  it  not  to  get  money?" 
"Yes,  William,  it  is  so,  in  our  honest  way." 
"And  wouldest  thou,"  says  he,  "rather  have 
money  without  fighting,  or  fighting  without 
money?  I  mean  which  wouldest  thou  have  by 
choice,  suppose  it  to  be  left  to  thee?"  "O 
William,"  says  I,  "the  first  of  the  two,  to  be 


sure."  "Why,  then,"  says  he,  "what  great 
gain  hast  thou  made  of  the  prize  thou  hast 
taken  now,  though  it  has  cost  the  lives  of  thir- 
teen of  thy  men,  besides  some  hurt?  It  is  true 
thou  hast  got  the  ship  and  some  prisoners; 
but  thou  wouldest  have  had  twice  the  booty 
in  a  merchant-ship,  with  not  one-quarter  of  the 
fighting;  and  how  dost  thou  know  either  what 
force  or  what  number  of  men  may  be  in  the 
other  ship,  and  what  loss  thou  mayest  suffer, 
and  what  gain  it  shall  be  to  thee  if  thou  take 
her?  I  think,  indeed,  thou  mayest  much  better 
let  her  alone." 

"Why,  William,  it  is  true,"  said  I,  "and  I'll 
go  tell  the  captain  what  your  opinion  is,  and 
bring  you  word  what  he  says."  Accordingly 
in  I  went  to  the  captain  and  told  him  William's 
reasons;  and  the  captain  was  of  his  mind,  that 
our  business  was  indeed  fighting  when  we  could 
not  help  it,  but  that  our  main  affair  was  money, 
and  that  with  as  few  blows  as  we  could.  So 
that  adventure  was  laid  aside,  and  we  stood 
along  shore  again  south  for  the  river  De  la 
Plata,  expecting  some  purchase  thereabouts; 
especially  we  had  our  eyes  upon  some  of  the 
Spanish  ships  from  Buenos  Ayres,  which  are 
generally  very  rich  in  silver,  and  one  such  prize 
would  have  done  our  business.  We  plied 
about  here,  in  the  latitude  of  —  south,  for  near 
a  month,  and  nothing  offered;  and  here  we 
began  to  consult  what  we  should  do  next, 
for  we  had  come  to  no  resolution  yet.  Indeed, 
my  design  was  always  for  the  Cape  de  Bona 
Speranza,  and  so  to  the  East  Indies.  I  had 
heard  some  flaming  stories  of  Captain  Avery, 
and  the  fine  things  he  had  done  in  the  Indies, 
which  were  doubled  and  doubled,  even  ten 
thousand  fold;  and  from  taking  a  great  prize 
in  the  Bay  of  Bengal,  where  he  took  a  lady, 
said  to  be  the  Great  Mogul's  daughter,  with  a 
great  quantity  of  jewels  aljout  her,  we  had  a 
story  told  us,  that  he  took  a  Mogul  .ship,  so  the 
foolish  sailors  called  it,  laden  with  diamonds. 

I  would  fain  have  had  friend  William's 
advice  whither  we  should  go,  but  he  always 
put  it  off  with  some  quaking  quibble  or  other. 
In  short,  he  did  not  care  for  directing  us  neither; 
whether  he  made  a  piece  of  conscience  of  it, 
or  whether  he  did  not  care  to  venture  having 
it  come  against  him  afterwards  or  no,  this  I 
know  not;  but  we  concluded  at  last  without 
him. 

We  were,  however,  pretty  long  in  resolving, 
and  hankered  about  the  Rio  de  la  Plata  a  long 
time.  At  last  we  spied  a  sail  to  windward,  and 
it  was  such  a  sail  as  I  believe  had  not  been 


l82 


DANIEL    DEFOE 


seen  in  that  part  of  the  world  a  great  while. 
It  wanted  not  that  we  should  give  it  chase,  for 
it  stood  directly  towards  us,  as  well  as  they  that 
steered  could  make  it;  and  even  that  was  more 
accident  of  weather  than  anything  else,  for  if 
the  wind  had  chopped  about  anj-where  they 
must  have  gone  with  it.  I  leave  any  man  that 
is  a  sailor,  or  understands  anything  of  a  ship, 
to  judge  what  a  figure  this  ship  made  when  we 
first  saw  her,  and  what  we  could  imagine  was 
the  matter  with  her.  Her  maintop-mast  was 
come  by  the  board  about  six  foot  above  the 
cap,  and  fell  forward,  the  head  of  the  topgallant- 
mast  hanging  in  the  fore-shrouds  by  the  stay; 
at  the  same  time  the  parrel  of  the  mizzen- 
topsail-yard  by  some  accident  giving  way,  the 
mizzen-topsail-braces  (the  standing  part  of 
which  being  fast  to  the  main-topsail  shrouds) 
brought  the  mizzen -topsail,  yard  and  all, 
down  with  it,  which  spread  over  part  of 
the  quarter-deck  like  an  awning;  the  fore- 
topsail  was  hoisted  up  two-thirds  of  the  mast, 
but  the  sheets  were  flown;  the  fore-yard  was 
lowered  down  upon  the  forecastle,  the  sail  loose, 
and  part  of  it  hanging  overboard.  In  this 
manner  she  came  down  upon  us  with  the 
wind  quartering.  In  a  word,  the  figure  the 
whole  ship  made  was  the  most  confounding 
to  men  that  understood  the  sea  that  ever  was 
seen.  She  had  no  boat,  neither  had  she  any 
colours  out. 

When  we  came  near  to  her,  we  fired  a  gun 
to  bring  her  to.  She  took  no  notice  of  it,  nor 
of  us,  but  came  on  just  as  she  did  before.  We 
fired  again,  but  it  was  all  one.  At  length  we 
came  within  pistol-shot  of  one  another,  but 
nobody  answered  nor  appeared;  so  we  began 
to  think  that  it  was  a  ship  gone  ashore  some- 
where in  distress,  and  the  men  having  forsaken 
her,  the  high  tide  had  floated  her  off  to  sea. 
Coming  nearer  to  her,  we  ran  up  alongside  of 
her  so  close  that  we  could  hear  a  noise  within 
her,  and  see  the  motion  of  several  people 
through  her  ports. 

Upon  this  we  manned  out  two  boats  full  of 
men,  and  very  well  armed,  and  ordered  them 
to  board  her  at  the  same  minute,  as  near  as 
they  could,  and  to  enter  one  at  her  fore-chains 
on  the  one  side,  and  the  other  amidships  on  the 
other  side.  As  soon  as  they  came  to  the  ship's 
side,  a  surprising  multitude  of  black  sailors, 
such  as  they  were,  appeared  upon  deck,  and, 
in  short,  terrified  our  men  so  much  that  the 
boat  which  was  to  enter  her  men  in  the  waist 
stood  off  again,  and  durst  not  board  her;  and 
the  men  that  entered  out  of  the  other  boat, 


finding  the  first  boat,  as  they  thought,  beaten 
off,  and  seeing  the  ship  full  of  men,  jumped 
all  back  again  into  their  boat,  and  put  off,  not 
knowing  what  the  matter  was.  Upon  this  we 
prepared  to  pour  in  a  broadside  upon  her;  but 
our  friend  William  set  us  to  rights  again  here; 
for  it  seems  he  guessed  how  it  was  sooner  than 
we  did,  and  coming  up  to  me  (for  it  was  our 
ship  that  came  up  with  her),  "Friend,"  says 
he,  "I  am  of  opinion  that  thou  art  wrong  in 
this  matter,  and  thy  men  have  been  wrong  also 
in  their  conduct.  I'll  tell  thee  how  thou  shalt 
take  this  ship,  without  making  use  of  those 
things  called  guns."  "How  can  that  be, 
William?"  said  I.  "Why,"  said  he,  "thou 
mayest  take  her  with  thy  helm;  thou  seest 
they  keep  no  steerage,  and  thou  seest  the  con- 
dition they  are  in ;  board  her  with  thy  ship  upon 
her  lee  quarter,  and  so  enter  her  from  the  ship. 
I  am  persuaded  thou  wilt  take  her  without 
fighting,  for  there  is  some  mischief  has  befallen 
the  ship,  which  we  know  nothing  of." 

In  a  word,  it  being  a  smooth  sea,  and  little 
wind,  I  took  his  advice,  and  laid  her  aboard. 
Immediately  our  men  entered  the  ship,  where 
we  found  a  large  ship,  with  upwards  of  600 
negroes,  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  and 
not  one  Christian  or  white  man  on  board. 

I  was  struck  with  horror  at  the  sight;  for 
immediately  I  concluded,  as  was  partly  the  case, 
that  these  black  devils  had  got  loose,  had  mur- 
dered all  the  white  men,  and  thrown  them 
into  the  sea;  and  I  had  no  sooner  told  my 
mind  to  the  men,  but  the  thought  so  enraged 
them  that  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  my  men 
from  cutting  them  all  in  pieces.  But  William, 
with  many  persuasions,  prevailed  upon  them, 
by  telling  them  that  it  was  nothing  but  what,  if 
they  were  in  the  negroes'  condition,  they  would 
do  if  they  could;  and  that  the  negroes  had 
really  the  highest  injustice  done  them,  to  be 
sold  for  slaves  without  their  consent ;  and  that 
the  law  of  nature  dictated  it  to  them;  that 
they  ought  not  to  kill  them,  and  that  it  would 
be  wilful  murder  to  do  it. 

This  prevailed  with  them,  and  cooled  their 
first  heat;  so  they  only  knocked  down  twenty 
or  thirty  of  them,  and  the  rest  ran  all  down 
between  decks  to  their  first  places,  believing, 
as  we  fancied,  that  we  were  their  first  masters 
come  again. 

It  was  a  most  unaccountable  difficulty  we 
had  next ;  for  we  could  not  make  them  under- 
stand one  word  we  said,  nor  could  we  under- 
stand one  word  ourselves  that  they  said.  We 
endeavoured   by   signs   to   ask   them   whence 


THE  LIFE,  ADVENTURES,  AND  PIRACIES  OF  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON     183 


they  came;  but  they  could  make  nothing  of  it. 
We  pointed  to  the  great  cabin,  to  the  round- 
house, to  the  cook-room,  then  to  our  faces,  to 
ask  if  they  had  no  white  men  on  board,  and 
where  they  were  gone;  but  they  coukl  not 
understand  what  we  meant.  On  the  other 
hand,  they  pointed  to  our  boat  and  to  their 
ship,  asking  questions  as  well  as  they  could, 
and  said  a  thousand  things,  and  expressed 
themselves  with  great  earnestness;  but  we 
could  not  understand  a  word  of  it  all,  or  know 
what  they  meant  by  any  of  their  signs. 

We  knew  very  well  they  must  have  been 
taken  on  board  the  ship  as  slaves,  and  that  it 
must  be  by  some  European  people  too.  We 
could  easily  see  that  the  ship  was  a  Dutch- 
built  ship,  but  very  much  altered,  having 
been  built  upon,  and,  as  we  supposed,  in  France ; 
for  we  found  two  or  three  French  books  on  board, 
and  afterwards  we  found  clothes,  linen,  lace, 
some  old  shoes,  and  several  other  things.  We 
found  among  the  provisions  some  barrels  of 
Irish  beef,  some  Newfoundland  fish,  and 
several  other  evidences  that  there  had  been 
Christians  on  board,  but  saw  no  remains  of 
them.  We  found  not  a  sword,  gun,  pistol,  or 
weapon  of  any  kind,  except  some  cutlasses; 
and  the  negroes  had  hid  them  below  where  they 
lay.  We  asked  them  what  was  become  of  all 
the  small  arms,  pointing  to  our  own  and  to  the 
places  where  those  belonging  to  the  ship  had 
hung.  One  of  the  negroes  understood  me 
presently,  and  beckoned  to  me  to  come  upon 
the  deck,  where,  taking  my  fuzee,  which  I 
never  let  go  out  of  my  hand  for  some  time  after 
we  had  mastered  the  ship  —  I  say,  offering  to 
take  hold  of  it,  he  made  the  proper  motion 
of  throwing  it  into  the  sea;  by  which  I  under- 
stood, as  I  did  afterwards,  that  they  had 
thrown  all  the  small  arms,  powder,  shot, 
swords,  etc.,  into  the  sea,  believing,  as  I  sup- 
posed, those  things  would  kill  them,  though  the 
men  were  gone. 

After  we  understood  this  we  made  no  ques- 
tion but  that  the  ship's  crew,  having  been  sur- 
prised by  these  desperate  rogues,  had  gone  the 
same  way,  and  had  been  thrown  overboard 
also.  We  looked  all  over  the  ship  to  see  if  we 
could  find  any  blood,  and  we  thought  we  did 
perceive  some  in  several  places;  but  the  heat 
of  the  sun,  melting  the  pitch  and  tar  upon  the 
decks,  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  discern  it 
exactly,  except  in  the  round-house,  where  we 
plainly  saw  that  there  had  been  much  blood. 
We  found  the  scuttle  open,  by  which  we  sup- 
posed that  the  captain  and  those  that  were  with 


him  had  made  their  retreat  into  the  great  cabin, 
or  those  in  the  cabin  had  made  their  escape 
up  into  the  round-house. 

But  that  which  confirmed  us  most  of  all  in 
what  had  happened  was  that,  upon  further 
inquiry,  we  found  that  there  were  seven  or 
eight  of  the  negroes  very  much  wounded,  two 
or  three  of  them  with  shot,  whereof  one  had 
his  leg  broken  and  lay  in  a  miserable  condition, 
the  flesh  being  mortified,  and,  as  our  friend 
William  said,  in  two  days  more  he  would  have 
died.  William  was  a  most  dexterous  surgeon, 
and  he  showed  it  in  this  cure;  for  though  all 
the  surgeons  we  had  on  board  both  our  ships 
(and  we  had  no  less  than  five  that  called  them- 
selves bred  surgeons,  besides  two  or  three  who 
were  pretenders  or  assistants)  —  though  all 
these  gave  their  opinions  that  the  negro's  leg 
must  be  cut  off,  and  that  his  life  could  not  be 
saved  without  it;  that  the  mortification  had 
touched  the  marrow  in  the  bone,  that  the 
tendons  were  mortified,  and  that  he  could 
never  have  the  use  of  his  leg  if  it  .should  be 
cured,  William  said  nothing  in  general,  but  that 
his  opinion  was  otherwise,  and  that  he  desired 
the  wound  might  be  searched,  and  that  he 
would  then  tell  them  further.  Accordingly 
he  went  to  work  with  the  leg;  and,  as  he  de- 
sired that  he  might  have  some  of  the  surgeons 
to  assist  him,  we  appointed  him  two  of  the 
ablest  of  them  to  help,  and  all  of  them  to  look 
on,  if  they  thought  fit. 

William  went  to  work  his  own  way,  and  some 
of  them  pretended  to  find  fault  at  first.  How- 
ever, he  proceeded  and  searched  every  part  of 
the  leg  where  he  suspected  the  mortification  had 
touched  it;  in  a  word,  he  cut  off  a  great  deal 
of  mortified  flesh,  in  all  which  the  poor  fellow 
felt  no  pain.  William  proceeded  till  he  brought 
the  vessels  which  he  had  cut  to  bleed,  and  the 
man  to  cry  out;  then  he  reduced  the  splinters 
of  the  bone,  and,  calling  for  help,  set  it,  as  we 
call  it,  and  bound  it  up,  and  laid  the  man  to 
rest,  who  found  himself  much  easier  than 
before. 

At  the  first  opening  the  surgeons  began  to 
triumph;  the  mortification  seemed  to  spread, 
and  a  long  red  streak  of  blood  appeared  from 
the  wound  upwards  to  the  middle  of  the  man's 
thigh,  and  the  surgeons  told  me  the  man  would 
die  in  a  few  hours.  I  went  to  look  at  it,  and 
found  William  himself  under  some  surprise; 
but  when  I  asked  him  how  long  he  thought  the 
poor  fellow  could  live,  he  looked  gravely  at 
me,  and  said,  "As  long  as  thou  canst;  I  am 
not  at  all  apprehensive  of  his  life,"  said  he. 


i84 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 


"but  I  would  cure  him,  if  I  could,  without 
making  a  cripple  of  him."  I  found  he  was 
not  just  then  upon  the  operation  as  to  his  leg, 
but  was  mixing  up  something  to  give  the  poor 
creature,  to  repel,  as  I  thought,  the  spreading 
contagion,  and  to  abate  or  prevent  any  feverish 
temper  that  might  happen  in  the  blood;  after 
which  he  went  to  work  again,  and  opened  the 
leg  in  two  places  above  the  wound,  cutting  out 
a  great  deal  of  mortified  flesh,  which  it  seemed 
was  occasioned  by  the  bandage,  which  had 
pressed  the  parts  too  much;  and  withal,  the 
blood  being  at  the  time  in  a  more  than  com- 
mon disposition  to  mortify,  might  assist  to 
spread  it. 

Well,  our  friend  William  conquered  all  this, 
cleared  the  spreading  mortification,  and  the 
red  streak  went  off  again,  the  flesh  began  to 
heal,  and  the  matter  to  run;  and  in  a  few 
days  the  man's  spirits  began  to  recover,  his 
pulse  beat  regular,  he  had  no  fever,  and  gathered 
strength  daily ;  and,  in  a  word,  he  was  a  perfect 
sound  man  in  about  ten  weeks,  and  we  kept  him 
amongst  us,  and  made  him  an  able  seaman. 
But  to  return  to  the  ship:  we  never  could  come 
at  a  certain  information  about  it,  till  some  of 
the  negroes  which  we  kept  on  board,  and  whom 
we  taught  to  speak  English,  gave  the  account 
of  it  afterwards,  and  this  maimed  man  in 
particular. 

We  inquired,  by  all  the  signs  and  motions 
we  could  imagine,  what  was  become  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  yet  we  could  get  nothing  from  them. 
Our  lieutenant  was  for  torturing  some  of  them 
to  make  them  confess,  but  William  opposed 
that  vehemently;  and  when  he  heard  it  was 
under  consideration  he  came  to  me.  "  Friend," 
says  he,  "I  make  a  request  to  thee  not  to  put 
any  of  these  poor  wretches  to  torment."  "Why, 
William,"  said  I,  "why  not?  You  see  they 
will  not  give  any  account  of  what  is  become  of 
the  white  men."  "Nay,"  says  William,  "do 
not  say  so;  I  suppose  they  have  given  thee  a 
full  account  of  every  particular  of  it."  "How 
so?"  says  I;  "pray  what  are  we  the  wiser  for 
all  their  jabbering?"  "Nay,"  says  William, 
"that  may  be  thy  fault,  for  aught  I  know;  thou 
wilt  not  punish  the  poor  men  because  they 
cannot  speak  English ;  and  perhaps  they  never 
heard  a  word  of  English  before.  Now,  I 
may  very  well  suppose  that  they  have  given 
thee  a  large  account  of  everything;  for  thou 
seest  with  what  earnestness,  and  how  long, 
some  of  them  have  talked  to  thee;  and  if  thou 
canst  not  understand  their  language,  nor  they 
thine,  how  can  they  help  that?     At  the  best, 


thou  dost  but  suppose  that  they  have  not  told 
thee  the  whole  truth  of  the  story;  and,  on 
the  contrary,  I  suppose  they  have;  and  how 
wilt  thou  decide  the  question,  whether  thou  art 
right  or  whether  I  am  right?  Besides,  what 
can  they  say  to  thee  when  thou  askest  them  a 
question,  upon  the  torture,  and  at  the  same 
time  they  do  not  understand  the  question,  and 
thou  dost  not  know  whether  they  say  ay  or 
no?" 

It  is  no  compliment  to  my  moderation  to  say 
I  was  convinced  by  these  reasons;  and  yet  we 
had  all  much  ado  to  keep  our  second  lieutenant 
from  murdering  some  of  them,  to  make  them 
tell.  What  if  they  had  told?  He  did  not  un- 
derstand one  word  of  it;  but  he  would  not 
be  persuaded  but  that  the  negroes  must  needs 
understand  him  when  he  asked  them  whether 
the  ship  had  any  boat  or  no,  like  ours,  and  what 
was  become  of  it. 

But  there  was  no  remedy  but  to  wait  till  we 
made  these  people  understand  English,  and  to 
adjourn  the  story  till  that  time. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT  (1667-1745) 

From  THE  TALE   OF  A  TUB 

THE   PREFACE 

The  wits  of  the  present  age  being  so  very 
numerous  and  penetrating,  it  seems  the  gran- 
dees of  Church  and  State  begin  to  fall  under 
horrible  apprehensions  lest  these  gentlemen,  dur- 
ing the  intervals  of  a  long  peace,  should  find  leis- 
ure to  pick  holes  in  the  weak  sides  of  religion 
and  government.  To  prevent  which,  there  has 
been  much  thought  employed  of  late  upon 
certain  projects  for  taking  off  the  force  and 
edge  of  those  formidable  inquirers  from  can- 
vassing and  reasoning  upon  such  delicate 
points.  They  have  at  length  fixed  upon  one, 
which  will  require  some  time  as  well  as  cost 
to  perfect.  Meanwhile,  the  danger  hourly  in- 
creasing, as  by  new  levies  of  wits,  all  appointed 
(as  there  is  reason  to  fear)  with  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  which  may  at  an  hour's  warning  be 
drawn  out  into  pamphlets  and  other  offensive 
weapons  ready  for  immediate  execution,  it 
was  judged  of  absolute  necessity  that  some 
present  expedient  be  thought  on  till  the  main 
design  can  be  brought  to  maturity.  To  this 
end,  at  a  grand  committee,  some  days  ago, 
this  important  discovery  was  made  by  a  certain 
curious  and  refined  observer,  that  seamen  have 
a  custom  when  they  meet  a  Whale  to  fling  him 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TUB 


out  an  empty  Tub,  by  way  of  amusement,  to 
divert  him  from  laying  violent  hands  upon  the 
Ship.  This  parable  was  immediately  mythol- 
ogised;  the  Whale  was  interpreted  to  be 
Hobbes's  "Leviathan,"  which  tosses  and  plays 
with  all  other  schemes  of  religion  and  govern- 
ment, whereof  a  great  many  are  hollow,  and 
dry,  and  empty,  and  noisy,  and  wooden,  and 
given  to  rotation.  This  is  the  Leviathan  from 
whence  the  terrible  wits  of  our  age  are  said 
to  borrow  their  weapons.  The  Ship  in  danger 
is  easily  understood  to  be  its  old  antitype  the 
commonwealth.  But  how  to  analyse  the  Tub 
was  a  matter  of  difficulty,  when,  after  long 
inquiry  and  debate,  the  literal  meaning  was 
preserved,  and  it  was  decreed  that,  in  order  to 
prevent  these  Leviathans  from  tossing  and 
sporting  with  the  commonwealth,  which  of 
itself  is  too  apt  to  fluctuate,  they  should  be 
diverted  from  that  game  by  "A  Tale  of  a  Tub." 
And  my  genius  being  conceived  to  lie  not  un- 
happily that  way,  I  had  the  honour  done  me 
to  be  engaged  in  the  performance. 

This  is  the  sole  design  in  publishing  the 
following  treatise,  which  I  hope  will  serve  for 
an  interim  of  some  months  to  employ  those 
unquiet  spirits  till  the  perfecting  of  that  great 
work,  into  the  secret  of  which  it  is  reasonable 
the  courteous  reader  should  have  some  little 
light. 

It  is  intended  that  a  large  Academy  be 
erected,  capable  of  containing  nine  thousand 
seven  hundred  forty  and  three  persons,  which, 
by  modest  computation,  is  reckoned  to  be  pretty 
near  the  current  number  of  wits  in  this  island. 
These  are  to  be  disposed  into  the  several  schools 
of  this  Academy,  and  there  pursue  those  stud- 
ies to  which  their  genius  most  inclines  them. 
The  undertaker  himself  will  publish  his  pro- 
posals with  all  convenient  speed,  to  which  I 
shall  refer  the  curious  reader  for  a  more  par- 
ticular account,  mentioning  at  present  only  a 
few  of  the  principal  schools.  There  is,  first, 
a  large  pederastic  school,  with  French  and 
Italian  masters;  there  is  also  the  spelling 
school,  a  very  spacious  building;  the  school 
of  looking-glasses;  the  school  of  swearing; 
the  school  of  critics;  the  school  of  salivation; 
the  school  of  hobby-horses ;  the  school  of  poetry ; 
the  school  of  tops;  the  school  of  spleen;  the 
school  of  gaming ;  with  many  others  too  tedious 
to  recount.  No  person  to  be  admitted  member 
into  any  of  these  schools  without  an  attesta- 
tion under  two  sufficient  persons'  hands  certi- 
fying him  to  be  a  wit. 

But  to  return.    I  am  sufficiently  instructed  in 


the  principal  duty  of  a  preface  if  my  genius 
were  capable  of  arriving  at  it.  Thrice  have  I 
forced  my  imagination  to  take  the  tour  of  my 
invention,  and  thrice  it  has  returned  empty, 
the  latter  having  been  wholly  drained  by  the 
following  treatise.  Not  so  my  more  success- 
ful brethren  the  moderns,  who  will  by  no 
means  let  slip  a  preface  or  dedication  without 
some  notable  distinguishing  stroke  to  surprise 
the  reader  at  the  entry,  and  kindle  a  wonderful 
expectation  of  what  is  to  ensue.  Such  was  that 
of  a  most  ingenious  poet,  who,  soliciting  his 
brain  for  something  new,  compared  himself 
to  the  hangman  and  his  patron  to  the  patient. 
This  was  insigne,  recens,  indicium  ore  alio.' 
When  I  went  through  that  necessary  and  noble 
course  of  study,-  I  had  the  happiness  to  observe 
many  such  egregious  touches,  which  I  shall  not 
injure  the  authors  by  transplanting,  because  I 
have  remarked  that  nothing  is  so  very  tender 
as  a  modern  piece  of  wit,  and  which  is  apt  to 
suff'er  so  much  in  the  carriage.  Some  things 
are  extremely  witty  to-day,  or  fasting,  or  in 
this  place,  or  at  eight  o'clock,  or  over  a  bottle, 
or  spoke  by  Mr.  Whatdyecall'm,  or  in  a  sum- 
mer's morning,  any  of  which,  by  the  smallest 
transposal  or  misapplication,  is  utterly  anni- 
hilate. Thus  wit  has  its  walks  and  purlieus, 
out  of  which  it  may  not  stray  the  breadth  of  a 
hair,  upon  peril  of  being  lost.  The  modems 
have  artfully  fixed  this  Mercury,  and  reduced 
it  to  the  circumstances  of  time,  place,  and  per- 
son. Such  a  jest  there  is  that  will  not  pass 
out  of  Covent  Garden,  and  such  a  one  that  is 
nowhere  intelligible  but  at  Hyde  Park  Comer. 
Now,  though  it  sometimes  tenderly  affects  me 
to  consider  that  all  the  towardly  passages  I 
shall  deliver  in  the  following  treatise  will  grow 
quite  out  of  date  and  relish  with  the  first  shifting 
of  the  present  scene,  yet  I  must  need  subscribe 
to  the  justice  of  this  proceeding,  because  I  can- 
not imagine  why  we  should  be  at  expense  to 
furnish  wit  for  succeeding  ages,  when  the  former 
have  made  no  sort  of  provision  for  ours ;  wherein 

1  speak  the  sentiment  of  the  very  newest,  and 
consequently  the  most  orthodox  refiners,  as 
well  as  my  own.  However,  being  extremely 
solicitous  that  every  accomplished  person 
who  has  got  into  the  taste  of  wit  calculated 
for  this  present  month  of  August  1697  should 
descend  to  the  very  bottom  of  all  the  sul)lime 
throughout  this  treatise,  I  hold  it  fit  to  lay  down 
this  general  maxim.     Whatever  reader  desires 

'  Notable,      new,     and      unspoken      by     another. 

2  Reading  prefaces,  etc.  —  Swift's  note. 


1 86 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 


to  have  a  thorough  comprehension  of  an  author's 
thoughts,  cannot  take  a  better  method  than  by 
putting  himself  into  the  circumstances  and  pos- 
ture of  hfe  that  the  writer  was  in  upon  every 
important  passage  as  it  flowed  from  his  pen, 
for  this  will  introduce  a  parity  and  strict  cor- 
respondence of  ideas  between  the  reader  and 
the  author.  Now,  to  assist  the  diligent  reader 
in  so  delicate  an  affair  —  as  far  as  brevity 
will  permit  —  I  have  recollected  that  the 
shrewdest  pieces  of  this  treatise  were  conceived 
in  bed  in  a  garret.  At  other  times  (for  a  reason 
best  known  to  myself)  I  thought  fit  to  sharpen 
my  invention  with  hunger,  and  in  general  the 
whole  work  was  begun,  continued,  and  ended 
under  a  long  course  of  physic  and  a  great 
want  of  money.  Now,  I  do  affirm  it  will  be 
absolutely  impossible  for  the  candid  peruser  to 
go  along  with  me  in  a  great  many  bright  pas- 
sages, unless  upon  the  several  difficulties 
emergent  he  will  please  to  capacitate  and  pre- 
pare himself  by  these  directions.  And  this 
I  lay  down  as  my  principal  postiilatmn} 

Because  I  have  professed  to  be  a  most  de- 
voted servant  of  all  modern  forms,  I  appre- 
hend some  curious  wit  may  object  against  me 
for  proceeding  thus  far  in  a  preface  without 
declaiming,  according  to  custom,  against  the 
multitude  of  writers  whereof  the  whole  mul- 
titude of  writers  most  reasonably  complain. 
I  am  just  come  from  perusing  some  hundreds  of 
prefaces,  wherein  the  authors  do  at  the  very 
beginning  address  the  gentle  reader  concern- 
ing this  enormous  grievance.  Of  these  I  have 
preserved  a  few  examples,  and  shall  set  them 
down  as  near  as  my  memory  has  been  able  to 
retain  them. 

One  begins  thus:  "For  a  man  to  set  up  for 
a  writer  when  the  press  swarms  with,"  etc. 

Another:  "The  tax  upon  paper  does  not 
lessen  the  number  of  scribblers  who  daily 
pester,"  etc. 

Another:  "When  every  little  would-be  wit 
takes  pen  in  hand,  'tis  in  vain  to  enter  the  lists," 
etc. 

Another:  "To  observe  what  trash  the  press 
swarms  with,"  etc. 

Another:  "Sir,  it  is  merely  in  obedience  to 
your  commands  that  I  venture  into  the  public, 
for  who  upon  a  less  consideration  would  be  of 
a  party  with  such  a  rabble  of  scribblers,"  etc. 

Now,  I  have  two  words  in  my  own  defence 
against  this  objection.  First,  I  am  far  from 
granting  the  nimiber  of  writers  a  nuisance  to 

'  postulate 


our  nation,  having  strenuously  maintained  the 
contrary  in  several  parts  of  the  following  dis- 
course ;  secondly,  .1  do  not  well  understand  the 
justice  of  this  proceeding,  because  I  observe 
many  of  these  polite  prefaces  to  be  not  only 
from  the  same  hand,  but  from  those  who  are 
most  voluminous  in  their  several  productions; 
upon  which  I  shall  tell  the  reader  a  short  tale. 

A  mountebank  in  Leicester  Fields  had  drawn 
a  huge  assembly  about  him.  Among  the  rest, 
a  fat  unwieldy  fellow,  half  stifled  in  the  press, 
would  be  every  fit  crying  out,  "Lord!  what  a 
filthy  crowd  is  here.  Pray,  good  people,  give 
way  a  little.  Bless  me !  what  a  devil  has  raked 
this  rabble  together.  Z — ds,  what  squeezing 
is  this?  Honest  friend,  remove  your  elbow." 
At  last  a  weaver  that  stood  next  him  could 
hold  no  longer.  "A  plague  confound  you," 
said  he,  "for  an  overgrown  sloven;  and  who  in 
the  devil's  name,  I  wonder,  helps  to  make  up  the 
crowd  half  so  much  as  yourself?  Don't  you 
consider  that  you  take  up  more  room  with  that 
carcass  than  any  five  here  ?  Is  not  the  place  as 
free  for  us  as  for  you?  Bring  your  own  guts 
to  a  reasonable  compass,  and  then  I'll  engage 
we  shall  have  room  enough  for  us  all." 

There  are  certain  common  privileges  of  a 
writer,  the  benefit  whereof  I  hope  there  will 
be  no  reason  to  doubt;  particularly,  that 
where  I  am  not  understood,  it  shall  be  con- 
cluded that  something  very  useful  and  profound 
is  couched  underneath;  and  again,  that  what- 
ever word  or  sentence  is  printed  in  a  different 
character  shall  be  judged  to  contain  some- 
thing extraordinary  either  of  wit  or  sublime. 

As  for  the  liberty  I  have  thought  fit  to  take 
of  praising  myself,  upon  some  occasions  or 
none,  I  am  sure  it  will  need  no  excuse  if  a 
multitude  of  great  examples  be  allowed  suffi- 
cient authority;  for  it  is  here  to  be  noted  that 
praise  was  originally  a  pension  paid  by  the 
world,  but  the  modems,  finding  the  trouble 
and  charge  too  great  in  collecting  it,  have 
lately  bought  out  the  fee-simple,  since  which 
time  the  right  of  presentation  is  wholly  in 
ourselves.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  when  an 
author  makes  his  own  eulogy,  he  uses  a  cer- 
tain form  to  declare  and  insist  upon  his  title, 
which  is  commonly  in  these  or  the  like  words, 
"I  speak  without  vanity,"  which  I  think 
plainly  shows-  it  to  be  a  matter  of  right  and 
justice.  Now,  I  do  here  once  for  all  declare, 
that  in  every  encounter  of  this  nature  through 
the  following  treatise  the  form  aforesaid  is  im- 
plied, which  I  mention  to  save  the  trouble  of 
repeating  it  on  so  many  occasions. 


THE    TALE    OF   A    TUB 


187 


It  is  a  great  ease  to  my  conscience  that  I 
have  written  so  elaborate  and  useful  a  dis- 
course without  one  grain  of  satire  intermixed, 
which  is  the  sole  point  wherein  I  have  taken 
leave  to  dissent  from  the  famous  originals  of 
our  age  and  country.  I  have  observed  some 
satirists  to  use  the  public  much  at  the  rate  that 
pedants  do  a  naughty  boy  ready  horsed  for 
discipline.  First  expostulate  the  case,  then 
plead  the  necessity  of  the  rod  from  great  provo- 
cations, and  conclude  every  period  with  a 
lash.  Now,  if  I  know  anything  of  mankind, 
these  gentlemen  might  very  well  spare  their 
reproof  and  correction,  for  there  is  not  through 
all  Nature  another  so  callous  and  insensible  a 
member  as  the  world's  posteriors,  whether  you 
apply  to  it  the  toe  or  the  birch.  Besides,  most 
of  our  late  satirists  seem  to  lie  under  a  sort  of 
mistake,  that  because  nettles  have  the  pre- 
rogative to  sting,  therefore  all  other  weeds 
must  do  so  too.  I  make  not  this  comparison 
out  of  the  least  design  to  detract  from  these 
worthy  writers,  for  it  is  well  known  among 
mythologists  that  weeds  have  the  preeminence 
over  all  other  vegetables;  and  therefore  the 
first  monarch  of  this  island  whose  taste  and 
judgment  were  so  acute  and  refined,  did  very 
wisely  root  out  the  roses  from  the  collar  of 
the  order  and  plant  the  thistles  in  their  stead, 
as  the  nobler  flower  of  the  two.  For  which 
reason  it  is  conjectured  by  profounder  anti- 
quaries that  the  satirical  itch,  so  prevalent  in 
this  part  of  our  island,  was  first  brought  among 
us  from  beyond  the  Tweed.  Here  may  it  long 
flourish  and  abound;  may  it  survive  and  neg- 
lect the  scorn  of  the  world  with  as  much  ease 
and  contempt  as  the  world  is  insensible  to 
the  lashes  of  it.  May  their  own  dulness,  or 
that  of  their  party,  be  no  discouragement  for 
the  authors  to  proceed;  but  let  them  remem- 
ber it  is  with  wits  as  with  razors,  which  are 
never  so  apt  to  cut  those  they  are  employed 
on  as  when  they  have  lost  their  edge.  Be- 
sides, those  whose  teeth  are  too  rotten  to  bite 
are  best  of  all  others  qualified  to  revenge  that 
defect  with  their  breath. 

I  am  not,  like  other  men,  to  envy  or  under- 
value the  talents  I  cannot  reach,  for  which 
reason  I  must  needs  bear  a  true  honour  to 
this  large  eminent  sect  of  our  British  writers. 
And  I  hope  this  little  panegyric  will  not  be 
offensive  to  their  ears,  since  it  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  only  designed  for  themselves. 
Indeed,  Nature  herself  has  taken  order  that 
fame  and  honour  should  be  purchased  at  a 
better  pennyworth  by  satire  than  by  any  other 


productions  of  the  brain,  the  world  being 
soonest  provoked  to  praise  by  lashes,  as  men 
are  to  love.  There  is  a  problem  in  an  ancient 
author  why  dedications  and  other  bundles  of 
flattery  run  all  upon  stale  musty  topics,  with- 
out the  smallest  tincture  of  anything  new,  not 
only  to  the  torment  and  nauseating  of  the 
Christian  reader,  but,  if  not  suddenly  pre- 
vented, to  the  universal  spreading  of  that 
pestilent  disease  the  lethargy  in  this  island, 
whereas  there  is  very  little  satire  which  has 
not  something  in  it  untouched  before.  The 
defects  of  the  former  are  usually  imputed  to 
the  want  of  invention  among  those  who  are 
dealers  in  that  kind;  but  I  think  with  a  great 
deal  of  injustice,  the  solution  being  easy  and 
natural,  for  the  materials  of  panegyric,  being 
very  few  in  numl)er,  have  been  long  since 
exhausted;  for  as  health  is  but  one  thing,  and 
has  been  always  the  same,  whereas  diseases 
are  by  thousands,  besides  new  and  daily 
additions,  so  all  the  virtues  that  have  been 
ever  in  mankind  are  to  be  counted  upon  a  few 
fingers,  but  his  follies  and  vices  are  innumer- 
able, and  time  adds  hourly  to  the  heap.  Now 
the  utmost  a  poor  poet  can  do  is  to  get  by 
heart  a  list  of  the  cardinal  virtues  and  deal 
them  with  his  utmost  liberality  to  his  hero  or 
his  patron.  He  may  ring  the  changes  as  far 
as  it  will  go,  and  vary  his  phrase  till  he  has 
talked  round,  but  the  reader  quickly  finds  it 
is  all  pork,  with  a  little  variety  of  sauce,  for 
there  is  no  inventing  terms  of  art  beyond  our 
ideas,  and  when  ideas  are  exhausted,  terms  of 
art  must  be  so  too. 

But  though  the  matter  for  panegyric  were 
as  fruitful  as  the  topics  of  satire,  yet  would  it 
not  be  hard  to  find  out  a  sutiicient  reason  why 
the  latter  will  be  always  better  received  than 
the  first;  for  this  being  bestowed  only  upon 
one  or  a  few  persons  at  a  time,  is  sure  to  raise 
envy,  and  consequently  ill  words,  from  the 
rest  who  have  no  share  in  the  blessing.  But 
satire,  being  levelled  at  all,  is  never  resented 
for  an  offence  by  any,  since  every  individual 
person  makes  bold  to  understand  it  of  others, 
and  very  wisely  removes  his  particular  part  of 
the  burden  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  World, 
which  are  broad  enough  and  able  to  bear  it. 
To  this  purpose  I  have  sometimes  reflected 
upon  the  difference  between  Athens  and  Eng- 
land with  respect  to  the  point  before  us.  In 
the  Attic  commonwealth  it  was  the  privilege 
and  birthright  of  every  citizen  and  poet  to 
rail  aloud  and  in  public,  or  to  expose  upon 
the  stage  by  name  any  person  they  pleased, 


i88 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


though  of  the  greatest  figure,  whether  a  Creon, 
an  Hyperbolus,  an  Alcibiades,  or  a  Demos- 
thenes. But,  on  the  other  side,  the  least 
reflecting  word  let  fall  against  the  people  in 
general  was  immediately  caught  up  and 
revenged  upon  the  authors,  however  con- 
siderable for  their  quality  or  their  merits; 
whereas  in  England  it  is  just  the  reverse  of 
all  this.  Here  you  may  securely  display  your 
utmost  rhetoric  against  mankind  in  the  face 
of  the  world;  tell  them  that  all  are  gone 
astray;  that  there  is  none  that  doeth  good, 
no,  not  one;  that  we  live  in  the  verj'  dregs  of 
time;  that  knavery  and  atheism  are  epidemic 
as  the  pox;  that  honesty  is  fled  with  Astraea; 
with  any  other  common -places  equally  new 
and  eloquent,  which  are  furnished  by  the 
splendida  bills;  ^  and  when  you  have  done, 
the  whole  audience,  far  from  being  offended, 
shall  return  you  thanks  as  a  deliverer  of 
precious  and  useful  truths.  Nay,  further,  it  is 
but  to  venture  your  lungs,  and  you  may  preach 
in  Covent  Garden  against  fopper}^  and  forni- 
cation, and  something  else ;  against  pride,  and 
dissimulation,  and  briber)'  at  Whitehall.  You 
may  expose  rapine  and  injustice  in  the  Inns- 
of-Court  chapel,  and  in  a  City  pulpit  be  as 
fierce  as  you  please  against  avarice,  hypocrisy, 
and  extortion.  It  is  but  a  ball  bandied  to  and 
fro,  and  every  man  carries  a  racket  about 
him  to  strike  it  from  himself  among  the  rest 
of  the  company.  But,  on  the  other  side,  who- 
ever should  mistake  the  nature  of  things  so 
far  as  to  drop  but  a  single  hint  in  public  how 
such  a  one  starved  half  the  fleet,  and  half 
poisoned  the  rest;  how  such  a  one,  from  a 
true  principle  of  love  and  honour,  pays  no 
debts  but  for  wenches  and  play;  how  such  a 
one  runs  out  of  his  estate;  how  Paris,  bribed 
by  Juno  and  Venus,  loath  to  offend  either 
party,  slept  out  the  whole  cause  on  the  bench ; 
or  how  such  an  orator  makes  long  speeches  in 
the  Senate,  with  much  thought,  little  sense, 
and  to  no  purpose ;  —  whoever,  I  say,  should 
venture  to  be  thus  particular  must  expect  to 
be  imprisoned  for  scandalum  magnatum,^  to 
have  challenges  sent  him,  to  be  sued  for  defa- 
mation, and  to  be  brought  before  the  bar  of 
the  House. 

But  I  forget  that  I  am  expatiating  on  a  sub- 
ject wherein  I  have  no  concern,  having  neither 
a  talent  nor  an  inclination  for  satire.  On  the 
other  side,  I  am  so  entirely  satisfied  with  the 


'  The  spleen,  or  what  we  now  call  hypochondria. 
*  libel  of  the  great 


whole  present  procedure  of  human  things, 
that  I  have  been  for  some  years  preparing 
material  towards  "A  Panegyric  upon  the 
World";  to  which  I  intended  to  add  a  second 
part,  entitled  "A  Modest  Defence  of  the  Pro- 
ceedings of  the  Rabble  in  all  Ages."  Both 
these  I  had  thoughts  to  publish  by  way  of 
appendix  to  the  following  treatise;  but  find- 
ing my  common-place  book  fill  much  slower 
than  I  had  reason  to  expect,  I  have  chosen  to 
defer  them  to  another  occasion.  Besides,  I 
have  been  unhappily  prevented  in  that  design 
by  a  certain  domestic  misfortune,  in  the  partic- 
ulars whereof,  though  it  would  be  verj'  season- 
able, and  much  in  the  modern  way,  to  inform 
the  gentle  reader,  and  would  also  be  of  great 
assistance  towards  extending  this  preface  into 
the  size  now  in  vogue  —  which  by  rule  ought 
to  be  large  in  proportion  as  the  subsequent 
volume  is  small  —  yet  I  shall  now  dismiss  our 
impatient  reader  from  any  further  attendance 
at  the  porch;  and  having  duly  prepared  his 
mind  by  a  preliminarj'  discourse,  shall  gladly 
introduce  him  to  the  sublime  mysteries  that 
ensue. 

SECTION  II 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  man  who  had 
three  sons  by  one  wife  and  all  at  a  birth, 
neither  could  the  midwife  tell  certainly  which 
was  the  eldest.  Their  father  died  while  they 
were  young,  and  upon  his  death-bed,  calling 
the  lads  to  him,  spoke  thus: 

"Sons,  because  I  have  purchased  no  estate, 
nor  was  bom  to  any,  I  have  long  considered  of 
some  good  legacies  to  bequeath  you,  and  at 
last,  with  much  care  as  well  as  expense,  have 
provided  each  of  you  (here  they  are)  a  new 
coat.  Now,  you  are  to  understand  that  these 
coats  have  two  virtues  contained  in  them; 
one  is,  that  with  good  wearing  they  will  last 
you  fresh  and  sound  as  long  as  you  live;  the 
other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in  the  same  pro- 
portion with  your  bodies,  lengthening  and 
widening  of  themselves,  so  as  to  be  always  fit. 
Here,  let  me  see  them  on  you  before  I  die. 
So,  very  well !  Pray,  children,  wear  them 
clean  and  brush  them  often.  You  will  find 
in  my  will  (here  it  is)  full  instructions  in  every 
particular  concerning  the  wearing  and  manage- 
ment of  your  coats,  wherein  you  must  be  very 
exact  to  avoid  the  penalties  I  have  appointed 
for  every  transgression  or  neglect,  upon  which 
your  future  fortunes  will  entirely  depend.  I 
have  also  commanded  in  my  will  that  you 
should  live  together  in  one  house  like  brethren 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TUB 


189 


and  friends,  for  then  you  will  be  sure  to  thrive 
and  not  otherwise." 

Here  the  story  says  this  good  father  died, 
and  the  three  sons  went  all  together  to  seek 
their  fortunes. 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting  what 
adventures  they  met  for  the  first  seven  years,  any 
farther  than  by  taking  notice  that  they  carefully 
observed  their  father's  will  and  kept  their  coats 
in  very  good  order;  that  they  travelled  through 
several  countries,  encountered  a  reasonable 
quantity  of  giants,  and  slew  certain  dragons. 

Being  now  arrived  at  the  projjer  age  for 
producing  themselves,  they  came  up  to  town 
and  fell  in  love  with  the  ladies,  but  especially 
three,  who  about  that  time  were  in  chief  repu- 
tation, the  Duchess  d'Argent,  Madame  de 
Grands-Titres,  and  the  Countess  d'Orgueil. 
On  their  first  appearance,  our  three  adven- 
turers met  with  a  very  bad  reception,  and  soon 
with  great  sagacity  guessing  out  the  reason, 
they  quickly  began  to  improve  in  the  good 
qualities  of  the  town.  They  wrote,  and  rallied, 
and  rhymed,  and  sung,  and  said,  and  said 
nothing;  they  drank,  and  fought,  and  slept, 
and  swore,  and  took  snuff;  they  went  to  new 
plays  on  the  first  night,  haunted  the  chocolate- 
houses,  beat  the  watch;  they  bilked  hackney- 
coachmen,  ran  in  debt  with  shopkeepers,  and 
lay  with  their  wives;  they  killed  bailiffs, 
kicked  fiddlers  downstairs,  ate  at  Locket's, 
loitered  at  Will's;  they  talked  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  never  came  there;  dined  with  lords 
they  never  saw;  whispered  a  duchess  and 
spoke  never  a  word;  exposed  the  scrawls  of 
their  laundress  for  billet-doux  of  quality; 
came  ever  just  from  court  and  were  never  seen 
in  it;  attended  the  levee  stib  dio;  '  got  a  list 
of  peers  by  heart  in  one  company,  and  with 
great  familiarity  retailed  them  in  another. 
Above  all,  they  constantly  attended  those 
committees  of  Senators  who  are  silent  in  the 
House  and  loud  in  the  coffee-house,  where 
they  nightly  adjourn  to  chew  the  cud  of  poli- 
tics, and  are  encompassed  with  a  ring  of 
disciples  who  lie  in  wait  to  catch  up  their 
droppings.  The  three  brothers  had  acquired 
forty  other  qualifications  of  the  like  stamp  too 
tedious  to  recount,  and  by  consequence  were 
justly  reckoned  the  most  accomplished  persons 
in  town.  But  all  would  not  suffice,  and  the 
ladies  aforesaid  continued  still  inflexible.  To 
clear  up  which  difficulty,  I  must,  with  the 
reader's   good   leave   and   patience,   have   re- 

'  in  the  open  air 


course  to  some  points  of  weight  which  the 
authors  of  that  age  have  not  suificiently  illus- 
trated. 

For  about  this  time  it  happened  a  sect  arose 
whose  tenets  obtained  and  spread  very  far, 
especially  in  the  grand  monde,  and  among 
ever)'body  of  good  fashion.  They  worshipped 
a  sort  of  idol,  who,  as  their  doctrine  delivered, 
did  daily  create  men  by  a  kind  of  manufactory 
operation.  This  idol  they  placed  in  the 
highest  parts  of  the  house  on  an  altar  erected 
about  three  feet.  He  was  shown  in  the  pos- 
ture of  a  Persian  emperor  sitting  on  a  super- 
ficies with  his  legs  interwoven  under  him. 
This  god  had  a  goose  for  his  ensign,  whence 
it  is  that  some  learned  men  pretend  to  deduce 
his  original  from  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  At  his 
left  hand,  beneath  the  altar.  Hell  seemed  to 
open  and  catch  at  the  animals  the  idol  was 
creating,  to  prevent  which,  certain  of  his 
priests  hourly  flung  in  pieces  of  the  unin- 
formed mass  or  substance,  and  sometimes 
whole  limbs  already  enlivened,  which  that 
horrid  gulf  insatiably  swallowed,  terrible  to 
behold.  The  goose  was  also  held  a  subaltern 
divinity  or  Dens  minonim  gentium,^  before 
whose  shrine  was  sacrificed  that  creature 
whose  hourly  food  is  human  gore,  and  who  is 
in  so  great  renown  abroad  for  being  the  de- 
light and  favourite  of  the  Egyptian  Cercopi- 
thecus.  Millions  of  these  animals  were  cruelly 
slaughtered  ever>'  day  to  appease  the  hunger 
of  that  consuming  deity.  The  chief  idol  was 
also  worshipped  as  the  inventor  of  the  yard 
and  the  needle,  whether  as  the  god  of  seamen, 
or  on  account  of  certain  other  mystical  attri- 
butes, hath  not  been  sufficiently  cleared. 

The  worshippers  of  this  deity  had  also  a 
system  of  their  belief  which  seemed  to  turn 
upon  the  following  fundamental.  They  held 
the  universe  to  be  a  large  suit  of  clothes  which 
invests  everything;  that  the  earth  is  invested 
by  the  air;  the  air  is  invested  by  the  stars; 
and  the  stars  are  invested  by  the  Primntn 
Mobile}  Look  on  this  globe  of  earth,  you 
will  find  it  to  be  a  ver}'  complete  and  fashion- 
able dress.  What  is  that  which  some  call 
land  but  a  fine  coat  faced  with  green,  or  the 
sea  but  a  waistcoat  of  water-tabby?  Proceed 
to  the  particular  works  of  the  creation,  you 
will  find  how  curious  journeyman  Nature  hath 
been  to  trim  up  the  vegetable  beaux;  obser\'e 
how  sparkish  a  periwig  adorns  the  head  of  a 

'  a  god  of  the  lesser  peoples  ^  jn  the  Ptolemaic 
system  of  astronomy,  the  hollow  sphere  inclosing  the 
universe  and  moving  all  things  with  it. 


ipo 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


beech,  and  what  a  fine  doublet  of  white  satin 
is  worn  by  the  birch.  To  conclude  from  all, 
what  is  man  himself  but  a  microcoat,  or  rather 
a  complete  suit  of  clothes  with  all  its  trim- 
mings? As  to  his  body  there  can  be  no  dis- 
pute, but  examine  even  the  acquirements  of 
his  mind,  you  will  find  them  all  contribute  in 
their  order  towards  furnishing  out  an  exact 
dress.  To  instance  no  more,  is  not  religion  a 
cloak,  honesty  a  pair  of  shoes  worn  out  in  the 
dirt,  self-love  a  surtout,  vanity  a  shirt,  and 
conscience  a  pair  of  breeches,  which,  though  a 
cover  for  lewdness  as  well  as  nastiness,  is 
easily  slipped  down  for  the  service  of  both. 

These  postulata  being  admitted,  it  will 
follow  in  due  course  of  reasoning  that  those 
beings  which  the  world  calls  improperly  suits 
of  clothes  are  in  reality  the  most  refined  species 
of  animals,  or,  to  proceed  higher,  that  they  are 
rational  creatures  or  men.  For  is  it  not  mani- 
fest that  they  live,  and  move,  and  talk,  and 
perform  all  other  offices  of  human  life?  Are 
not  beauty,  and  wit,  and  mien,  and  breeding 
their  inseparable  proprieties?  In  short,  we 
see  nothing  but  them,  hear  nothing  but  them. 
Is  it  not  they  who  walk  the  streets,  fill  up 
Parliament-,  cofTee-,  play-,  bawdy-houses?  It 
is  true,  indeed,  that  these  animals,  which  are 
vulgarly  called  suits  of  clothes  or  dresses,  do 
according  to  certain  compositions  receive  dif- 
ferent appellations.  If  one  of  them  be  trimmed 
up  with  a  gold  chain,  and  a  red  gown,  and  a 
white  rod,  and  a  great  horse,  it  is  called  a 
Lord  Mayor;  if  certain  ermines  and  furs  be 
placed  in  a  certain  position,  we  style  them  a 
Judge,  and  so  an  apt  conjunction  of  lawn  and 
black  satin  we  entitle  a  Bishop. 

Others  of  these  professors,  though  agreeing 
in  the  main  system,  were  yet  more  refined 
upon  certain  branches  of  it;  and  held  that 
man  was  an  animal  compounded  of  two 
dresses,  the  natural  and  the  celestial  suit, 
which  were  the  body  and  the  soul;  that  the 
soul  was  the  outward,  and  the  body  the  in- 
ward clothing;  that  the  latter  was  ex  traduce, 
but  the  former  of  daily  creation  and  circum- 
fusion.  This  last  they  proved  by  Scripture, 
because  in  them  we  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being:  as  likewise  by  philosophy,  because 
they  are  all  in  all,  and  all  in  every  part.  Be- 
sides, said  they,  separate  these  two,  and  you 
will  find  the  body  to  be  only  a  senseless  un- 
savoury carcass.  By  all  which  it  is  manifest 
that  the  outward  dress  must  needs  be  the  soul. 

To  this  system  of  religion  were  tagged 
several  subaltern  doctrines,  which  were  enter- 


tained with  great  vogue;  as  particularly  the 
faculties  of  the  mind  were  deduced  by  the 
learned  among  them  in  this  manner:  em- 
broidery was  sheer  wit,  gold  fringe  was  agree- 
able conversation,  gold  lace  was  repartee,  a 
huge  long  periwig  was  humour,  and  a  coat  full 
of  powder  was  very  good  raillery.  All  which 
required  abundance  of  finesse  and  delicatesse 
to  manage  with  advantage,  as  well  as  a  strict 
observance  after  times  and  fashions. 

I  have  with  much  pains  and  reading  col- 
lected out  of  ancient  authors  this  short  sum- 
mary of  a  body  of  philosophy  and  divinity 
which  seems  to  have  been  composed  by  a  vein 
and  race  of  thinking  very  different  from  any 
other  systems,  either  ancient  or  modern.  And 
it  was  not  merely  to  entertain  or  satisfy  the 
reader's  curiosity,  but  rather  to  give  him  light 
into  several  circumstances  of  the  following 
story,  that,  knowing  the  state  of  dispositions 
and  opinions  in  an  age  so  remote,  he  may 
better  comprehend  those  great  events  which 
were  the  issue  of  them.  I  advise,  therefore, 
the  courteous  reader  to  peruse  with  a  world  of 
application,  again  and  again,  whatever  I  have 
written  upon  this  matter.  And  so  leaving 
these  broken  ends,  I  carefully  gather  up  the 
chief  thread  of  my  story,  and  proceed. 

These  opinions,  therefore,  were  so  universal, 
as  well  as  the  practices  of  them,  among  the 
refined  part  of  court  and  town,  that  our  three 
brother  adventurers,  as  their  circumstances 
then  stood,  were  strangely  at  a  loss.  For,  on 
the  one  side,  the  three  ladies  they  addressed 
themselves  to  (whom  we  have  named  already) 
were  ever  at  the  very  top  of  the  fashion,  and 
abhorred  all  that  were  below  it  but  the  breadth 
of  a  hair.  On  the  other  side,  their  father's 
will  was  very  precise,  and  it  was  the  main 
precept  in  it,  with  the  greatest  penalties  an- 
nexed, not  to  add  to  or  diminish  from  their 
coats  one  thread  without  a  positive  command 
in  the  will.  Now  the  coats  their  father  had 
left  them  were,  it  is  true,  of  very  good  cloth, 
and  besides,  so  neacly  sewn  you  would  swear 
they  were  all  of  a  piece,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
very  plain,  with  little  or  no  ornament;  and  it 
happened  that  before  they  were  a  month  in 
town  great  shoulder-knots  came  up.  Straight 
all  the  world  was  shoulder-knots;  no  approach- 
ing the  ladies'  riielles  without  the  quota  of 
shoulder-knots.  "That  fellow,"  cries  one, 
"has  no  soul:  where  is  his  shoulder-knot?" 
Our  three  brethren  soon  discovered  their 
want  by  sad  experience,  meeting  in  their 
walks  with  forty  mortifications  and  indignities. 


THE    TALE    OF   A    TUB 


191 


If  they  went  to  the  play-house,  the  doorkeeper 
showed  them  into  the  twelve-penny  gallery. 
If  they  called  a  boat,  says  a  waterman,  "I 
am  first  sculler."  If  they  stepped  into  the 
"  Rose"  to  take  a  bottle,  the  drawer  would  cry, 
"Friend,  we  sell  no  ale."  If  they  went  to 
visit  a  lady,  a  footman  met  them  at  the  door 
with  "Pray,  send  up  your  message."  In  this 
unhappy  case  they  went  immediately  to  con- 
sult their  father's  will,  read  it  over  and  over, 
but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder-knot.  What 
should  they  do?  What  temper  should  they 
find?  Obedience  was  absolutely  necessary, 
and  yet  shoulder-knots  appeared  extremely 
requisite.  After  much  thought,  one  of  the 
brothers,  who  happened  to  be  more  book- 
learned  than  the  other  two,  said  he  had  found 
an  expedient.  "It  is  true,"  said  he,  "there  is 
nothing  here  in  this  will,  totidcm  verbis,^ 
making  mention  of  shoulder-knots,  but  I  dare 
conjecture  we  may  find  them  inclusive,  or 
totidem  syllabis."  "  This  distinction  was  im- 
mediately approved  by  all;  and  so  they  fell 
again  to  examine  the  will.  But  their  evil  star 
had  so  directed  the  matter  that  the  first  syllable 
was  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole  writing; 
upon  which  disappointment,  he  who  found  the 
former  evasion  took  heart,  and  said,  "Brothers, 
there  is  yet  hopes;  for  though  we  cannot  find 
them  totidem  verbis  nor  totidem  syllabis,  I  dare 
engage  we  shall  make  them  out  tcrtio  modo  ^ 
or  totidem  Uteris."  ^  This  discovery  was  also 
highly  commended,  upon  which  they  fell  once 
more  to  the  scrutiny,  and  soon  picked  out 
S,  H,  O,  U,  L,  D,  E,  R,  when  the  same  planet, 
enemy  to  their  repose,  had  wonderfully  con- 
trived that  a  K  was  not  to  be  found.  Here 
was  a  weighty  difficulty !  But  the  distinguish- 
ing brother  (for  whom  we  shall  hereafter  find 
a  name),  now  his  hand  was  in,  proved  by  a 
very  good  argument  that  K  was  a  modern 
illegitimate  letter,  unknown  to  the  learned 
ages,  nor  anywhere  to  be  found  in  ancient 
manuscripts.  "It  is  true,"  said  he,  "the  word 
Calendae  had  in  Q.  V.  C.^  been  sometimes 
writ  with  a  K,  but  erroneously,  for  in  the  best 
copies  it  is  ever  spelled  with  a  C ;  and  by  con- 
sequence it  was  a  gross  mistake  in  our  language 
to  spell  'knot'  with  a  K,"  but  that  from  hence- 
forward he  would  take  care  it  should  be  writ 
with  a  C.  Upon  this  all  further  difficulty 
vanished;    shoulder-knots  were  made   clearly 

'  in  exactly  those  words  ^  in  those  very  syllables 
*  in  a  third  way  *  in  those  very  letters  ^  certain  old 
Mss. 


out  to  be  jure  paterno,^  and  our  three  gentle- 
men swaggered  with  as  large  and  as  flaunting 
ones  as  the  best. 

But  as  human  happiness  is  of  a  very  short 
duration,  so  in  those  days  were  human  fashions, 
upon  which  it  entirely  depends.  Shoulder- 
knots  had  their  time,  and  we  must  now  imagine 
them  in  their  decline,  for  a  certain  lord  came 
just  from  Paris  with  fifty  yards  of  gold  lace 
upon  his  coat,  exactly  trimmed  after  the  court 
fashion  of  that  month.  In  two  days  all  man- 
kind appeared  closed  up  in  bars  of  gold  lace. 
Whoever  durst  peep  abroad  without  his  com- 
plement of  gold  lace  was  as  scandalous  as  a 

,  and  as  ill  received  among  the  women. 

What  should  our  three  knights  do  in  this 
momentous  affair?  They  had  sufliciently 
strained  a  point  already  in  the  affair  of  shoulder- 
knots.  Upon  recourse  to  the  will,  nothing  ap- 
peared there  but  altum  silentium}  That  of 
the  shoulder-knots  was  a  loose,  flying,  circum- 
stantial point,  but  this  of  gold  lace  seemed  too 
considerable  an  alteration  without  better  war- 
rant. It  did  aliquo  modo  essentiae  adhaerere,^ 
and  therefore  required  a  positive  precept.  But 
about  this  time  it  fell  out  that  the  learned 
brother  aforesaid  had  read  "Aristotelis  Dia- 
lectica,"  and  especially  that  wonderful  piece 
de  Interpretatione,  which  has  the  faculty  of 
teaching  its  readers  to  find  out  a  meaning  in 
everything  but  itself,  like  commentators  on 
the  Revelations,  who  proceed  prophets  with- 
out understanding  a  syllable  of  the  text. 
"Brothers,"  said  he,  "you  are  to  be  informed 
that  of  wills,  duo  sunt  genera,*  nuncupatory 
and  scriptory,  that  in  the  scriptory  will  here 
before  us  there  is  no  precept  or  mention  about 
gold  lace,  conceditur,^  but  si  idem  affirmetur  de 
nuncupatorio  negatur}  For,  brothers,  if  you 
remember,  we  heard  a  fellow  say  when  we 
were  boys  that  he  heard  my  father's  man  say 
that  he  heard  my  father  say  that  he  would 
advise  his  sons  to  get  gold  lace  on  their  coats 
as  soon  as  ever  they  could  procure  money  to 
buy  it."  "That  is  very  true,"  cries  the  other. 
"I  remember  it  perfectly  well,"  said  the  third. 
And  so,  without  more  ado,  they  got  the  largest 
gold  lace  in  the  parish,  and  walked  about  as 
fine  as  lords. 

A  while  after,  there  came  up  all  in  fashion  a 
pretty  sort  of  flame-coloured  satin  for  linings, 

1  by  paternal  authority  -  absolute  silence  ^  it  be- 
longed in  a  manner  to  the  essential  meaning  *  are  of 
two  kinds  ^  it  is  admitted  »  but  if  the  same  is  affirmed 
of  a  nuncupatory  will,  wc  deny  it 


192 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


and  the  mercer  brought  a  pattern  of  it  im- 
mediately to  our  three  gentlemen.     "An  please 

your  worships,"   said   he,    "my   Lord   C 

and  Sir  J.  W.  had  linings  out  of  this  very 
piece  last  night;  it  takes  wonderfully,  and  I 
shall  not  have  a  remnant  left  enough  to  make 
my  wife  a  pin-cushion  by  to-morrow  morning 
at  ten  o'clock."  Upon  this  they  fell  again  to 
rummage  the  will,  because  the  present  case 
also  required  a  positive  precept,  the  lining 
being  held  by  orthodox  writers  to  be  of  the 
essence  of  the  coat.  After  long  search  they 
could  fix  upon  nothing  to  the  matter  in  hand, 
except  a  short  advice  in  their  father's  will  to 
take  care  of  fire  and  put  out  their  candles 
before  they  went  to  sleep.  This,  though  a 
good  deal  for  the  purpose,  and  helping  very 
far  towards  self-conviction,  yet  not  seeming 
wholly  of  force  to  establish  a  command,  and 
being  resolved  to  avoid  further  scruple,  as 
well  as  future  occasion  for  scandal,  says  he 
that  was  the  scholar,  "I  remember  to  have 
read  in  wills  of  a  codicil  annexed,  which  is 
indeed  a  part  of  the  will,  and  what  it  contains 
hath  equal  authority  with  the  rest.  Now  I 
have  been  considering  of  this  same  will  here 
before  us,  and  I  cannot  reckon  it  to  be  com- 
plete for  want  of  such  a  codicil.  I  will  there- 
fore fasten  one  in  its  proper  place  very  dex- 
terously. I  have  had  it  by  me  some  time;  it 
was  written  by  a  dog-keeper  of  my  grand- 
father's, and  talks  a  great  deal,  as  good  luck 
would  have  it,  of  this  very  flame-coloured 
satin."  The  project  was  immediately  ap- 
proved by  the  other  two;  an  old  parchment 
scroll  was  tagged  on  according  to  art,  in  the 
form  of  a  codicil  annexed,  and  the  satin  bought 
and  worn. 

Next  winter  a  player,  hired  for  the  purpose 
by  the  Corporation  of  Fringemakers,  acted  his 
part  in  a  new  comedy,  all  covered  with  silver 
fringe,  and  according  to  the  laudable  custom 
gave  rise  to  that  fashion.  Upon  which  the 
brothers,  consulting  their  father's  will,  to  their 
great  astonishment  found  these  words:  "Item, 
I  charge  and  command  my  said  three  sons  to 
wear  no  sort  of  silver  fringe  upon  or  about 
their  said  coats,"  etc.,  with  a  penalty  in  case 
of  disobedience  too  long  here  to  insert.  How- 
ever, after  some  pause,  the  brother  so  often 
mentioned  for  his  erudition,  who  was  well 
skilled  in  criticisms,  had  found  in  a  certain 
author,  which  he  said  should  be  nameless, 
that  the  same  word  which  in  the  will  is  called 
fringe  does  also  signify  a  broom-stick,  and 
doubtless  ought   to   have   the   same   interpre- 


tation in  this  paragraph.  This  another  of 
the  brothers  disliked,  because  of  that  epithet 
silver,  which  could  not,  he  humbly  conceived, 
in  propriety  of  speech  be  reasonably  applied  to 
a  broom-stick;  but  it  was  replied  upon  him 
that  this  epithet  was  understood  in  a  mytho- 
logical and  allegorical  sense.  However,  he 
objected  again  why  their  father  should  forbid 
them  to  wear  a  broom-stick  on  their  coats,  a 
caution  that  seemed  unnatural  and  imperti- 
nent; upon  which  he  was  taken  up  short,  as 
one  that  spoke  irreverently  of  a  mystery  which 
doubtless  was  very  useful  and  significant,  but 
ought  not  to  be  over-curiously  pried  into  or 
nicely  reasoned  upon.  And  in  short,  their 
father's  authority  being  now  considerably 
sunk,  this  expedient  was  allowed  to  serve  as  a 
lawful  dispensation  for  wearing  their  full 
proportion  of  silver  fringe. 

A  while  after  was  revived  an  old  fashion, 
long  antiquated,  of  embroidery  with  Indian 
figures  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Here 
they  had  no  occasion  to  examine  the  will. 
They  remembered  but  too  well  how  their 
father  had  always  abhorred  this  fashion;  that 
he  made  several  paragraphs  on  purpose,  im- 
porting his  utter  detestation  of  it,  and  bestow- 
ing his  everlasting  curse  to  his  sons  whenever 
they  should  wear  it.  For  all  this,  in  a  few 
days  they  appeared  higher  in  the  fashion  than 
anybody  else  in  the  town.  But  they  solved 
the  matter  by  saying  that  these  figures  were 
not  at  all  the  same  with  those  that  were  formerly 
worn  and  were  meant  in  the  will;  besides,  they 
did  not  wear  them  in  that  sense,  as  forbidden 
by  their  father,  but  as  they  were  a  commend- 
able custom,  and  of  great  use  to  the  public. 
That  these  rigorous  clauses  in  the  will  did 
therefore  require  some  allowance  and  a  favour- 
able interpretation,  and  ought  to  be  under- 
stood cum  grano  salts} 

But  fashions  perpetually  altering  in  that 
age,  the  scholastic  brother  grew  weary  of 
searching  further  evasions  and  solving  ever- 
lasting contradictions.  Resolved,  therefore,  at 
all  hazards  to  comply  with  the  modes  of  the 
world,  they  concerted  matters  together,  and 
agreed  unanimously  to  lock  up  their  father's 
will  in  a  strong-box,  brought  out  of  Greece  or 
Italy  (I  have  forgot  which),  and  trouble  them- 
selves no  farther  to  examine  it,  but  only  refer 
to  its  authority  whenever  they  thought  fit. 
In  consequence  whereof,  a  while  after  it  grew 
a  general  mode  to  wear  an  infinite  number  of 

'  with  a  grain  of  salt 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TUB 


193 


points,  most  of  them  tagged  with  silver;  upon 
which  the  scholar  pronounced  ex  cathedra ' 
that  points  were  absolutely  jure  paterno,  as 
they  might  very  well  remember.  It  is  true, 
indeed,  the  fashion  prescribed  somewhat  more 
than  were  directly  named  in  the  will;  how- 
ever, that  they,  as  heirs-general  of  their  father, 
had  power  to  make  and  add  certain  clauses 
for  public  emolument,  though  not  deducible 
todidem  verbis  from  the  letter  of  the  will,  or 
else  multa  absiirda  seqiierentur }  This  was 
understood  for  canonical,  and  therefore  on  the 
following  Sunday  they  came  to  church  all 
covered  with  points. 

The  learned  brother  so  often  mentioned 
was  reckoned  the  best  scholar  in  all  that  or 
the  next  street  to  it;  insomuch,  as  having  run 
something  behindhand  with  the  world,  he 
obtained  the  favour  from  a  certain  lord  to 
receive  him  into  his  house  and  to  teach  his 
children.  A  while  after  the  lord  died,  and  he, 
by  long  practice  upon  his  father's  will,  found 
the  way  of  contriving  a  deed  of  conveyance  of 
that  house  to  himself  and  his  heirs;  upon 
which  he  took  possession,  turned  the  young 
squires  out,  and  received  his  brothers  in  their 
stead 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL  FOR  PREVENTING 
THE  CHILDREN  OF  POOR  PEOPLE  IN 
IRELAND  FROM  BEING  A  BURDEN 
TO  THEIR  PARENTS  OR  COUN- 
TRY, AND  FOR  MAKING  THEM 
BENEFICIAL  TO  THE  PUBLIC 

It  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who  walk 
through  this  great  town,  or  travel  in  the  coun- 
try, when  they  see  the  streets,  the  roads,  and 
cabin-doors,  crowded  with  beggars  of  the 
female  sex,  followed  by  three,  four,  or  six 
children,  all  in  rags,  and  importuning  every 
passenger  for  an  alms.  These  mothers,  in- 
stead of  being  able  to  work  for  their  honest 
livelihood,  are  forced  to  employ  all  their  time 
in  strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for  their  help- 
less infants :  who,  as  they  grow  up,  either  turn 
thieves  for  want  of  work,  or  leave  their  dear 
native  country  to  fight  for  the  Pretender  in 
Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to  the  Barbadoes. 

I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties,  that  this 
prodigious  number  of  children  in  the  arms, 
or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels  of  their  mothers, 
and  frequently  of  their  fathers,  is,  in  the 
present  deplorable  state  of  the  kingdom,  a  very 

'  officially      ^  many  absurd  consequences  would  follow 


great  additional  grievance;  and,  therefore, 
whoever  could  find  out  a  fair,  cheap,  and  easy 
method  of  making  these  children  sound,  use- 
ful members  of  the  commonwealth,  would 
deserve  so  well  of  the  public,  as  to  have  his 
statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of  the  nation. 

But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  being 
confined  to  provide  only  for  the  children  of 
professed  beggars;  it  is  of  a  much  greater 
extent,  and  shall  take  in  the  whole  number 
of  infants  at  a  certain  age,  who  are  born  of 
parents  in  effect  as  little  able  to  support  them 
as  those  who  demand  our  charity  in  the  streets. 
As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my 
thoughts  for  many  years  upon  this  important 
subject,  and  maturely  weighed  the  several 
schemes  of  our  projectors,  I  have  always  found 
them  grossly  mistaken  in  their  computation. 
It  is  true,  a  child,  just  born,  may  be  supported 
by  its  mother's  milk  for  a  solar  year,  with 
little  other  nourishment;  at  most,  not  above 
the  value  of  two  shillings,  which  the  mother 
may  certainly  get,  or  the  value  in  scraps,  by 
her  lawful  occupation  of  begging;  and  it  is 
exactly  at  one  year  old  that  I  propose  to  pro- 
vide for  them  in  such  a  manner,  as,  instead  of 
being  a  charge  upon  their  parents,  or  the 
parish,  or  wanting  food  and  raiment  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives,  they  shall,  on  the  contrary, 
contribute  to  the  feeding,  and  partly  to  the 
clothing,  of  many  thousands. 

There  is  likewise  another  great  advantage 
in  my  scheme,  that  it  will  prevent  those  volun- 
tary abortions,  and  that  horrid  practice  of 
women  murdering  their  bastard  children,  alas, 
too  frequent  among  us!  sacrificing  the  poor 
innocent  babes,  I  doubt,  more  to  avoid  the 
expense  than  the  shame,  which  would  move 
tears  and  pity  in  the  most  savage  and  inhuman 
breast. 

The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom  being 
usually  reckoned  one  million  and  a  half,  of 
these  I  calculate  there  may  be  about  two  hun- 
dred thousand  couple  whose  wives  are  breeders ; 
from  which  number  I  subtract  thirty  thousand 
couple,  who  are  able  to  maintain  their  own 
children,  (although  I  apprehend  there  cannot 
be  so  many,  under  the  present  distresses  of  the 
kingdom);  but  this  being  granted,  there  will 
remain  a  hundred  and  seventy  thousand 
breeders.  I  again  subtract  fifty  thousand,  for 
those  women  who  miscarry,  or  whose  children 
die  by  accident  or  disease  within  the  year. 
There  only  remain  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  children  of  poor  parents  annually 
born.     The   question   therefore   is,   How   this 


194 


JONATHAN    SWIFT 


number  shall  be  reared  and  provided  for? 
which,  as  I  have  already  said,  under  the 
present  situation  of  affairs,  is  utterly  impossible 
by  all  the  methods  hitherto  proposed.  For  we 
can  neither  employ  them  in  handicraft  or 
agriculture;  we  neither  build  houses  (I  mean 
in  the  country),  nor  cultivate  land:  they  can 
very  seldom  pick  up  a  livelihood  by  stealing, 
till  they  arrive  at  six  years  old,  except  where 
they  are  of  towardly  parts;  although  I  confess 
they  learn  the  rudiments  much  earlier;  during 
which  time  they  can,  however,  be  properly 
looked  upon  only  as  probationers;  as  I  have 
been  informed  by  a  principal  gentleman  in  the 
country  of  Cavan,  who  protested  to  me,  that 
he  never  knew  above  one  or  two  instances 
under  the  age  of  six,  even  in  a  part  of  the 
kingdom  so  renowned  for  the  quickest  pro- 
ficiency in  that  art. 

I  am  assured  by  our  merchants,  that  a  boy 
or  a  girl  before  twelve  years  old  is  no  saleable 
commodity;  and  even  when  they  come  to  this 
age  they  will  not  yield  above  three  pounds  or 
three  pounds  and  half-a-crown  at  most,  on 
the  exchange;  which  cannot  turn  to  account 
either  to  the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge 
of  nutriment  and  rags  having  been  at  least  four 
times  that  value. 

I  shall  now,  therefore,  humbly  propose  my 
own  thoughts,  which  I  hope  will  not  be  liable 
to  the  least  objection. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing  Amer- 
ican of  my  acquaintance  in  London,  that  a 
young  healthy  child,  well  nursed,  is,  at  a  year 
old,  a  most  delicious,  nourishing,  and  whole- 
some food,  whether  stewed,  roasted,  baked,  or 
boiled;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  it  will 
equally  serve  in  a  fricassee  or  a  ragout. 

I  do  therefore  humbly  offer  it  to  public  con- 
sideration, that  of  the  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  children  already  computed,  twenty 
thousand  may  be  reserved  for  breed,  whereof 
only  one-fourth  part  to  be  males;  which  is 
more  than  we  allow  to  sheep,  black-cattle, 
or  swine;  and  my  reason  is,  that  these  children 
are  seldom  the  fruits  of  marriage,  a  circum- 
stance not  much  regarded  by  our  savages, 
therefore  one  male  will  l^e  sufficient  for  four 
females.  That  the  remaining  hundred  thou- 
sand may,  at  a  year  old,  be  offered  in  sale  to 
the  persons  of  quality  and  fortune  through  the 
kingdom;  always  advising  the  mother  to  let 
them  suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as 
to  render  them  plump  and  fat  for  a  good  table. 
A  child  will  make  two  dishes  at  an  entertain- 
ment for  friends;    and  when  the  family  dines 


alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  will  make  a 
reasonable  dish,  and,  seasoned  with  a  little 
pepper  or  salt,  will  be  very  good  boiled  on  the 
fourth  day,  especially  in  winter. 

I  have  reckoned,  upon  a  medium,  that  a  child 
just  born  will  weigh  twelve  pounds,  and  in  a 
solar  year,  if  tolerably  nursed,  will  increase  to 
twenty-eight  pounds. 

I  grant  this  food  will  be  somewhat  dear,  and 
therefore  very  proper  for  landlords,  who,  as 
they  have  already  devoured  most  of  the  parents, 
seem  to  have  the  best  title  to  the  children. 

Infants'  flesh  will  be  in  season  throughout 
the  year,  but  more  plentifully  in  March,  and  a 
little  before  and  after:  for  we  are  told  by  a 
grave  author,  an  eminent  French  physician, 
that  fish  being  a  prolific  diet,  there  are  more 
children  born  in  Roman  Catholic  countries 
about  nine  months  after  Lent,  than  at  any 
other  season;  therefore,  reckoning  a  year  after 
Lent,  the  markets  will  be  more  glutted  than 
usual,  because  the  number  of  Popish  infants 
is  at  least  three  to  one  in  this  kingdom;  and 
therefore  it  will  have  one  other  collateral 
advantage,  by  lessening  the  number  of  Papists 
among  us. 

I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of 
nursing  a  beggar's  child  (in  which  list  I  reckon 
all  cottagers,  labourers,  and  four-fifths  of  the 
farmers)  to  be  about  two  shillings  per  annum, 
rags  included;  and  I  believe  no  gentleman 
would  repine  to  give  ten  shillings  for  the  car- 
cass of  a  good  fat  child,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutritive 
meat,  when  he  has  only  some  particular  friend, 
or  his  own  family,  to  dine  with  him.  Thus 
the  squire  will  learn  to  be  a  good  landlord, 
and  grow  popular  among  his  tenants;  the 
mother  will  have  eight  shillings  net  profit, 
and  be  fit  for  work  till  she  produces  another 
child. 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  must  con- 
fess the  times  require)  may  flay  the  carcass; 
the  skin  of  which,  artificially  dressed,  will 
make  admirable  gloves  for  ladies,  and  summer- 
boots  for  fine  gentlemen. 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may  be 
appointed  for  this  purpose  in  the  most  con- 
venient parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we  may  be 
assured  will  not  be  wanting;  although  I  rather 
recommend  buying  the  children  alive,  then 
dressing  them  hot  from  the  knife,  as  we  do 
roasting  pigs. 

A  very  worthy  person,  a  true  lover  of  his 
country,  and  whose  virtues  I  highly  esteem, 
was  lately  pleased,  in  discoursing  on  this  matter, 


A    MODEST    PROPOSAL 


195 


to  offer  a  refinement  upon  my  scheme.  He 
said,  that  many  gentlemen  of  this  Icingdom, 
having  of  late  destroyed  their  deer,  he  conceived 
that  the  want  of  venison  might  be  well  supplied 
by  the  bodies  of  young  lads  and  maidens, 
not  exceeding  fourteen  years  of  age,  nor  under 
twelve;  so  great  a  number  of  both  sexes  in 
every  country  being  now  ready  to  starve  for 
want  of  work  and  service;  and  these  to  be  dis- 
posed of  by  their  parents,  if  alive,  or  otherwise 
by  their  nearest  relations.  But,  with  due  def- 
erence to  so  excellent  a  friend,  and  so  deserv- 
ing a  patriot,  I  cannot  be  altogether  in  his 
sentiments;  for  as  to  the  males,  my  American 
acquaintance  assured  me,  from  frequent  ex- 
perience, that  their  flesh  was  generally  tough 
and  lean,  like  that  of  our  schoolboys,  by  con- 
tinual exercise,  and  their  taste  disagreeable; 
and  to  fatten  them  would  not  answer  the  charge. 
Then  as  to  the  females,  it  would,  I  think,  with 
humble  submission,  be  a  loss  to  the  public, 
because  they  soon  would  become  breeders 
themselves:  and  besides,  it  is  not  improbable 
that  some  scrupulous  people  might  be  apt  to 
censure  such  a  practice,  (although  indeed  very 
unjustly,)  as  a  little  bordering  upon  cruelty; 
which,  I  confess,  has  always  been  with  me  the 
strongest  objection  against  any  project,  how 
well  soever  intended. 

But  in  order  to  justify  my  friend,  he  con- 
fessed that  this  expedient  was  put  into  his  head 
by  the  famous  Psalmanazar,  a  native  of  the 
island  Formosa,  who  came  from  thence  to 
London  above  twenty  years  ago;  and  in  con- 
versation told  my  friend,  that  in  his  country, 
when  any  young  person  happened  to  be  put 
to  death,  the  executioner  sold  the  carcass  to 
persons  of  quality  as  a  prime  dainty;  and  that 
in  his  time  the  body  of  a  plump  girl  of  fifteen, 
who  was  crucified  for  an  attempt  to  poison  the 
emperor,  was  sold  to  his  imperial  majesty's 
prime  minister  of  state,  and  other  great  man- 
darins of  the  court,  in  joints  from  the  gibbet, 
at  four  hundred  crowns.  Neither  indeed  can 
I  deny,  that  if  the  same  use  were  made  of  several 
plump  young  girls  in  this  town,  who,  without 
one  single  groat  to  their  fortunes,  cannot  stir 
abroad  without  a  chair,  and  appear  at  play- 
house and  assemblies  in  foreign  fineries  which 
they  never  will  pay  for,  the  kingdom  would  not 
be  the  worse. 

Some  persons  of  a  desponding  spirit  are  in 
great  concern  about  that  vast  number  of  poor 
people,  who  are  aged,  diseased,  or  maimed; 
and  I  have  been  desired  to  employ  my  thoughts, 
what  course  may  be  taken  to  ease  the  nation  of 


so  grievous  an  encumbrance.  But  I  am  not 
in  the  least  pain  upon  that  matter,  because  it  is 
very  well  known,  that  they  are  every  day  dying, 
and  rotting,  by  cold  and  famine,  and  filth  and 
vermin,  as  fast  as  can  be  reasonably  expected. 
And  as  to  the  young  labourers,  they  are  now  in 
almost  as  hopeful  a  condition:  they  cannot  get 
work,  and  consequently  pine  away  for  want  of 
nourishment,  to  a  degree,  that  if  at  any  time 
they  are  accidentally  hired  to  common  labour, 
they  have  not  strength  to  perform  it;  and  thus 
the  country  and  themselves  are  happily  de- 
livered from  the  evils  to  come. 

I  have  too  long  digressed,  and  therefore  shall 
return  to  my  subject.  I  think  the  advantages 
by  the  proposal  which  I  have  made,  are  obvious 
and  many,  as  well  as  of  the  highest  importance. 

For  first.  As  I  have  already  observed,  it  would 
greatly  lessen  the  number  of  Papists,  with 
whom  we  are  yearly  over-run,  being  the  prin- 
cipal breeders  of  the  nation,  as  well  as  our 
most  dangerous  enemies;  and  who  stay  at 
home  on  purpose  to  deliver  the  kingdom  to 
the  Pretender,  hoping  to  take  their  advantage 
by  the  absence  of  so  many  good  Protestants, 
who  have  chosen  rather  to  leave  their  country, 
than  stay  at  home  and  pay  tithes  against  their 
conscience  to  an  Episcopal  curate. 

Secondly,  The  poorer  tenants  will  have  some- 
thing valuable  of  their  own,  which  by  law  may 
be  made  liable  to  distress,  and  help  to  pay  their 
landlord's  rent;  their  corn  and  cattle  being 
already  seized,  and  money  a  thing  unknown. 

Thirdly,  Whereas  the  maintenance  of  a 
hundred  thousand  children,  from  two  years  old 
and  upward,  cannot  be  computed  at  less  than 
ten  shillings  apiece  per  annum,  the  nation's 
stock  will  be  thereby  increased  fifty  thousand 
pounds  per  annum,  beside  the  profit  of  a  new 
dish  introduced  to  the  tables  of  all  gentlemen 
of  fortune  in  the  kingdom,  who  have  any  refine- 
ment in  taste.  And  the  money  will  circulate 
among  ourselves,  the  goods  being  entirely  of 
our  own  growth  and  manufacture. 

Fourthly,  The  constant  breeders,  beside 
the  gain  of  eight  shillings  sterling  per  annum 
by  the  sale  of  their  children,  will  be  rid  of  the 
charge  of  maintaining  them  after  the  first  year. 

Fifthly,  This  food  would  likewise  bring  great 
custom  to  taverns;  where  the  vintners  will 
certainly  be  so  prudent  as  to  procure  the  best 
receipts  for  dressing  it  to  perfection,  and,  conse- 
quently, have  their  houses  frequented  by  all 
the  fine  gentlemen,  who  justly  value  themselves 
upon  their  knowledge  in  good  eating:  and  a 
skilful  cook,  who  understands  how  to  oblige 


196 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 


his  guests,  will  contrive  to  make  it  as  expensive 
as  they  please. 

Sixthly,  This  vi'ould  be  a  great  inducement  to 
marriage,  which  all  wise  nations  have  either 
encouraged  by  rewards,  or  enforced  by  laws 
and  penalties:  It  would  increase  the  care  and 
tenderness  of  mothers  toward  their  children, 
when  they  were  sure  of  a  settlement  for  life 
to  the  poor  babes,  provided  in  some  sort  by 
the  public,  to  their  annual  profit  or  expense. 
We  should  see  an  honest  emulation  among  the 
married  women,  which  of  them  could  bring  the 
fattest  child  to  the  market.  Men  would  become 
as  fond  of  their  wives  during  the  time  of  their 
pregnancy,  as  they  are  now  of  their  mares  in  foal, 
their  cows  in  calf,  their  sows  when  they  are  ready 
to  farrow ;  nor  offer  to  beat  or  kick  them  (as  is 
too  frequent  a  practice)  for  fear  of  a  miscarriage. 

Many  other  advantages  might  be  enumer- 
ated. For  instance,  the  addition  of  some  thou- 
sand carcasses  in  our  exportation  of  barrelled 
beef;  the  propagation  of  swine's  flesh,  and 
improvement  in  the  art  of  making  good  bacon, 
so  much  wanted  among  us  by  the  great  destruc- 
tion of  pigs,  too  frequent  at  our  table;  which 
are  no  way  comparable  in  taste  or  magnificence 
to  a  well-grown,  fat,  yearling  child,  which, 
roasted  whole,  will  make  a  considerable  figure 
at  a  lord  mayor's  feast,  or  any  other  public 
entertainment.  But  this,  and  many  others,  I 
omit,  being  studious  of  brevity. 

Supposing  that  one  thousand  families  in  this 
city  would  be  constant  customers  for  infants' 
flesh,  beside  others  who  might  have  it  at  merry- 
meetings,  particularly  at  weddings  and  chris- 
tenings, I  compute  that  Dublin  would  take  off 
annually  about  twenty  thousand  carcasses; 
and  the  rest  of  the  kingdom  (where  probably 
they  will  be  sold  somewhat  cheaper)  the  re- 
maining eighty  thousand. 

I  can  think  of  no  one  objection  that  will 
possibly  be  raised  against  this  proposal,  unless 
it  should  be  urged,  that  the  number  of  people 
will  be  thereby  much  lessened  in  the  kingdom. 
This  I  freely  own,  and  it  was  indeed  one  prin- 
cipal design  in  offering  it  to  the  world.  I 
desire  the  reader  will  observe,  that  I  calculate 
my  remedy  for  this  one  individual  kingdom  of 
Ireland,  and  for  no  other  that  ever  was,  is,  or 
I  think  ever  can  be,  upon  earth.  Therefore  let 
no  man  talk  to  me  of  other  expedients:  of 
taxing  our  absentees  at  five  shillings  a  pound: 
of  using  neither  clothes,  nor  household-furni- 
ture, except  what  is  our  own  growth  and  manu- 
facture: of  utterly  rejecting  the  materials  and 
instruments  that  promote  foreign  lux-ury:    of 


curing  the  expensiveness  of  pride,  vanity,  idle- 
ness, and  gaming  in  our  women ;  of  introducing 
a  vein  of  parsimony,  prudence,  and  temper- 
ance: of  learning  to  love  our  country,  in  the 
want  of  which  we  differ  even  from  Laplanders, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  Topinamboo:  of  quit- 
ting our  animosities  and  factions,  nor  acting 
any  longer  like  the  Jews,  who  were  murdering 
one  another  at  the  very  moment  their  city  was 
taken:  of  being  a  little  cautious  not  to  sell  our 
country  and  conscience  for  nothing:  of  teaching 
landlords  to  have  at  least  one  degree  of  mercy 
toward  their  tenants:  lastly,  of  putting  a  spirit 
of  honesty,  industry,  and  skill  into  our  shop- 
keepers; who,  if  a  resolution  could  now  be 
taken  to  buy  only  our  native  goods,  would 
immediately  unite  to  cheat  and  exact  upon  us 
in  the  price,  the  measure,  and  the  goodness, 
nor  could  ever  yet  be  brought  to  make  one  fair 
proposal  of  just  dealing,  though  often  and 
earnestly  invited  to  it. 

Therefore  I  repeat,  let  no  man  talk  to  me  of 
these  and  the  like  expedients,  till  he  has  at  least 
some  glimpse  of  hope,  that  there  will  be  ever  some 
hearty  and  sincere  attempt  to  put  them  in  practice. 

But,  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied  out 
for  many  years  with  offering  vain,  idle,  visionary 
thoughts,  and  at  length  utterly  despairing  of 
success,  I  fortunately  fell  upon  this  proposal; 
which,  as  it  is  wholly  new,  so  it  has  something 
solid  and  real,  of  no  expense  and  little  trouble, 
full  in  our  own  power,  and  whereby  we  can 
incur  no  danger  in  disobliging  England.  For 
this  kind  of  commodity  will  not  bear  exporta- 
tion, the  flesh  being  of  too  tender  a  consistence 
to  admit  a  long  continuance  in  salt,  although 
perhaps  I  could  name  a  country,  which  would 
be  glad  to  eat  up  our  whole  nation  without  it. 

After  all,  I  am  not  so  violently  bent  upon  my 
own  opinion  as  to  reject  any  offer  proposed  by 
wise  men,  which  shall  be  found  equally  inno- 
cent, cheap,  easy,  and  effectual.  But  before 
something  of  that  kind  shall  be  advanced  in 
contradiction  to  my  scheme,  and  offering  a 
better,  I  desire  the  author,  or  authors,  will  be 
pleased  maturely  to  consider  two  points.  First, 
as  things  now  stand,  how  they  will  be  able  to 
find  food  and  raiment  for  a  hundred  thousand 
useless  mouths  and  backs.  And,  secondly, 
there  being  a  round  million  of  creatures  in 
human  figure  throughout  this  kingdom,  whose 
whole  subsistence  put  into  a  common  stock 
would  leave  them  in  debt  two  millions  of 
pounds  sterling,  adding  those  who  are  beggars 
by  profession,  to  the  bulk  of  farmers,  cottagers, 
and   labourers,   with   the  wives  and   children 


THE    EARL    OF    SHAFTESBURY 


197 


who  are  beggars  in  effect;  I  desire  those  poli- 
ticians who  disHke  my  overture,  and  may 
perhaps  be  so  bold  as  to  attempt  an  answer, 
that  they  will  first  ask  the  parents  of  these 
mortals,  whether  they  would  not  at  this  day 
think  it  a  great  happiness  to  have  been  sold  for 
food  at  a  year  old,  in  the  manner  I  prescribe, 
and  thereby  have  avoided  such  a  perpetual 
scene  of  misfortunes,  as  they  have  since  gone 
through,  by  the  oppression  of  landlords,  the 
impossibility  of  paying  rent  without  money  or 
trade,  the  want  of  common  sustenance,  with 
neither  house  nor  clothes  to  cover  them  from 
the  inclemencies  of  the  weather,  and  the  most 
inevitable  prospect  of  entailing  the  like,  or 
greater  miseries,  upon  their  breed  for  ever. 

I  profess,  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart,  that 
I  have  not  the  least  personal  interest  in  endeav- 
ouring to  promote  this  necessary  work,  having 
no  other  motive  than  the  public  good  of  my 
country,  by  advancing  our  trade,  providing 
for  infants,  relieving  the  poor,  and  giving 
some  pleasure  to  the  rich.  I  have  no  children 
by  which  I  can  propose  to  get  a  single  penny; 
the  youngest  being  nine  years  old,  and  my 
wife  past  child-bearing. 

ANTHONY     ASHLEY     COOPER, 
THIRD   EARL   OF  SHAFTES- 
BURY (1671-1713) 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF   MEN,  MANNERS, 
OPINIONS,  TIMES,    ETC. 

FREEDOM    OF   WIT   AND   HUMOUR 

Part  III.     Section  III 

You  have  heard  it,  my  friend,  as  a  common 
saying,  that  interest  governs  the  world.  But, 
I  believe,  whoever  looks  narrowly  into  the 
affairs  of  it  will  find  that  passion,  humour, 
caprice,  zeal,  faction,  and  a  thousand  other 
springs,  which  are  counter  to  self-interest,  have 
as  considerable  a  part  in  the  movements  of  this 
machine.  There  are  more  wheels  and  counter- 
poises in  this  engine  than  are  easily  imagined. 
'Tis  of  too  complex  a  kind  to  fall  under  one 
simple  view,  or  be  explained  thus  briefly  in  a 
word  or  two.  The  studiers  of  this  mechanism 
must  have  a  very  partial  eye  to  overlook  all 
other  motions  besides  those  of  the  lowest  and 
narrowest  compass.  'Tis  hard  that  in  the  plan 
or  description  of  this  clock-work  no  wheel  or 
balance  should  be  allowed  on  the  side  of  the 
better  and  more  enlarged  affections;  that 
nothing  should  be  understood  to  be  done  in 
kindness  or  generosity,  nothing  in  pure  good- 


nature or  friendship,  or  through  any  social  or 
natural  affection  of  any  kind;  when,  perhaps, 
the  mainsprings  of  this  machine  will  be  found 
to  be  either  these  very  natural  affections  them- 
selves, or  a  compound  kind  derived  from  them, 
and  retaining  more  than  one  half  of  their  nature. 

But  here,  my  friend,  you  must  not  expect 
that  I  should  draw  you  up  a  formal  scheme 
of  the  passions,  or  pretend  to  show  you  their 
genealogy  and  relation:  how  they  are  inter- 
woven with  one  another,  or  interfere  with  our 
happiness  and  interest.  'Twould  be  out  of  the 
genius  and  compass  of  such  a  letter  as  this,  to 
frame  a  just  plan  or  model  by  which  you  might, 
with  an  accurate  view,  observe  what  proportion 
the  friendly  and  natural  affections  seem  to 
bear  in  this  order  of  architecture. 

Modern  projectors,  I  know,  would  willingly 
rid  their  hands  of  these  natural  materials,  and 
would  fain  build  after  a  more  uniform  way. 
They  would  new-frame  the  human  heart,  and 
have  a  mighty  fancy  to  reduce  all  its  motions, 
balances,  and  weights,  to  that  one  principle 
and  foundation  of  a  cool  and  deliberate  self- 
ishness. Men,  it  seems,  are  unwilling  to 
think  they  can  be  so  outwitted  and  imposed 
on  by  Nature,  as  to  be  made  to  serve  her  pur- 
poses rather  than  their  own.  They  are  ashamed 
to  be  drawn  thus  out  of  themselves,  and  forced 
from  what  they  esteem  their  true  interest. 

There  has  been  in  all  times  a  sort  of  narrow- 
minded  philosophers,  who  have  thought  to  set 
this  difference  to  rights  by  conquering  Nature 
in  themselves.  A  primitive  father  and  founder 
among  these,  saw  well  this  power  of  Nature, 
and  understood  it  so  far,  that  he  earnestly 
exhorted  his  followers  neither  to  beget  children 
nor  serve  their  country.  There  was  no  dealing 
with  Nature,  it  seems,  while  these  alluring 
objects  stood  in  the  way.  Relations,  friends, 
countrymen,  laws,  politic  constitutions,  the 
beauty  of  order  and  government,  and  the 
interest  of  society  and  mankind,  were  objects 
which,  he  well  saw,  would  naturally  raise  a 
stronger  affection  than  any  which  was  grounded 
upon  the  narrow  bottom  of  mere  self.  His 
advice,  therefore,  not  to  marry,  nor  engage  at 
all  in  the  public,  was  wise,  and  suitable  to  his 
design.  There  was  no  way  to  be  truly  a  dis- 
ciple of  this  philosophy,  but  to  leave  family, 
friends,  country,  and  society,  to  cleave  to  it. 
.  .  .  And,  in  good  earnest,  who  would  not, 
if  it  were  happiness  to  do  so?  —  The  phi- 
losopher, however,  was  kind  in  telling  us  his 
thought.  'Twas  a  token  of  his  fatherly  love 
of  mankind  — 


198 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


Tu  pater,  et  rerum  inventor !    Tu  patria  nobis 
Suppeditas  praecepta !  ' 

But  the  revivers  of  this  philosophy  in  latter 
days  appear  to  be  of  a  lower  genius.  They 
seem  to  have  understood  less  of  this  force  of 
Nature,  and  thought  to  alter  the  thing  by 
shifting  a  name.  They  would  so  explain  all 
the  social  passions  and  natural  affections  as  to 
denominate  them  of  the  selfish  kind.  Thus 
civility,  hospitality,  humanity  towards  strangers 
or  people  in  distress,  is  only  a  more  deliberate 
selfishness.  An  honest  heart  is  only  a  more 
cunning  one;  and  honesty  and  good-nature, 
a  more  deliberate  or  better-regulated  self-love. 
The  love  of  kindred,  children  and  posterity, 
is  purely  love  of  self  and  of  one's  own  immediate 
blood;  as  if,  by  this  reckoning,  all  mankind 
were  not  included:  all  being  of  one  blood,  and 
joined  by  inter-marriages  and  alliances,  as 
they  have  been  transplanted  in  colonies  and 
mixed  one  with  another.  And  thus  love  of 
one's  country  and  love  of  mankind  must  also 
be  self-love.  Magnanimity  and  courage,  no 
doubt,  are  modifications  of  this  universal  self- 
love  !  For  courage,  says  our  modern  philoso- 
pher, is  constant  anger;  and  all  men,  says  a 
witty  poet,  would  be  cowards  if  they  durst.  * 

That  the  poet  and  the  philosopher  both  were 
cowards,  may  be  yielded  perhaps  without  dis- 
pute. They  may  have  spoken  the  best  of  their 
knowledge.  But  for  true  courage,  it  has  so 
little  to  do  with  anger,  that  there  lies  always 
the  strongest  suspicion  against  it  where  this 
passion  is  highest.  The  "true  courage  is  the 
cool  and  calm.  The  bravest  of  men  have  the 
least  of  a  brutal  bullying  insolence;  and  in  the 
very  time  of  danger  are  found  the  most  serene, 
pleasant,  and  free.  Rage,  we  know,  can  make 
a  coward  forget  himself  and  fight.  But  what 
is  done  in  fury  or  anger  can  never  be  placed  to 
the  account  of  courage.  Were  it  otherwise, 
womankind  might  claim  to  be  the  stoutest  sex; 
for  their  hatred  and  anger  have  ever  been  al- 
lowed the  strongest  and  most  lasting. 

Other  authors  there  have  been  of  a  yet  in- 
ferior kind:  a  sort  of  distributors  and  petty 
retailers  of  this  wit,  who  have  run  changes,  and 
divisions  without  end,  upon  this  article  of  self- 
love.  You  have  the  very  same  thought  spun 
out  a  hundred  ways,  and  drawn  into  mottoes 
and  devices  to  set  forth  this  riddle,  that  "act 
as  dismterestedly  or  generously  as  you  please, 
self  still  is  at  the  bottom,  and  nothing  else.'' 

1  Thou,  father  and  beginner  of  things,  do  thou  give 
us  fatherly  counsels. 


Now  if  these  gentlemen  who  delight  so  much  in 
the  play  of  words,  but  are  cautious  how  they 
grapple  closely  with  definitions,  would  tell  us 
only  what  self-interest  was,  and  determine 
happiness  and  good,  there  would  be  an  end  of 
this  enigmatical  wit.  For  in  this  we  should  all 
agree,  that  happiness  was  to  be  pursued,  and  in 
fact  was  always  sought  after;  but  whether  found 
in  following  Nature,  and  giving  way  to  common 
affection,  or  in  suppressing  it,  and  turning  every 
passion  towards  private  advantage,  a  narrow 
self-end,  or  the  preservation  of  mere  life,  this 
would  be  the  matter  in  debate  between  us.  The 
question  would  not  be,  "who  loved  himself,  or 
who  not,"  but  "who  loved  and  served  himself 
the  rightest,  and  after  the  truest  manner." 

'Tis  the  height  of  wisdom,  no  doubt,  to  be 
rightly  selfish.  And  to  value  life,  as  far  as  life 
is  good,  belongs  as  much  to  courage  as  to  dis- 
cretion; but  a  wretched  life  is  no  wise  man's 
wish.  To  be  without  honesty  is,  in  effect, 
to  be  without  natural  affection  or  sociablen^ss 
of  any  kind.  And  a  life  without  natural  af- 
fection, friendship,  or  sociableness  would  be 
found  a  wretched  one  were  it  to  be  tried.  'Tis 
as  these  feelings  and  affections  are  intrinsically 
valuable  and  worthy  that  self-interest  is  to  be 
rated  and  esteemed.  A  man  is  by  nothing  so 
much  himself  as  by  his  temper  and  the  char- 
acter of  his  passions  and  affections.  .  If  he 
loses  what  is  manly  and  worthy  in  these,  he  is 
as  much  lost  to  himself  as  when  he  loses  his 
memory  and  understanding.  The  least  step 
into  villainy  or  baseness  changes  the  character 
and  value  of  a  life.  He  who  would  preserve 
life  at  any  rate  must  abuse  himself  more  than 
any  one  can  abuse  him.  And  if  life  be  not  a 
dear  thing  indeed,  he  who  has  refused  to  live 
a  villain  and  has  preferred  death  to  a  base 
action  has  been  a  gainer  by  the  bargain. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON  (1672-1719) 

THE   SPECTATOR 

NO.    10.     MONDAY,    MARCH   12,  1711 

Non  aliter  quam  qui  adverso  vix  ftumine  lembum 

Remigiis  subigit :   si  brachia  forte  remisit, 

Atque  ilium  in  praeceps  prono  rapit  alveus  amni.^ 

—  ViRG. 

It  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this 
great  city  inquiring  day  by  day  after  these  my 

1  So  the  boat's  brawny  crew  the  current  stem, 
And,  slow  advancing,  struggle  with  the  stream; 
But  if  they  slack  their  hands  or  cease  to  strive. 
Then  down  the  flood  with  headlong  haste  they 
drive.  —  Dryden. 


THE    SPECTATOR 


199 


papers,  and  receiving  my  morning  lectures 
with  a  becoming  seriousness  and  attention. 
My  publisher  tells  me,  that  there  are  already 
three  thousand  of  them  distributed  every  day: 
So  that  if  I  allow  twenty  readers  to  every  paper, 
which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computation, 
I  may  reckon  about  threescore  thousand 
disciples  in  London  and  Westminsler,  who  I 
hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish  themselves 
from  the  thoughtless  herd  of  their  ignorant  and 
unattentive  brethren.  Since  I  have  raised  to 
myself  so  great  an  audience,  I  shall  spare  no 
pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable,  and 
their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reasons  I 
shall  endeavour  to  enliven  morality  with  wit, 
and  to  temper  wit  with  morality,  that  my 
readers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways  find  their 
account  in  the  speculation  of  the  day.  And 
to  the  end  that  their  virtue  and  discretion  may 
not  be  short  transient  intermitting  starts  of 
thoughts,  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their 
memories  from  day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered 
them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of  vice  and 
folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  The  mind 
that  lies  fallow  but  a  single  day,  sprouts  up 
in  follies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  con- 
stant and  assiduous  culture.  It  was  said  of 
Socrates,  that  he  brought  philosophy  down  from 
heaven,  to  inhabit  among  men;  and  I  shall  be 
ambitious  to  have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  have 
brought  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libra- 
ries, schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs 
and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee- 
houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  very  particular  manner 
recommend  these  my  speculations  to  all  well- 
regulated  families,  that  set  apart  an  hour  in 
every  morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter; 
and  would  earnestly  advise  them  for  their  good 
to  order  this  paper  to  be  punctually  served  up, 
and  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  part  of  the  tea 
equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes,  that  a  well- 
written  book,  compared  with  its  rivals  and 
antagonists,  is  like  Moses's  serpent,  that  im- 
mediately swallowed  up  and  devoured  those 
of  the  Egyptians.  I  shall  not  be  so  vain  as  to 
think,  that  where  the  Spectator  appears,  the 
other  public  prints  will  vanish;  But  shall 
leave  it  to  my  reader's  consideration,  whether. 
Is  it  not  much  better  to  be  let  into  the 
knowledge  of  one's  self,  than  to  hear  what 
passes  in  Muscovy  or  Poland;  and  to  amuse 
ourselves  with  such  writings  as  tend  to 
the  wearing  out  of  ignorance,  passion,  and 
prejudice,  than    such    as    naturally    conduce 


to  inflame  hatreds,  and  make  enmities  irrecon- 
cileable  ? 

In  the  ne.xt  place,  I  would  recommend  this 
paper  to  the  daily  perusal  of  those  gentlemen 
whom  I  cannot  but  consider  as  my  good 
brothers  and  allies,  I  mean  the  fraternity  of 
Spectators,  who  live  in  the  world  without  having 
anything  to  do  in  it ;  and  either  by  the  affluence 
of  their  fortunes,  or  laziness  of  their  dispositions, 
have  no  other  business  with  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, but  to  look  upon  them.  Under  this  class 
of  men  are  comprehended  all  contemplative 
tradesmen,  titular  physicians.  Fellows  of  the 
Ro)-al-society,  Templars  that  are  not  given  to 
be  contentious,  and  statesmen  that  are  out  of 
business;  in  short,  everyone  that  considers  the 
world  as  a  theatre,  and  desires  to  form  a  right 
judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  like- 
wise lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called 
the  blanks  of  society,  as  being  altogether  un- 
furnished with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  con- 
versation of  the  day  has  supplied  them.  I  have 
often  considered  these  poor  souls  with  an  eye 
of  great  commiseration,  when  I  have  heard 
them  asking  the  first  man  they  have  met  with, 
whether  there  was  any  news  stirring?  and  by 
that  means  gathering  together  materials  for 
thinking.  These  needy  persons  do  not  know 
what  to  talk  of,  till  about  twelve  a  clock  in  the 
morning;  for  by  that  time  they  are  pretty  good 
judges  of  the  weather,  know  which  way  the 
wind  sits,  and  whether  the  Dutch  mail  be  come 
in.  As  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  man 
they  meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent  all  the 
day  long,  according  to  the  notions  which  they 
have  imbibed  in  the  morning,  I  would  earnestly 
entreat  them  not  to  stir  out  of  their  chambers 
till  they  have  read  this  paper,  and  do  promise 
them  that  I  will  daily  instil  into  them  such  sound 
and  wholesome  sentiments,  as  shall  have  a  good 
effect  on  their  conversation  for  the  ensuing 
twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will 
be  more  useful,  than  to  the  female  world. 
I  have  often  thought  there  has  not  been  suffi- 
cient pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  employ- 
ments and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their 
amusements  seem  contrived  for  them,  rather 
as  they  are  women,  than  as  they  are  reason- 
able creatures;  and  are  more  adapted  to  the 
sex  than  to  the  species.  The  toilet  is  their 
great  scene  of  business,  and  the  right  adjusting 
of  their  hair  the  principal  employment  of  their 
lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is  reck- 
oned a  very  good  morning's  work;  and  if  they 


200 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


make  an  excursion  to  a  mercer's  or  a  toy -shop, 
so  great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for  any  thing 
else  all  the  day  after.  Their  more  serious  occu- 
pations are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and  their 
greatest  drudgery  the  preparation  of  jellies 
and  sweet-meats.  This,  I  say,  is  the  state  of 
ordinary  women;  though  I  know  there  are 
multitudes  of  those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and 
conversation,  that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere 
of  knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all  the 
beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress, 
and  inspire  a  kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well 
as  love,  into  their  male  beholders.  I  hope_  to 
encrease  the  number  of  these  by  publishing 
this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always  endeav- 
our to  make  an  innocent  if  not  an  improving 
entertainment,  and  by  that  means  at  least 
divert  the  minds  of  my  female  readers  from 
greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I  would 
fain  give  some  finishing  touches  to  those  which 
are  already  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in  human 
nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out  all  those 
imperfections  that  are  the  blemishes,  as  well 
as  those  virtues  which  are  the  embellishments 
of  the  sex.  In  the  meanwhile  I  hope  these  my 
gentle  readers,  who  have  so  much  time  on  their 
hands,  will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  a  day  on  this  paper,  since  they 
may  do  it  without  any  hindrance  to  business. 
I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers 
are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lest  I  should  not  be 
able  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a  paper  which  I 
oblige  myself  to  furnish  every  day:  But  to 
make  them  easy  in  this  particular,  I  will  promise 
them  faithfully  to  give  it  over  as  soon  as  I 
grow  dull.  This  I  know  will  be  matter  of  great 
raillery  to  the  small  Wits;  who  will  frequently 
put  me  in  mind  of  my  promise,  desire  me  to 
keep  my  word,  assure  me  that  it  is  high  time 
to  give  over,  with  many  other  little  pleasantries 
of  the  like  nature,  which  men  of  a  little  smart 
genius  cannot  forbear  throwing  out  against 
their  best  friends,  when  they  have  such  a  handle 
given  them  of  being  witty.  But  let  them  re- 
member that  I  do  hereby  enter  my  caveat 
against  this  piece  of  raillery. 

THOUGHTS    IN   WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 
NO.   26.     FRIDAY,    MARCH  30,    1711 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabertias 

Regumque  turres,  O  beate  Sexli. 
Vitae  summa  hrevis  spent  nos  velat  inchoare  longam, 

Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabtdaeque  manes, 
Et  domus  exilis  Plulonia. 

—  HOR.  i.   Od.  iv.  13. 


With  equal  foot,  rich  friend,  impartial  fate 
Knocks  at  the  cottage,  and  the  palace  gate: 
Life's  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 
And  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years: 
Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly  go 
To  story'd  ghosts,  and  Pluto's  house  below. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  I  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey;  where 
the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to 
which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the 
building,  and  the  condition  of  the  people  who 
lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtfulness,  that  is 
not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a  whole 
afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and 
the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tomb- 
stones and  inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in  those 
several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  of  them 
recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  person, 
but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and  died 
upon  another:  the  whole  history  of  his  life 
being  comprehended  in  those  two  circumstances 
that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not 
but  look  upon  these  registers  of  existence, 
whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  satire 
upon  the  departed  persons;  who  left  no  other 
memorial  of  them,  but  that  they  were  born, 
and  that  they  died.  They  put  me  in  mind  of 
several  persons  mentioned  in  the  battles  of 
heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding  names  given 
them,  for  no  other  reason  but  that  they  may 
be  killed,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing  but 
being  knocked  on  the  head. 


■  TXavKov  T€  Meioi'Ta  re  &(p<TiXoxov  re." 


•HOM. 


"Glaucumque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque." 

—  ViRG. 

"Glaucus,  and  Medon,  and  Thersilochus." 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in 
Holy  Writ  by  "the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is 
immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained 
myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave;  and  saw 
in  every  shovel-full  of  it  that  was  thrown  up, 
the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with 
a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth,  that  some  time 
or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composition  of  an 
human  body.  Upon  this  I  began  to  consider 
with  myself,  what  innumerable  multitudes  of 
people  lay  confused  together  under  the  pave- 
ment of  that  ancient  cathedral;  how  men  and 
women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests  and 
soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were 
crumbled  amongst  one  another,  and  blended 


THE    SPECTATOR 


20I 


together  in  the  same  common  mass;  how 
beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with  old  age, 
weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished 
in  the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  maga- 
zine of  mortahty,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I  ex- 
amined it  more  particularly  by  the  accounts 
which  I  found  on  several  of  the  monuments 
which  are  raised  in  every  quarter  of  that  ancient 
fabric.  Some  of  them  were  covered  with  such 
extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if  it  were  possible 
for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  with  them, 
he  would  blush  at  the  praises  which  his  friends 
have  bestowed  on  him.  There  are  others  so 
excessively  modest,  that  they  deliver  the  char- 
acter of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  He- 
brew, and  by  that  means  are  not  understood 
once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quar- 
ter, I  found  there  were  poets  who  had  no  monu- 
ments, and  monuments  which  had  no  poets. 
I  observed,  indeed,  that  the  present  war  had 
filled  the  church  with  many  of  these  unin- 
habited monuments,  which  had  been  erected 
to  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were, 
perhaps,  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or 
in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with 
several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with 
great  elegance  of  expression  and  justness  of 
thought,  and  therefore  do  honour  to  the  living 
as  well  as  to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very 
apt  to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or 
politeness  of  a  nation  from  the  turn  of  their 
public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  they  should 
be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  men  of  learning 
and  genius  before  they  are  put  in  execution. 
Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel's  monument  has  very 
often  given  me  great  offence.  Instead  of  the 
brave,  rough,  English  admiral,  which  was  the 
distinguishing  character  of  that  plain,  gallant 
man,  he  is  represented  on  his  tomb  by  the  figure 
of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  repos- 
ing himself  upon  velvet  cushions  under  a  can- 
opy of  state.  The  inscription  is  answerable 
to  the  monument;  for,  instead  of  celebrating 
the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had  performed 
in  the  service  of  his  country,  it  acquaints  us 
only  with  the  manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honour. 
The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for 
want  of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater  taste 
of  antiquity  and  politeness  in  their  buildings 
and  works  of  this  nature,  than  what  we  meet 
with  in  those  of  our  own  country.  The  monu- 
ments of  their  admirals,  which  have  been  erected 
at  the  public  expense,  represent  them  like  them- 


selves, and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns 
and  naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons 
of  sea-weed,  shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the 
repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the  con- 
templation of  another  day,  when  I  shall  find 
my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amusement. 
I  know  that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are 
apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timor- 
ous minds  and  gloomy  imaginations;  but  for 
my  own  part,  though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do 
not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melancholy;  and  can 
therefore  take  a  view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and 
solemn  scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her 
most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this  means  I 
can  improve  myself  with  those  objects,  which 
others  consider  with  terror.  When  I  look 
upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion 
of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs 
of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes 
out ;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of  parents  upon 
a  tomb-stone,  my  heart  melts  with  compassion: 
when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves, 
I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom 
we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings 
lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when  I  con- 
sider rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy 
men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests 
and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonish- 
ment on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and 
debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several 
dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday, 
and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that 
great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contem- 
poraries, and  make  our  appearance  together. 

THE    HEAD-DRESS 
NO.   98.     FRID.W,    JUNE   22,    1711 

Tanta  est  quaerendi  cura  dccoris. 

—  Juv.  Sat.  vi.  500. 

So  studiously  their  persons  they  adorn. 

There  is  not  so  variable  a  thing  in  nature  as 
a  lady's  head-dress.  Within  my  own  memory 
I  have  known  it  rise  and  fall  above  thirty 
degrees.  About  ten  years  ago  it  shot  up  to  a 
very  great  height,  insomuch  that  the  female 
part  of  our  species  were  much  taller  than  the 
men.  The  women  were  of  such  an  enormous 
stature,  that  "we  appeared  as  grasshoppers 
before  them;"  at  present  the  whole  sex  is  in  a 
manner  dwarfed,  and  shrunk  into  a  race  of 
beauties  that  seems  almost  another  species. 
I  remember  several  ladies,  who  were  once  very 


202 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


near  seven  foot  high,  that  at  present  want  some 
inches  of  five.  How  they  came  to  be  thus  cur- 
tailed I  cannot  learn.  Whether  the  whole  sex 
be  at  present  under  any  penance  which  we 
know  nothing  of;  or  whether  they  have  cast 
their  head-dresses  in  order  to  surprise  us  with 
something  in  that  kind  which  shall  be  entirely 
new ;  or  whether  some  of  the  tallest  of  the  sex, 
being  too  cunning  for  the  rest,  have  contrived 
this  method  to  make  themselves  appear  size- 
able, is  still  a  secret;  though  I  find  most  are 
of  opinion,  they  are  at  present  like  trees  new 
lopped  and  pruned,  that  will  certainly  sprout  up 
and  flourish  with  greater  heads  than  before.  For 
my  own  part,  as  I  do  not  love  to  be  insulted  by 
women  who  are  taller  than  myself,  I  admire  the 
sex  much  more  in  their  present  humiliation, 
which  has  reduced  them  to  their  natural  di- 
mensions, than  when  they  had  extended  their 
persons  and  lengthened  themselves  out  into 
formidable  and  gigantic  figures.  I  am  not  for 
adding  to  the  beautiful  edifices  of  nature,  nor 
for  raising  any  whimsical  superstructure  upon 
her  plans:  I  must  therefore  repeat  it,  that  I 
am  highly  pleased  with  the  coiffure  now  in 
fashion,  and  think  it  shows  the  good  sense  which 
at  present  very  much  reigns  among  the  valuable 
part  of  the  sex.  One  may  observe  that  women 
in  all  ages  have  taken  more  pains  than  men  to 
adorn  the  outside  of  their  heads;  and  indeed 
I  very  much  admire,  that  those  female  archi- 
tects who  raise  such  wonderful  structures  out  of 
ribands,  lace,  and  wire,  have  not  been  recorded 
for  their  respective  inventions.  It  is  certain 
there  have  been  as  many  orders  in  these  kinds  of 
building,  as  in  those  which  have  been  made  of 
marble.  Sometimes  they  rise  in  the  shape  of  a 
pyramid,  sometimes  like  a  tower,  and  some- 
times like  a  steeple.  In  Juvenal's  time  the 
building  grew  by  several  orders  and  stories, 
as  he  has  very  humorously  described  it : 

"Tot  premit  ordinibus,  tot  adhuc  compagibus  altum 
Aedificat  caput:    Andromachen  a  fronte  videbis; 
Post  minor  est:    aliam  credas." 

—  Juv.  Sat.  vi.  501. 

"With  curls  on  curls  they  build  her  head  before, 
And  mount  it  with  a  formidable  tower: 
A  giantess  she  seems;    but  look  behind, 
And  then  she  dwindles  to  the  pigmy  kind." 

But  I  do  not  remember  in  any  part  of  my 
reading,  that  the  head-dress  aspired  to  so  great 
an  extravagance  as  in  the  fourteenth  century; 
when  it  was  built  up  in  a  couple  of  cones  or 
spires,  which  stood  so  excessively  high  on  each 


side  of  the  head,  that  a  woman,  who  was  but  a 
Pigmy  without  her  head-dress,  appeared  like 
a  Colossus  upon  putting  it  on.  Monsieur 
Paradin  says,  "That  these  old-fashioned  fon- 
tanges  rose  an  ell  above  the  head;  that  they 
were  pointed  like  steeples;  and  had  long  loose 
pieces  of  crape  fastened  to  the  tops  of  them, 
which  were  curiously  fringed,  and  hung  down 
their  backs  like  streamers." 

The  women  might  possibly  have  carried  this 
Gothic  building  much  higher,  had  not  a  famous 
monk,  Thomas  Conecte  by  name,  attacked  it 
with  great  zeal  and  resolution.  This  holy  man 
travelled  from  place  to  place  to  preach  down 
this  monstrous  commode;  and  succeeded  so 
well  in  it,  that,  as  the  magicians  sacrificed  their 
books  to  the  flames  upon  the  preaching  of  an 
apostle,  many  of  the  women  threw  down  their 
head-dresses  in  the  middle  of  his  sermon,  and 
made  a  bonfire  of  them  within  sight  of  the  pul- 
pit. He  was  so  renowned,  as  well  for  the 
sanctity  of  his  life  as  his  manner  of  preaching, 
that  he  had  often  a  congregation  of  twenty 
thousand  people;  the  men  placing  themselves 
on  the  one  side  of  his  pulpit,  and  the  women 
on  the  other,  that  appeared  (to  use  the  simili- 
tude of  an  ingenious  writer)  like  a  forest  of 
cedars  with  their  heads  reaching  to  the  clouds. 
He  so  warmed  and  animated  the  people  against 
this  monstrous  ornament,  that  it  lay  under  a 
kind  of  persecution ;  and,  whenever  it  appeared 
in  public,  was  pelted  down  by  the  rabble,  who 
flung  stones  at  the  persons  that  wore  it.  But 
notwithstanding  this  prodigy  vanished  while 
the  preacher  was  among  them,  it  began  to  ap- 
pear again  some  months  after  his  departure, 
or,  to  tell  it  in  Monsieur  Paradin's  own  words, 
"the  women,  that  like  snails  in  a  fright  had 
drawn  in  their  horns,  shot  them  out  again  as 
soon  as  the  danger  was  over."  This  extrava- 
gance of  the  women's  head-dresses  in  that  age 
is  taken  notice  of  by  Monsieur  d'Argentre  in 
his  History  of  Bretagne,  and  by  other  historians, 
as  well  as  the  person  I  have  here  quoted. 

It  is  usually  observed,  that  a  good  reign  is 
the  only  proper  time  for  the  making  of  laws 
against  the  exorbitance  of  power;  in  the  same 
manner  an  excessive  head-dress  may  be  attacked 
the  most  effectually  when  the  fashion  is  against 
it.  I  do  therefore  recommend  this  paper  to 
my  female  readers  by  way  of  prevention. 

I  would  desire  the  fair  sex  to  consider  how 
impossible  it  is  for  them  to  add  anything  that 
can  be  ornamental  to  what  is  already  the 
masterpiece  of  nature.  The  head  has  the 
most  beautiful  appearance,  as  well  as  the  high- 


THE    SPECTATOR 


203 


est  station,  in  a  human  figure.  Nature  has 
laid  out  all  her  art  in  beautifying  the  face;  she 
has  touched  it  with  vermilion,  planted  in  it  a 
double  row  of  ivory,  made  it  the  seat  of  smiles 
and  blushes,  lighted  it  up  and  enlivened  it  with 
the  brightness  of  the  eyes,  hung  it  on  each  side 
with  the  curious  organs  of  sense,  giving  it  airs 
and  graces  that  cannot  be  described,  and  sur- 
rounded it  with  such  a  flowing  shade  of  hair 
as  sets  all  its  beauties  in  the  most  agreeal)le 
light.  In  short,  she  seems  to  have  designed  the 
head  as  the  cupola  to  the  most  glorious  of  her 
works;  and  when  we  load  it  with  such  a  pile 
of  supernumerary  ornaments,  we  destroy  the 
symmetry  of  the  human  figure,  and  foolishly 
contrive  to  call  oflf  the  eye  from  great  and 
real  beauties,  to  childish  gewgaws,  ribands,  and 
bone-lace. 

THE   VISION    OF   MIRZA 

NO.  159.     SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  i,  1711 

Omneni,   quae  nunc  ohdncla  tiienti 
Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  el  humida  circiim 
Caligat,  nubem  eripiam  .  .  . 

—  ViRG.   Aen.   ii.   604. 

The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light. 
Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 
I  will  remove  .  .  . 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up 
several  Oriental  manuscripts,  which  I  have 
still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met  with  one 
entitled  "The  Visions  of  Mirza,"  which  I  have 
read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give 
it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other  enter- 
tainment for  them;  and  shall  begin  with  the 
first  vision,  which  I  have  translated  word  for 
word  as  follows : 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers  I  always 
keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself,  and 
offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended 
the  high  hills  of  Bagdad,  in  order  to  pass  the 
rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As 
I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  moun- 
tains, I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on 
the  vanity  of  human  life;  and  passing  from 
one  thought  to  another,  'Surely,'  said  I,  'man 
is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream.'  Whilst 
I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the 
summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me, 
where  I  discovered  one  in  the  habit  of  a  shep- 
herd, with  a  musical  instrument  in  his  hand. 
As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips, 


and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it 
was  exceedingly  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a 
variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melo- 
dious, and  altogether  different  from  anything 
I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of 
those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the  de- 
parted souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  arrival 
in  Paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  their 
last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures 
of  that  happy  place.  I\Iy  heart  melted  away 
in  secret  raptures. 

"I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before 
me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Genius;  and  that  several 
had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician 
had  before  made  himself  visible.  When  he 
had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those  transporting 
airs  which  he  played  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his 
conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one 
astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the 
waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  approach 
the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that 
reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature; 
and  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the 
captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at 
his  feet  and  wept.  The  Genius  smiled  upon 
me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability 
that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and 
at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions 
with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me 
from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
'Mirza,'  said  he,  'I  have  heard  thee  in  thy 
soliloquies;    follow  me.' 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
the  rock,  and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  'Cast 
thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  what 
thou  seest.'  'I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge  valley,  and 
a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.' 
'The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  the  Vale 
of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest 
is  part  of  the  great  Tide  of  Eternity.'  'What 
is  the  reason,'  said  I,  'that  the  tide  I  see  rises 
out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses 
itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other?'  'What 
thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  that  portion  of  eternity 
which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the  sun, 
and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world 
to  its  consummation.  Examine  now,'  said  he, 
'this  sea  that  is  bounded  with  darkness  at  both 
ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it.' 
'I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I,  'standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  tide.'  'The  bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he, 
'is  Human  Life:  consider  it  attentively.'  Upon 
a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  con- 
sisted of  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches,  with 
several  broken  arches,  which  added  to  those 


204 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about  a 
hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches,  the 
Genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at 
first  of  a  thousand  arches;  but  that  a  great 
flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge 
in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  'But 
tell  me  farther,'  said  he,  'what  thou  discoverest 
on  it.'  '  I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over 
it,'  said  I,  '  and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each 
end  of  it.'  As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I 
saw  several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through 
the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  under- 
neath it;  and  upon  farther  examination,  per- 
ceived there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that 
lay  concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  the  pas- 
sengers no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell 
through  them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately 
disappeared.  These  hidden  pit-falls  were  set 
very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that 
throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the 
cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They 
grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied 
and  lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the 
arches  that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their 
number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind 
of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but 
fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite  tired 
and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of 
this  wonderful  structure,  and  the  great  variety 
of  objects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was 
filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several 
dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that 
stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were 
looking  up  towards  the  heavens  in  a  thought- 
ful posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation 
stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were 
very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glit- 
tered in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them ; 
but  often  when  they  thought  themselves  within 
the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed  and  down 
they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I 
observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands, 
and  others  with  urinals,  who  ran  to  and  fro 
upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on 
trap-doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their 
way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped  had 
they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

"The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on 
this  melancholy  prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt 
long  enough  upon  it.  'Take  thine  eyes  off 
the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thou  yet 
seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend.' 
Upon  looking  up,  'What  mean,'  said  I,  'those 


great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hover- 
ing about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from 
time  to  time?  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens, 
cormorants,  and  among  many  other  feathered 
creatures  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch 
in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches.' 
'These,'  said  the  Genius,  'are  Envy,  Avarice, 
Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares 
and  passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas,'  said  I, 
'Man  was  made  in  vain  !  how  is  he  given  away 
to  misery  and  mortality !  tortured  in  life,  and 
swallowed  up  in  death ! '  The  Genius  being 
moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me 
quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  'Look  no 
more,'  said  he,  'on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his 
existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity;  but 
cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which  the 
tide  bears  the  several  generations  of  mortals 
that  fall  into  it.'  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was 
ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good  Genius 
strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force, 
or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before 
too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the 
valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading 
forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge 
rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst 
of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The 
clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch 
that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it;  but  the 
other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean  planted  with 
innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with 
fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thou- 
sand little  shining  seas  that  ran  among  them. 
I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  habits 
with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among 
the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains, 
or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers;  and  could  hear 
a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling 
waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments. 
Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so 
delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an 
eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those  happy 
seats;  but  the  Genius  told  me  there  was  no 
passage  to  them  except  through  the  gates  of 
death  that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon 
the  bridge.  'The  islands,'  said  he,  'that  lie 
so  fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which 
the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as 
far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than 
the  sands  on  the  sea-shore:  there  are  myriads 
of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  dis- 
coverest, reaching  farther  than  thine  eye,  or 
even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after 
death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds 


THE    SPECTATOR 


20! 


of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed 
among  these  several  islands,  which  abound  with 
pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suit- 
able to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those 
who  are  settled  in  them:  every  island  is  a  para- 
dise accommodated  to  its  respective  inhabit- 
ants. Are  not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations 
worth  contending  for?  Does  life  appear  mis- 
erable that  gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning 
such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared  that  will 
convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence?  Think 
not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an 
eternity  reserved  for  him.'  I  gazed  with  in- 
expressible pleasure  on  these  happy  islands. 
At  length,  said  I,  'Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee, 
the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds 
which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rock  of  adamant.'  The  Genius  making  me  no 
answer,  I  turned  me  about  to  address  myself  to 
him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left 
me;  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which 
I  had  been  so  long  contemplating;  but  instead 
of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the 
happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hol- 
low valley  of  Bagdad,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and 
camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 

HILPA   AND    SKALUM 

NO.  584.     MONDAY,  AUGUST  23,   1714 

Hie  gelidif antes,  hie  mo/Ha  prata,  Lyeori, 
Hie  nemus,  hie  toio  teeum  consumerer  aevo. 

—  ViRG.  Eel.  X.  42. 

Come  see  what  pleasures  in  our  plains  abound; 
The  woods,  the  fountains,  and  the  flow'ry  ground, 
Here  I  could  live,  and  love,  and  die,  with  only  you. 

Hilpa  was  one  of  the  hundred  and  fifty 
daughters  of  Zilpah,  of  the  race  of  Cohu,  by 
whom  some  of  the  learned  think  is  meant  Cain. 
She  was  exceedingly  beautiful;  and,  when  she 
was  but  a  girl  of  threescore  and  ten  years  of 
age,  received  the  addresses  of  several  who  made 
love  to  her.  Among  these  were  two  brothers, 
Harpath  and  Shalum.  Harpath,  being  the  first- 
born, was  master  of  that  fruitful  region  which 
hes  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Tirzah,  in  the  southern 
parts  of  China.  Shalum  (which  is  to  say  the 
planter  in  the  Chinese  language)  possessed  all 
the  neighbouring  hills,  and  that  great  range  of 
mountains  which  goes  under  the  name  of  Tir- 
zah. Harpath  was  of  a  haughty  contemptuous 
spirit;  Shalum  was  of  a  gentle  disposition, 
beloved  both  by  God  and  man. 

It  is  said,  that  among  the  antediluvian  wo- 
men, the  daughters  of  Cohu  had  their  minds 
wholly  set  upon  riches;    for  which  reason  the 


beautiful  Hilpa  preferred  Harpath  to  Shalum, 
because  of  his'  numerous  flocks  and  herds  that 
covered  all  the  low  country  which  runs  along 
the  foot  of  Mount  Tirzah,  and  is  watered  by 
several  fountains  and  streams  breaking  out  of 
the  sides  of  that  mountain. 

Harpath  made  so  cjuick  a  despatch  of  his 
courtship,  that  he  married  Hilpa  in  the  hun- 
dredth year  of  her  age;  and,  being  of  an  in- 
solent temper,  laughed  to  scorn  his  brother 
Shalum  for  having  pretended  to  the  beautiful 
Hilpa,  when  he  was  master  of  nothing  but  a 
long  chain  of  rocks  and  mountains.  This  so 
much  provoked  Shalum,  that  he  is  said  to  have 
cursed  his  brother  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart, 
and  to  have  prayed  that  one  of  his  mountains 
might  fall  upon  his  head  if  ever  he  came  within 
the  shadow  of  it. 

From  this  time  forward  Harpath  would  never 
venture  out  of  the  valleys,  but  came  to  an  un- 
timely end  in  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth 
year  of  his  age,  being  drowned  in  a  river  as  he 
attempted  to  cross  it.  This  river  is  called  to 
this  day,  from  his  name  who  perished  in  it,  the 
river  Harpath:  and,  what  is  very  remarkable, 
issues  out  of  one  of  those  mountains  which 
Shalum  wished  might  fall  upon  his  brother, 
when  he  cursed  him  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart. 

Hilpa  was  in  the  hundred  and  sixtieth  year 
of  her  age  at  the  death  of  her  husband,  having 
brought  him  but  fifty  children  before  he  was 
snatched  away,  as  has  been  already  related. 
Many  of  the  antediluvians  made  love  to  the 
young  widow;  though  no  one  was  thought  so 
likely  to  succeed  in  her  affections  as  her  first 
lover  Shalum,  who  renewed  his  court  to  her 
about  ten  years  after  the  death  of  Harpath; 
for  it  was  not  thought  decent  in  those  days  that 
a  widow  should  be  seen  by  a  man  within  ten 
years  after  the  decease  of  her  husband. 

Shalum  falling  into  a  deep  melancholy,  and 
resolving  to  take  away  that  olijection  which  had 
been  raised  against  him  when  he  made  his  first 
addresses  to  Hilpa,  began,  immediately  after 
her  marriage  with  Harpath,  to  plant  all  that 
mountainous  region  which  fell  to  his  lot  in  the 
division  of  this  country.  He  knew  how  to 
adapt  every  plant  to  its  proper  soil,  and  is 
thought  to  have  inherited  many  traditional 
secrets  of  that  art  from  the  first  man.  This 
employment  turned  at  length  to  his  profit  as 
well  as  to  his  amusement;  his  mountains  were 
in  a  few  years  shaded  with  young  trees,  that 
gradually  shot  uj)  into  groves,  woods,  and  for- 
ests, intermixed  with  walks,  and  lawns,  and  gar- 


2o6 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


dens;  insomuch  that  the  whole  region,  from 
a  naked  and  desolate  prospect,  began  now  to 
look  like  a  second  Paradise.  The  pleasant- 
ness of  the  place,  and  the  agreeable  disposition 
of  Shalum,  who  was  reckoned  one  of  the  mildest 
and  wisest  of  all  who  lived  before  the  flood, 
drew  into  it  multitudes  of  people,  who  were 
perpetually  employed  in  the  sinking  of  wells, 
the  digging  of  trenches,  and  the  hollowing  of 
trees,  for  the  better  distribution  of  water  through 
every  part  of  this  spacious  plantation. 

The  habitations  of  Shalum  looked  every  year 
more  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  Hilpa,  who,  after 
the  space  of  seventy  autumns,  was  wonderfully 
pleased  with  the  distant  prospect  of  Shalum's 
hills,  which  were  then  covered  with  innumer- 
able tufts  of  trees  and  gloomy  scenes,  that  gave 
a  magnificence  to  the  place,  and  converted  it 
into  one  of  the  finest  landscapes  the  eye  of 
man  could  behold. 

The  Chinese  record  a  letter  which  Shalum 
is  said  to  have  written  to  Hilpa  in  the  eleventh 
year  of  her  widowhood.  I  shall  here  translate 
it,  without  departing  from  that  noble  simplicity 
of  sentiment  and  plainness  of  manners  which 
appears  in  the  original. 

Shalum  was  at  this  time  one  hundred  and 
eighty  years  old,  and  Hilpa  one  hundred  and 
seventy. 

"  Shalum,  Master  of  Mount  Tirzah,  to  Hilpa, 
Mistress  of  the  Valleys 

"In  the  788th  year  of  the  creation. 
"What  have  I  not  suffered,  O  thou  daughter 
of  Zilpah,  since  thou  gavest  thyself  away  in  mar- 
riage to  my  rival !  I  grew  weary  of  the  light 
of  the  sun,  and  have  been  ever  since  covering 
myself  with  woods  and  forests.  These  three- 
score and  ten  years  have  I  bewailed  the  loss 
of  thee  on  the  top  of  Mount  Tirzah,  and  soothed 
my  melancholy  among  a  thousand  gloomy 
shades  of  my  own  raising.  My  dwellings  are 
at  present  as  the  garden  of  God;  every  part 
of  them  is  filled  with  fruits,  and  flowers,  and 
fountains.  The  whole  mountain  is  perfumed 
for  thy  reception.  Come  up  into  it,  O  my 
beloved,  and  let  us  people  this  spot  of  the  new 
world  with  a  beautiful  race  of  mortals;  let  us 
muhiply  exceedingly  among  these  delightful 
shades,  and  fill  every  quarter  of  them  with 
sons  and  daughters.  Remember,  O  thou 
daughter  of  Zilpah,  that  the  age  of  man  is  but 
a  thousand  years;  that  beauty  is  the  admira- 
tion but  of  a  few  centuries.  It  flourishes  as  a 
mountain  oak,  or  as  a  cedar  on  the  top  of  Tir- 
zah, which  in  three  or  four  hundred  years  will 


fade  away,  and  never  be  thought  of  by  pos- 
terity, unless  a  young  wood  springs  from  its 
roots.  Think  well  on  this,  and  remember  thy 
neighbour  in  the  mountains." 

Having  here  inserted  this  letter,  which  I 
look  upon  as  the  only  antediluvian  billet-doux 
now  extant,  I  shall  in  my  next  paper  give  the 
answer  to  it,  and  the  secjuel  of  this  story. 

NO.    585.     WEDNESDAY,    AUGUST    25,    1714 

I psi  laetitia  voces  ad  sidera  jaclant 
Intonsi  monies:    ipsae  jam  carmina  rupes. 
Ipsa  sonant  arhusta. 

—  ViRG.  Ed.  V.  62. 

The  mountain  tops  unshorn,  the  rocks  rejoice; 
The  lowly  shrubs  partake  of  human  voice. 

The   Sequel  of  the   Story  of  Sh.\lum  and 
Hilpa 

The  letter  inserted  in  my  last  had  so  good  an 
effect  upon  Hilpa,  that  she  answered  in  less 
than  a  twelvemonth,  after  the  following  man- 


"  Hilpa,  Mistress  of  the  Valleys,  to  Shalum, 
Master  of  Mount  Tirzah 

"In  the  789th  year  of  the  creation. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  thee,  O  Shalum? 
Thou  praisest  Hilpa's  beauty,  but  art  thou  not 
secretly  enamoured  with  the  verdure  of  her 
meadows?  Art  thou  not  more  affected  with 
the  prospect  of  her  green  valleys  than  thou 
wouldest  be  with  the  sight  of  her  person? 
The  lowings  of  my  herds  and  the  bleatings  of 
my  flocks  make  a  pleasant  echo  in  thy  moun- 
tains, and  sound  sweetly  in  thy  ears.  What 
though  I  am  delighted  with  the  wavings  of  thy 
forests,  and  those  breezes  of  perfumes  which 
flow  from  the  top  of  Tirzah,  are  these  like 
the  riches  of  the  valley? 

"I  know  thee,  O  Shalum;  thou  art  more 
wise  and  happy  than  any  of  the  sons  of  men. 
Thy  dwellings  are  among  the  cedars;  thou 
searchest  out  the  diversity  of  soils,  thou  under- 
standest  the  influences  of  the  stars,  and  markest 
the  change  of  seasons.  Can  a  woman  appear 
lovely  in  the  eyes  of  such  a  one?  Disquiet 
me  not,  O  Shalum;  let  me  alone,  that  I  may 
enjoy  those  goodly  possessions  which  are  fallen 
to  my  lot.  Win  me  not  by  thy  enticing  words. 
May  thy  trees  increase  and  multiply!  mayest 
thou  add  wood  to  wood,  and  shade  to  shade ! 
but  tempt  not  Hilpa  to  destroy  thy  solitude, 
and  make  thy  retirement  populous." 

The  Chinese  say  that  a  little  time  afterwards 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


207 


she  accepted  of  a  treat  in  one  of  the  neighbour- 
ing hills  to  which  Shalum  had  invited  her. 
This  treat  lasted  for  two  years,  and  is  said  to 
have  cost  Shalum  five  hundred  antelopes,  two 
thousand  ostriches,  and  a  thousand  tun  of 
milk;  but  what  most  of  all  recommended  it, 
was  that  variety  of  delicious  fruits  and  pot- 
herbs, in  which  no  person  then  living  could 
any  way  equal  Shalum. 

He  treated  her  in  the  bower  which  he  had 
planted  amidst  the  wood  of  nightingales.  The 
wood  was  made  up  of  such  fruit-trees  and  plants 
as  are  most  agreeable  to  the  several  kinds  of 
singing-birds;  so  that  it  had  drawn  into  it  all 
the  music  of  the  country,  and  was  fdled  from 
one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other  with  the  most 
agreeable  concert  in  season. 

He  showed  her  every  day  some  beautiful 
and  surprising  scene  in  this  new  region  of  wood- 
lands; and,  as  by  this  means  he  had  all  the 
opportunities  he  could  wish  for,  of  opening 
his  mind  to  her,  he  succeeded  so  well,  that  upon 
her  departure  she  made  him  a  kind  of  promise, 
and  gave  him  her  word  to  return  him  a  positive 
answer  in  less  than  fifty  years. 

She  had  not  been  long  among  her  own  people 
in  the  valleys,  when  she  received  new  over- 
tures, and  at  the  same  time  a  most  splendid 
visit  from  Mishpach,  who  was  a  mighty  man 
of  old,  and  had  built  a  great  city,  which  he 
called  after  his  own  name.  Every  house  was 
made  for  at  least  a  thousand  years,  nay,  there 
were  some  that  were  leased  out  for  three  lives; 
so  that  the  quantity  of  stone  and  timber  con- 
sumed in  this  building  is  scarce  to  be  imagined 
by  those  who  live  in  the  present  age  of  the 
world.  This  great  man  entertained  her  with 
the  voice  of  musical  instruments  which  had 
been  lately  invented,  and  danced  before  her 
to  the  sound  of  the  timbrel.  He  also  presented 
her  with  several  domestic  utensils  wrought  in 
brass  and  iron,  which  had  been  newly  found 
out  for  the  conveniency  of  life.  In  the  mean- 
time Shalum  grew  very  uneasy  with  himself, 
and  was  sorely  displeased  at  Hilpa  for  the  re- 
ception which  she  had  given  to  Mishpach,  in- 
somuch that  he  never  wrote  to  her  or  spoke 
of  her  during  a  whole  revolution  of  Saturn; 
but,  finding  that  this  intercourse  went  no  farther 
than  a  visit,  he  again  renewed  his  addresses  to 
her;  who,  during  his  long  silence,  is  said  very 
often  to  have  cast  a  wishing  eye  upon  Mount 
Tirzah. 

Her  mind  continued  wavering  about  twenty 
years  longer  between  Shahim  and  INIishpach; 
for    though    her    inclinations    favoured    the 


former,  her  interest  pleaded  very  powerfully 
for  the  other.  While  her  heart  was  in  this 
unsettled  condition,  the  following  accident 
happened,  which  determined  her  choice.  A 
high  tower  of  wood  that  stood  in  the  city  of 
Mishpach  having  caught  fire  by  a  flash  of 
lightning,  in  a  few  days  reduced  the  whole 
town  to  ashes.  Mishpach  resolved  to  rebuild 
the  i)lace,  whatever  it  should  cost  him:  and, 
having  already  destroyed  all  the  timber  of 
the  country,  he  was  forced  to  have  recourse  to 
Shalum,  whose  forests  were  now  two  hundred 
years  old.  He  purchased  these  woods  with  so 
many  herds  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep,  and 
with  such  a  vast  extent  of  fields  and  pastures, 
that  Shalum  was  now  grown  more  wealthy 
than  Mishpach;  and  therefore  appeared  so 
charming  in  the  eyes  of  Zilpah's  daughter, 
that  she  no  longer  refused  him  in  marriage. 
On  the  day  in  which  he  brought  her  up  into  the 
mountains  he  raised  a  most  j)rodigious  pile  of 
cedar,  and  of  every  sweet  smelling  wood,  which 
reached  above  three  hundred  cubits  in  height; 
he  also  cast  into  the  pile  bundles  of  myrrh 
and  sheaves  of  spikenard,  enriching  it  with 
every  spicy  shrub,  and  making  it  fat  with  the 
gums  of  his  plantations.  This  was  the  burnt- 
ofi"ering  which  Shalum  offered  in  the  day  of 
his  espousals:  the  smoke  of  it  ascended  up  to 
heaven,  and  filled  the  whole  country  with  in- 
cense and  perfume. 

SIR    RICHARD    STEELE    (1672-1729) 

THE   TATLER 

NO.    <S2.     OCTOBER    iS,    1709 

Uhi  idem  ct  viaxiinus  d  liDiKstissimus  amor  est, 
aliquando  pracstat  mortc  jiingi,  <piam  vita  distrahi} 

—  Val.  Max. 

After  the  mind  has  been  employed  on  con- 
templations suitable  to  its  greatness,  it  is  un- 
natural to  run  into  sudden  mirth  or  levity; 
but  we  must  let  the  soul  subside,  as  it  rose, 
by  proper  degrees.  My  late  considerations  of 
the  ancient  heroes  impressed  a  certain  gravity 
upon  my  mind,  which  is  much  above  the  little 
gratification  received  from  starts  of  humour 
and  fancy,  and  threw  me  into  a  pleasing  sad- 
ness. In  this  state  of  thought  I  have  been 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  in  a  ])cnsive  manner 
reflecting  upon  the  great  misfortunes  and 
calamities  incident  to  human  life;  among  which 

'  Where  there  is  at  oiue  the  greatest  and  most 
honourable  love,  it  is  sometimes  better  to  be  joined  by 
death  than  separated  by  life. 


2o8 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


there  are  none  that  touch  so  sensibly  as  those 
which  befall  persons  who  eminently  love,  and 
meet  with  fatal  interruptions  of  their  happiness 
when  they  least  expect  it.  The  piety  of  chil- 
dren to  parents,  and  the  afTection  of  parents  to 
their  children,  are  the  effects  of  instinct;  but 
the  affection  between  lovers  and  friends  is 
founded  on  reason  and  choice,  which  has 
always  made  me  think  the  sorrows  of  the  latter 
much  more  to  be  pitied  than  those  of  the  former. 
The  contemplation  of  distresses  of  this  sort 
softens  the  mind  of  man,  and  makes  the  heart 
better.  It  extinguishes  the  seeds  of  envy  and 
ill  will  towards  mankind,  corrects  the  pride  of 
prosperity,  and  beats  down  all  that  fierceness 
and  insolence  which  are  apt  to  get  into  the 
minds  of  the  daring  and  fortunate. 

For  this  reason  the  wise  Athenians,  in  their 
theatrical  performances,  laid  before  the  eyes 
of  the  people  the  greatest  afflictions  which 
could  befall  human  life,  and  insensibly  polished 
their  tempers  by  such  representations.  Among 
the  moderns,  indeed,  there  has  arisen  a  chi- 
merical method  of  disposing  the  fortune  of  the 
persons  represented,  according  to  what  they 
call  poetical  justice;  and  letting  none  be 
unhappy  but  those  who  deserve  it.  In  such 
cases,  an  intelligent  spectator,  if  he  is  concerned, 
knows  he  ought  not  to  be  so;  and  can  learn 
nothing  from  such  a  tenderness,  but  that  he  is 
a  weak  creature,  whose  passions  cannot  follow 
the  dictates  of  his  understanding.  It  is  very 
natural,  when  one  is  got  into  such  a  way  of 
thinking,  to  recollect  those  examples  of  sorrow 
which  have  made  the  strongest  impression  upon 
our  imaginations.  An  instance  or  two  of  such 
you  will  give  me  leave  to  communicate. 

A  young  gentleman  and  lady  of  ancient  and 
honourable  houses  in  Cornwall  had,  from  their 
childhood,  entertained  for  each  other  a  gener- 
ous and  noble  passion,  which  had  been  long 
opposed  by  their  friends,  by  reason  of  the  in- 
equality of  their  fortunes;  but  their  constancy 
to  each  other,  and  obedience  to  those  on  whom 
they  depended,  wrought  so  much  upon  their 
relations,  that  these  celebrated  lovers  were 
at  length  joined  in  marriage.  Soon  after  their 
nuptials,  the  bridegroom  was  obliged  to  go 
into  a  foreign  country,  to  take  care  of  a  con- 
siderable fortune,  which  was  left  him  by  a 
relation,  and  came  very  opportunely  to  improve 
their  moderate  circumstances.  They  received 
the  congratulations  of  all  the  country  on  this 
occasion;  and  I  remember  it  was  a  common 
sentence  in  every  one's  mouth,  "You  see  how 
faithful  love  is  rewarded." 


He  took  this  agreeable  voyage,  and  sent  home 
every  post  fresh  accounts  of  his  success  in  his 
affairs  abroad;  but  at  last,  though  he  designed 
to  return  with  the  next  ship,  he  lamented,  in 
his  letters,  that  "business  would  detain  him 
some  time  longer  from  home,"  because  he  would 
give  himself  the  pleasure  of  an  unexpected  arrival. 

The  young  lady,  after  the  heat  of  the  day, 
walked  every  evening  on  the  sea-shore,  near 
which  she  lived,  with  a  familiar  friend,  her 
husband's  kinswoman;  and  diverted  herself 
with  what  objects  they  met  there,  or  upon  dis- 
courses of  the  future  methods  of  life,  in  the 
happy  change  of  their  circumstances.  They 
stood  one  evening  on  the  shore  together  in  a 
perfect  tranquillity,  observing  the  setting  of  the 
sun,  the  calm  face  of  the  deep,  and  the  silent 
heaving  of  the  waves,  which  gently  rolled  towards 
them,  and  broke  at  their  feet;  when  at  a  dis- 
tance her  kinswoman  saw  something  float  on 
the  waters,  which  she  fancied  was  a  chest; 
and  with  a  smile  told  her,  "she  saw  it  first, 
and  if  it  came  ashore  full  of  jewels,  she  had  a 
right  to  it."  They  both  fixed  their  eyes  upon 
it,  and  entertained  themselves  with  the  subject 
of  the  wreck,  the  cousin  still  asserting  her 
right;  but  promising,  "if  it  was  a  prize,  to 
give  her  a  very  rich  coral  for  the  child  of 
which  she  was  then  big,  provided  she  might 
be  godmother."  Their  mirth  soon  abated, 
when  they  observed,  upon  the  nearer  ap- 
proach, that  it  was  a  human  body.  The  young 
lady,  who  had  a  heart  naturally  filled  with 
pity  and  compassion,  made  many  melancholy 
reflections  on  the  occasion.  "Who  knows,"  said 
she,  "but  this  man  may  be  the  only  hope  and 
heir  of  a  wealthy  house ;  the  darling  of  indulgent 
parents,  who  are  now  in  impertinent  mirth, 
and  pleasing  themselves  with  the  thoughts  of 
offering  him  a  bride  they  have  got  ready  for 
him?  or,  may  he  not  be  the  master  of  a  family 
that  wholly  depended  upon  his  life?  There 
may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  half  a  dozen  father- 
less children,  and  a  tender  wife,  now  exposed 
to  poverty  by  his  death.  What  pleasure  might 
he  have  promised  himself  in  the  different  wel- 
come he  was  to  have  from  her  and  them ! 
But  let  us  go  away;  it  is  a  dreadful  sight! 
The  best  office  we  can  do,  is  to  take  care  that 
the  poor  man,  whoever  he  is,  may  be  decently 
buried."  She  turned  away,  when  a  wave  threw 
the  carcass  on  the  shore.  The  kinswoman 
immediately  shrieked  out,  "Oh  my  cousin!" 
and  fell  upon  the  ground.  The  unhappy  wife 
went  to  help  her  friend,  when  she  saw  her 
own  husband  at  her  feet,  and  dropped  in  a 


THE    TATLER 


209 


swoon  upon  the  body.  An  old  woman,  who 
had  been  the  gentleman's  nurse,  came  out  about 
this  time  to  call  the  ladies  in  to  sujjper,  and 
found  her  child,  as  she  always  called  him,  dead 
on  the  shore,  her  mistress  and  kinswoman 
both  lying  dead  by  him.  Her  loud  lamentations, 
and  calling  her  young  master  to  life,  soon  awaked 
the  friend  from  her  trance;  but  the  wife  was 
gone  for  ever. 

When  the  family  and  neighbourhood  got  to- 
gether round  the  bodies,  no  one  asked  any  ques- 
tion, but  the  objects  before  them  told  the  story. 

Incidents  of  this  nature  are  the  more  moving 
when  they  are  drawn  by  persons  concerned  in 
the  catastrophe,  notwithstanding  they  are  often 
oppressed  beyond  the  power  of  giving  them  in 
a  distinct  light,  except  we  gather  their  sorrow 
from  their  inability  to  speak  it. 

I  have  two  original  letters,  written  both  on 
the  same  day,  which  are  to  me  exquisite  in 
their  different  kinds.  The  occasion  was  this: 
A  gentlemen  who  had  courted  a  most  agreeable 
young  woman,  and  won  her  heart,  obtained 
also  the  consent  of  her  father,  to  whom  she  was 
an  only  child.  The  old  man  had  a  fancy  that 
they  should  be  married  in  the  same  church 
where  he  himself  was,  in  a  village  in  West- 
moreland, and  made  them  set  out  while  he  was 
laid  up  with  the  gout  at  London.  The  bride- 
groom took  only  his  man,  the  bride  her  maid : 
they  had  the  most  agreeable  journey  imagi- 
nable to  the  place  of  marriage;  from  whence 
the  bridegroom  writ  the  following  letter  to 
his  wife's  father, 
a  o  "March  18,  1672. 

"After  a  very  pleasant  journey  hither, 
we  are  preparing  for  the  happy  hour  in  which 
I  am  to  be  your  son.  I  assure  you  the  bride 
carries  it,  in  the  eye  of  the  vicar  who  married 
you,  much  beyond  her  mother;  though  he 
says,  your  open  sleeves,  pantaloons,  and 
shoulder-knot,  made  a  much  better  show  than 
the  finical  dress  1  am  in.  However,  I  am  con- 
tented to  be  the  second  fine  man  this  village 
ever  saw,  and  shall  make  it  very  merry  before 
night,  because  I  shall  write  myself  from  thence, 
"Your  most  dutiful  son, 

"T  D." 

"The  bride  gives  her  duty,  and  is  as  hand- 
some as  an  angel.  ...  I  am  the  happiest 
man  breathing." 

The  villagers  were  assembling  about  the 
church,  and  the  happy  couple  took  a  walk  in  a 
private  garden.  The  bridegroom's  man  knew 
his  master  would  leave  the  place  on  a  sudden 


aftpr  the  wedding,  and,  seeing  him  draw  his 
pistols  the  night  before,  took  this  opportunity 
to  go  into  his  chamber  and  charge  them. 
Upon  their  return  from  the  garden,  they  went 
into  that  room;  and,  after  a  little  fond  raillery 
on  the  subject  of  their  courtship,  the  lover 
took  up  a  pistol,  which  he  knew  he  had  unloaded 
the  night  before,  and,  presenting  it  to  her,  said, 
with  the  most  graceful  air,  whilst  she  looked 
pleased  at  his  agreeable  flattery;  "Xow, 
madam,  repent  of  all  those  cruelties  you  have 
been  guilty  of  to  me;  consider,  before  you  die, 
how  often  you  have  made  a  poor  wretch 
freeze  under  your  casement;  you  shall  die, 
you  tyrant,  you  shall  die,  with  all  those  instru- 
ments of  death  and  destruction  about  you,  with 
that  enchanting  smile,  those  killing  ringlets 
of  your  hair"  —  "Give  fire  !"  said  she,  laughing. 
He  did  so;  and  shot  her  dead.  Who  can  speak 
his  condition?  but  he  bore  it  so  patiently  as  to 
call  up  his  man.  The  poor  wretch  entered, 
and  his  master  locked  the  door  upon  him. 
"Will,"  said  he,  "did  you  charge  these  pistols?" 
He  answered,  "Yes."  Upon  which  he  shot 
him  dead  with  that  remaining.  After  this, 
amidst  a  thousand  broken  sobs,  piercing  groans, 
and  distracted  motions,  he  writ  the  following 
letter  to  the  father  of  his  dead  mistress. 

"Sir, 

"I,  who  two  hours  ago  told  you  truly 
I  was  the  happiest  man  alive,  am  now  the  most 
miserable.  Your  daughter  lies  dead  at  my 
feet,  killed  by  my  hand,  through  a  mistake  of 
my  man's  charging  my  pistols  unknown  to  me. 
Him  have  I  murdered  for  it.  Such  is  my 
wedding  day.  ...  I  will  immediately  follow  my 
wife  to  her  grave;  but,  before  I  throw  myself 
upon  my  sword,  I  command  my  distraction  so 
far  as  to  explain  my  story  to  you.  I  fear  my 
heart  will  not  keep  together  until  I  have  stabbed 
it.  Poor,  good  old  man !  .  .  .  Remember,  he 
that  killed  your  daughter  died  for  it.  In  the 
article  of  death,  I  give  you  my  thanks,  and  pray 
for  you,  though  I  dare  not  for  myself.  If  it 
be  possible,  do  not  curse  me." 

NO.   95.     NOVEMBER    17,    1709 

Interea  dulces  pendent  circum  oscii/a  nati, 
Casta  pudicitiam  servat  domns.^ 

—  ViRG.  Ccorg.  ii.  523. 

There  are  several  persons  who  have  many 
pleasures  and  entertainments  in  their  posses- 

'  Meanwhile    his    sweet    children    hang    upon    his 
kisses  and  his  chaste  home  is  the  abode  of  virtue. 


2IO 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


sion,  which  they  do  not  enjoy.  It  is,  therefore, 
a  kind  and  good  oftlce  to  acquaint  them  with 
their  own  happiness,  and  turn  their  attention 
to  such  instances  of  their  good  fortune  as  they 
are  apt  to  overlook.  Persons  in  the  married 
state  often  want  such  a  monitor;  and  pine 
away  their  days,  by  looking  upon  the  same 
condition  in  anguish  and  murmur,  which  car- 
ries with  it  in  the  opinion  of  others  a  complica- 
tion of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  a  retreat 
from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an 
old  friend,  who  was  formerly  my  school-fellow. 
He  came  to  town  last  week  w'ith  his  family 
for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morning  sent  me 
word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.  I  am, 
as  it  were,  at  home  at  that  house,  and  every 
member  of  it  knows  me  for  their  well-wisher. 
I  cannot  indeed  express  the  pleasure  it  is,  to 
be  mei  by  the  children  with  so  much  joy  as 
I  am  when  I  go  thither.  The  boys  and  girls 
strive  who  shall  come  first,  when  they  think  it 
is  I  that  am  knocking  at  the  door;  and  that 
child  which  loses  the  race  to  me  runs  back 
again  to  tell  the  father  it  is  Mr.  BickerstafT. 
This  day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty  girl,  that  we 
all  thought  must  have  forgot  me;  for  the 
family  has  been  out  of  town  these  two  years. 
Her  knowing  me  again  was  a  mighty  subject 
with  us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first 
entrance.  After  which,  they  began  to  rally 
me  upon  a  thousand  little  stories  they  heard 
in  the  country,  about  my  marriage  to  one  of 
my  neighbour's  daughters.  Upon  which  the 
gentleman,  my  friend,  said,  "Nay,  if  Mr. 
Bickerstaff  marries  a  child  of  any  of  his  old 
companions,  I  hope  mine  shall  have  the  pref- 
erence; there  is  Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen, 
and  would  make  him  as  fine  a  widow  as  the 
best  of  them.  But  I  know  him  too  well;  he  is 
so  enamoured  with  the  very  memory  of  those 
who  flourished  in  our  youth,  that  he  will  not 
so  much  as  look  upon  the  modern  beauties. 
I  remember,  old  gentleman,  how  often  you 
went  home  in  a  day  to  refresh  your  countenance 
and  dress  when  Teraminta  reigned  in  your 
heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated 
to  my  wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her."  With 
such  reflections  on  little  passages  which  hap- 
pened long  ago,  we  passed  our  time,  during  a 
cheerful  and  elegant  meal.  After  dinner,  his 
lady  left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  children. 
As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the 
hand;  "Well,  my  good  friend,"  says  he,  "I 
am  heartily  glad  to  see  thee;  I  was  afraid  you 
would  never  have  seen  all  the  company  that 


dined  with  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you 
think  the  good  woman  of  the  house  a  little 
altered  since  you  followed  her  from  the  play- 
house, to  find  out  who  she  was,  for  me?" 
I  perceived  a  tear  fall  down  his  cheek  as  he 
spoke,  which  moved  me  not  a  little.  But,  to 
turn  the  discourse,  I  said,  "She  is  not  indeed 
quite  that  creature  she  was,  when  she  returned 
me  the  letter  I  carried  from  you;  and  told  me, 
'she  hoped,  as  I  was  a  gentleman,  I  would  be 
employed  no  more  to  trouble  her,  who  had 
never  offended  me;  but  would  be  so  much  the 
gentleman's  friend,  as  to  dissuade  him  from 
a  pursuit,  which  he  could  never  succeed  in.' 
You  may  remember,  I  thought  her  in  earnest; 
and  you  were  forced  to  employ  your  cousin 
Will,  who  made  his  sister  get  acquainted  with 
her,  for  you.  You  cannot  ex'pect  her  to  be  for 
ever  fifteen."  "Fifteen!"  replied  my  good 
friend:  "Ah!  you  little  understand,  you  that 
have  lived  a  bachelor,  how  great,  how  exquisite 
a  pleasure  there  is,  in  being  really  beloved ! 
It  is  impossible,  that  the  most  beauteous  face 
in  nature  should  raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas, 
as  when  I  look  upon  that  excellent  woman. 
That  fading  in  her  countenance  is  chiefly  caused 
by  her  watching  with  me,  in  my  fever.  This 
was  followed  by  a  fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like 
to  have  carried  her  off  last  winter.  I  tell  you 
sincerely,  I  have  so  many  obligations  to  her, 
that  I  cannot,  with  any  sort  of  moderation, 
think  of  her  present  state  of  health.  But  as  to 
what  you  say  of  fifteen,  she  gives  me  every  day 
pleasures  beyond  what  I  ever  knew  in  the 
possession  of  her  beauty,  when  I  was  in  the 
vigour  of  youth.  Every  moment  of  her  life 
brings  me  fresh  instances  of  her  complacency 
to  my  inclinations,  and  her  prudence  in  regard 
to  my  fortune.  Her  face  is  to  me  much  more 
beautiful  than  w'hen  I  first  saw  it;  there  is  no 
decay  in  any  feature,  which  I  cannot  trace, 
from  the  very  instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some 
anxious  concern  for  my  welfare  and  interests. 
Thus,  at  the  same  time,  methinks,  the  love  I 
conceived  towards  her  for  what  she  was,  is 
heightened  by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is. 
The  love  of  a  wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle 
passion  commonly  called  by  that  name,  as  the 
loud  laughter  of  buffoons  is  inferior  to  the  ele- 
gant mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh!  she  is  an 
inestimable  jewel.  In  her  examination  of  her 
household  afi"airs,  she  shows  a  certain  fearful- 
ness  to  find  a  fault,  which  makes  her  serA'ants 
obey  her  like  children ;  and  the  meanest  we  have 
has  an  ingenuous  shame  for  an  offence,  not 
always  to  be  seen  in  children  in  other  families. 


THE    TATLER 


211 


I  speak  freely  to  you,  my  old  friend;  ever  since 
her  sickness,  things  that  gave  me  the  quickest 
joy  before,  turn  now  to  a  certain  anxiety. 
As  the  children  play  in  the  next  room,  I  know 
the  poor  things  by  their  steps,  and  am  consider- 
ing what  they  must  do,  should  they  lose  their 
mother  in  their  tender  years.  The  pleasure  I 
used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy  stories  of  battles, 
and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the  dis- 
posal of  her  baby,  and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is 
turned  into  inward  reflection  and  melancholy." 
He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way, 
when  the  good  lady  entered,  and  with  an  in- 
expressible sweetness  in  her  countenance  told 
us,  "she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for 
something  very  good,  to  treat  such  an  old  friend 
as  I  was."  Her  husband's  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure  at  the  cheerfulness  of  her  counte- 
nance; and  I  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  in  an 
instant.  The  lady  observing  something  in  our 
looks  which  showed  we  had  been  more  serious 
than  ordinary,  and  seeing  her  husband  receive 
her  with  great  concern  under  a  forced  cheer- 
fulness, immediately  guessed  at  what  we  had 
been  talking  of;  and  applying  herself  to  me, 
said,  with  a  smile,  "Mr.  Bickerstaff,  do  not 
believe  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you,  I  shall 
still  live  to  have  you  for  my  second,  as  I  have 
often  promised  you,  unless  he  takes  more  care 
of  himself  than  he  has  done  since  his  coming  to 
town.  You  must  know,  he  tells  me  that  he 
finds  London  is  a  much  more  healthy  place 
than  the  country;  for  he  sees  several  of  his  old 
acquaintance  and  school-fellows  are  here  young 
fellows  with  fair  full-bottomed  periwigs.'  I 
could  scarce  keep  him  in  this  morning  from 
going  out  open-breasted."^  My  friend,  who  is 
always  extremely  delighted  with  her  agreeable 
humour,  made  her  sit  down  with  us.  She  did 
it  with  that  easiness  which  is  peculiar  to  women 
of  sense;  and  to  keep  up  the  good  humour  she 
had  brought  in  with  her,  turned  her  raillery 
upon  me.  "Mr.  BickerstafT,  you  remember 
you  followed  me  one  night  from  the  play-house; 
suppose  you  should  carry  me  thither  to-morrow 
night,  and  lead  me  into  the  front  box."  This 
put  us  into  a  long  field  of  discourse  about  the 
beauties,  who  were  mothers  to  the  present,  and 
shined  in  the  boxes  twenty  years  ago.  I  told 
her,  "I  was  glad  she  had  transferred  so  many 
of  her  charms,  and  I  did  not  question  but  her 
eldest  daughter  was  within  half-a-year  of  being 
a  toast." 


'Such  as  only  young  men  wore.  2-\Y[th  jiig 

coat  unbuttoned,   like  a  young  gallant. 


We  were  pleasing  ourselves  with  this  fan- 
tastical preferment  of  the  young  lady,  when  on 
a  sudden  we  were  alarmed  with  the  noise  of  a 
drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little  god- 
son to  give  me  a  point  of  war.  His  mother, 
between  laughing  and  chiding,  would  have  j)ut 
him  out  of  the  room;  but  I  would  not  part  with 
him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversation  with  him, 
though  he  was  a  little  noisy  in  his  mirth,  that 
the  child  had  excellent  parts,  and  was  a  great 
master  of  all  the  learning  on  the  other  side 
eight  years  old.  I  perceived  him  a  very  great 
historian  in  ^sop's  Fables:  but  he  frankly 
declared  to  me  his  mind,  "that  he  did  not  de- 
light in  that  learning,  because  he  did  not  believe 
they  were  true;"  for  which  reason  I  found  he 
had  very  much  turned  his  studies,  for  about  a 
twelvemonth  past,  into  the  lives  and  adventures 
of  Don  Belianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  Warwick, 
the  Seven  Champions,'  and  other  historians  of 
that  age.  I  could  not  but  observe  the  satis- 
faction the  father  took  in  the  forwardness  of 
his  son;  and  that  these  diversions  might  turn 
to  some  profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  re- 
marks, which  might  be  of  service  to  him  dur- 
ing the  course  of  his  whole  life.  He  would 
tell  you  the  mismanagements  of  John  Hicker- 
thrift,  find  fault  with  the  passionate  temper  in 
Bevis  of  Southampton,  and  loved  St.  George' 
for  being  the  champion  of  England;  and  by 
this  means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded 
into  the  notions  of  discretion,  virtue,  and 
honour.  I  was  extolling  his  accomplishments, 
when  the  mother  told  me,  that  the  little  girl 
who  led  me  in  this  morning  was  in  her  way  a 
better  scholar  than  he.  "Betty,"  said  she, 
"deals  chiefly  in  fairies  and  sprights;  and 
sometimes  in  a  winter-night  will  terrify  the 
maids  with  her  accounts,  until  they  are  afraid 
to  go  up  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  until  it  was  very  late,  some- 
times in  merry,  sometimes  in  serious  discourse, 
with  this  particular  pleasure,  which  gives  the 
only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a  sense 
that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.  I  went 
home,  considering  the  different  conditions  of  a 
married  life  and  that  of  a  bachelor;  and  I  must 
confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret  concern,  to 
reflect,  that  whenever  I  go  oft"  I  shall  leave  no 
traces  behind  me.  In  this  pensive  mood  I 
returned  to  my  family;  that  is  to  say,  to  my 
maid,  my  dog,  and  my  cat,  who  only  can  be 
the  better  or  worse  for  what  happens  to  me. 

'  These  heroes  of  the  earlier  romances  had  become 
in  the  eighteenth  century  the  subjects  of  chap-books 
for  children  and  the  common  people. 


212 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


THE   TATLER 

NO.  167.     MAY  4,   1 710 

Segiiius  irritatit  animos  demissa  per  aures, 

Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  submissa  fidelibus}  —  HoR. 

From  my  own  Apartment,  May  2. 
Having  received  notice,  that  the  famous  actor, 
Mr.  Betlerton,  was  to  be  interred  this  evening 
in  the  cloisters  near  Westminster  Abbey,  I 
was  resolved  to  walk  thither,  and  see  the  last 
office  done  to  a  man  whom  I  had  always  very 
much  admired,  and  from  whose  action  I  had 
received  more  strong  impressions  of  what  is 
great  and  noble  in  human  nature,  than  from  the 
arguments  of  the  most  solid  philosophers,  or 
the  descriptions  of  the  most  charming  poets  I 
had  ever  read.  As  the  rude  and  untaught 
multitude  are  no  way  wrought  upon  more 
effectually  than  by  seeing  public  punishments 
and  executions;  so  men  of  letters  and  education 
feel  their  humanity  most  forcibly  exercised, 
when  they  attend  the  obsequies  of  men  who 
had  arrived  at  any  perfection  in  liberal  accom- 
plishments. Theatrical  action  is  to  be  esteemed 
as  such,  except  it  be  objected,  that  we  cannot 
call  that  an  art  which  cannot  be  attained  by 
art.  Voice,  stature,  motion,  and  other  gifts, 
must  be  very  bountifully  bestowed  by  nature, 
or  labour  and  industry  will  but  push  the  un- 
happy endeavour  in  that  way,  the  farther  off 
his  wishes. 

Such  an  actor  as  Mr.  Betterton  ought  to  be 
recorded  with  the  same  respect  as  Roscius 
among  the  Romans.  The  greatest  orator  has 
thought  fit  to  quote  his  judgment,  and  cele- 
brate his  life.  Roscius  was  the  example  to  all 
that  would  form  themselves  into  proper  and 
winning  behaviour.'  His  action  was  so  well 
adapted  to  the  sentiments  he  expressed,  that 
the  youth  of  Rome  thought  they  only  wanted 
to  be  virtuous  to  be  as  graceful  in  their  appear- 
ance as  Roscius.  The  imagination  took  a 
lovely  impression  of  what  was  great  and  good; 
and  they  who  never  thought  of  setting  up  for 
the  art  of  imitation,  became  themselves  in- 
imitable characters. 

There  is  no  human  invention  so  aptly 
calculated  for  the  forming  a  free-born  people 
as  that  of  a  theatre.  Tully  reports,  that  the 
celebrated  player  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  used 
frequently  to  say,  "The  perfection  of  an  actor 
is  only  to  become  what  he  is  doing."     Youn^ 

1  Things  told  move  us  less  than  those  seen  bv  our 
own  faithful'  eyes. 


men,  who  are  too  inattentive  to  receive  lectures, 
are  irresistibly  taken  with  performances.  Hence 
it  is,  that  I  extremely  lament  the  little  relish 
the  gentry  of  this  nation  have  at  present  for  the 
just  and  noble  representations  in  some  of  our 
tragedies.  The  operas,  which  are  of  late  in- 
troduced, can  leave  no  trace  behind  them  that 
can  be  of  service  beyond  the  present  moment. 
To  sing  and  to  dance,  are  accomplishments  very 
few  have  any  thoughts  of  practising;  but  to 
speak  justly,  and  move  gracefully,  is  what  every 
man  thinks  he  does  perform,  or  wishes  he  did. 

I  have  hardly  a  notion,  that  any  performer 
of  antiquity  could  surpass  the  action  of  Mr.  Bet- 
terton in  any  of  the  occasions  in  which  he  has 
appeared  on  our  stage.     The  wonderful  agony 
which  he  appeared  in,  when  he  examined  the 
circumstance  of  the  handkerchief  in  Othello; 
the   mixture  of  love   that   intruded   upon  his 
mind,  upon  the  innocent  answers  Desdemona 
makes,  betrayed  in  his  gesture  such  a  variety 
and  vicissitude  of  passions,  as  would  admon- 
ish a  man  to  be  afraid  of  his  own  heart,  and 
perfectly  convince  him,  that  it  is  to  stab  it,  to 
admit  that  worst  of  daggers,  jealousy.     Who- 
ever reads  in  his  closet  this  admirable  scene, 
will  find  that  he  cannot,  except  he  has  as  warm 
an    imagination   as   Shakespeare  himself,  find 
any  but  dry,  incoherent,  and  broken  sentences: 
but  a  reader  that  has  seen  Betterton  act  it, 
observes  there  could  not  be  a  word  added; 
that  longer  speeches  had  been  unnatural,  nay, 
impossible,    in   Othello's   circumstances.     The 
charming  passage  in  the  same  tragedy,  where  he 
tells  the  manner  of  winning  the  affection  of  his 
mistress,  was  urged  with  so  moving  and  grace- 
ful an  energy,  that  while  I  walked  in  the  Clois- 
ters, I  thought  of  him  with  the  same  concern  as 
if  I  waited  for  the  remains  of  a  person  who 
had  in  real  life  done  all  that  I  had  seen  him 
represent.     The  gloom  of  the  place,  and  faint 
lights  before  the  ceremony  appeared,  contributed 
to  the  melancholy  disposition  I  was  in;    and  I 
began  to  be  extremely  afflicted,  that  Brutus  and 
Cassius   had   any   difference;     that   Hotspur's 
gallantry  was  so   unfortunate;    and   that   the 
mirth  and  good  humour  of  Falstaff  could  not 
exempt  him  from  the  grave.     Nay,  this  occasion 
in  me,  who  look  upon  the  distinctions  amongst 
men   to  be  merely  scenical,  raised  reflections 
upon  the  emptiness  of  all  human  perfection 
and  greatness  in  general;    and  I  could  not  but 
regret,  that  the  sacred  heads  which  lie  buried 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  little  portion  of 
earth  in  which  my  poor  old  friend  is  deposited, 
are  returned  to  dust  as  well  as  he,  and  that  there 


THE    TATLER 


213 


is  no  difference  in  the  grave  between  the 
imaginary  and  the  real  monarch.  This  made 
me  say  of  human  hfe  itself  with  Macbeth: 

To-morrow,  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 
Creeps  in  a  stealing  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  moment  of  recorded  time  ! 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
To  the  eternal  night !     Out,  out,  short  candle  1 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more. 

The  mention  I  have  here  made  of  Mr.  Better- 
ton,  for  whom  I  had,  as  long  as  I  have  known 
anything,  a  very  great  esteem  and  gratitude 
for  the  pleasure  he  gave  me,  can  do  him  no 
good ;  but  it  may  possibly  be  of  service  to  the 
unhappy  woman  he  has  left  behind  him,  to 
have  it  known,  that  this  great  tragedian  was 
never  in  a  scene  half  so  moving,  as  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  affairs  created  at  his  de- 
parture. His  wife  after  the  cohabitation  of 
forty  years  in  the  strictest  amity,  has  long 
pined  away  with  a  sense  of  his  decay,  as  well 
in  his  person  as  his  little  fortune;  and,  in 
proportion  to  that,  she  has  herself  decayed 
both  in  her  health  and  reason.  Her  husband's 
death,  added  to  her  age  and  infirmities,  would 
certainly  have  determined  her  life,  but  that 
the  greatness  of  her  distress  has  been  her 
relief,  by  a  present  deprivation  of  her  senses. 
This  absence  of  reason  is  her  best  defence 
against  sorrow,  poverty,  and  sickness.  I  dwell 
upon  this  account  so  distinctly,  in  obedience  to 
a  certain  great  spirit,  who  hides  her  name,  and 
has  by  letter  applied  to  me  to  recommend  to 
her  some  object  of  compassion,  from  whom 
she  may  be  concealed. 

This,  I  think,  is  a  proper  occasion  for  exert- 
ing such  heroic  generosity;  and  as  there  is  an 
ingenuous  shame  in  those  who  have  known 
better  fortune  to  be  reduced  to  receive  obliga- 
tions, as  well  as  a  becoming  pain  in  the  truly 
generous  to  receive  thanks;  in  this  case  both 
these  delicacies  are  preserved;  for  the  person 
obliged  is  as  incapal3le  of  knowing  her  bene- 
factress, as  her  benefactress  is  unwilling  to  be 
known  by  her. 

THE   TATLER 

NO.  264.     DECEMBER  16,   1710 

Favete  Unguis.^  —  HoR.  Od.  iii.  2.  2. 

Boccalini,  in  his  "Parnassus,"  indicts  a  la- 
conic writer  for  speaking  that  in  three  words 

'  Spare  speech. 


which  he  might  have  said  in  two,  and  sen- 
tences him  for  his  punishment  to  read  over  all 
the  words  of  Guicciardini.  This  Guicciardini 
is  so  very  proli.x  and  circum.stantial  in  his 
writings,  that  I  remember  our  countryman, 
Doctor  Donne,  speaking  of  that  majestic  and 
concise  manner  in  which  Moses  has  described 
the  creation  of  the  world,  adds,  "that  if  such 
an  author  as  Guicciardini  were  to  have  written 
on  such  a  subject,  the  world  itself  would  not 
have  been  able  to  have  contained  the  books 
that  gave  the  history  of  its  creation." 

I  look  upon  a  tedious  talker,  or  what  is 
generally  known  by  the  name  of  a  story-teller, 
to  be  much  more  insufferable  than  even  a 
prolix  writer.  An  author  may  be  tossed  out 
of  your  hand,  and  thrown  aside  when  he  grows 
dull  and  tiresome;  but  such  liberties  are  so 
far  from  being  allowed  towards  your  orators 
in  common  conversation,  that  I  have  known 
a  challenge  sent  a  person  for  going  out  of  the 
room  abruptly,  and  leaving  a  man  of  honour 
in  the  midst  of  a  dissertation.  This  evil  is  at 
present  so  very  common  and  epidemical,  that 
there  is  scarce  a  coffee-house  in  town  that  has 
not  some  speakers  belonging  to  it,  who  utter 
their  political  essays,  and  draw  parallels  out 
of  Baker's  "Chronicle"  to  almost  every  part 
of  her  majesty's  reign.  It  was  said  of  two 
ancient  authors,  who  had  very  different  beauties 
in  their  style,  "that  if  you  took  a  word  from 
one  of  them,  you  only  spoiled  his  eloquence; 
but  if  you  took  a  word  from  the  other,  you 
spoiled  his  sense."  I  have  often  applied  the 
first  part  of  this  criticism  to  several  of  these 
coffee-house  speakers  whom  I  have  at  present 
in  my  thoughts,  though  the  character  that  is 
given  to  the  last  of  those  authors,  is  what  I 
would  recommend  to  the  imitation  of  my 
loving  countrymen.  But  it  is  not  only  public 
places  of  resort,  but  private  clubs  and  con- 
versations over  a  bottle,  that  are  infested  with 
this  loquacious  kind  of  animal,  especially  with 
that  species  which  I  comprehend  under  the 
name  of  a  story-teller.  I  would  earnestly 
desire  these  gentlemen  to  consider,  that  no 
point  of  wit  or  mirth  at  the  end  of  a  stor}'  can 
atone  for  the  half  hour  that  has  been  lost 
before  they  come  at  it.  I  would  likewise  lay 
it  home  to  their  serious  consideration,  whether 
they  think  that  every  man  in  the  company  has 
not  a  right  to  speak  as  well  as  themselves?  and 
whether  they  do  not  think  they  are  invading 
another  man's  property,  when  they  engross  the 
time  which  should  be  divided  equally  among 
the  company  to  their  own  private  use? 


214 


SIR    RICHARD    STEELE 


What  makes  this  evil  the  much  greater  in 
conversation  is,  that  these  humdrum  com- 
panions seldom  endeavour  to  wind  up  their 
narrations  into  a  point  of  mirth  or  instruction, 
which  might  make  some  amends  for  the 
tediousness  of  them;  but  think  they  have  a 
right  to  tell  anything  that  has  happened  within 
their  memory.  They  look  upon  matter  of 
fact  to  be  a  sufficient  foundation  for  a  story, 
and  give  us  a  long  account  of  things,  not  be- 
cause they  are  entertaining  or  surprising,  but 
because  they  are  true. 

My  ingenious  kinsman,  Mr.  Humphry 
Wagstaff,  used  to  say,  "the  life  of  man  is  too 
short  for  a  story-teller." 

Methusalem  might  be  half  an  hour  in  tell- 
ing what  o'clock  it  was:  but  as  for  us  post- 
diluvians,  we  ought  to  do  everything  in  haste; 
and  in  our  speeches,  as  well  as  actions,  remem- 
ber that  our  time  is  short.  A  man  that  talks 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together  in  company, 
if  I  meet  him  frequently,  takes  up  a  great  part 
of  my  span.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  may  be 
reckoned  the  eight-and-fortieth  part  of  a  day, 
a  day  the  three  hundred  and  sixtieth  part  of  a 
year,  and  a  year  the  threescore  and  tenth  part 
of  life.  By  this  moral  arithmetic,  supposing  a 
man  to  be  in  the  talking  world  one  third  part 
of  the  day,  whoever  gives  another  a  quarter  of 
an  hour's  hearing,  makes  him  a  sacrifice  of 
more  than  the  four  hundred  thousandth  part 
of  his  conversable  life. 

I  would  establish  but  one  great  general  rule 
to  be  observed  in  all  conversation,  which  is 
this,  "that  men  should  not  talk  to  please 
themselves,  but  those  that  hear  them."  This 
would  make  them  consider,  whether  what 
they  speak  be  worth  hearing;  whether  there 
be  either  wit  or  sense  in  what  they  are  about 
to  say;  and,  whether  it  be  adapted  to  the 
time  when,  the  place  where,  and  the  person  to 
whom,  it  is  spoken. 

For  the  utter  extirpation  of  these  orators 
and  story-tellers,  which  I  look  upon  as  very 
great  pests  of  society,  I  have  invented  a  watch 
which  divides  the  minute  into  twelve  parts, 
after  the  same  manner  that  the  ordinary 
watches  are  divided  into  hours:  and  will  en- 
deavour to  get  a  patent,  which  shall  oblige 
every  club  or  company  to  provide  themselves 
with  one  of  these  watches,  that  shall  lie  upon 
the  table  as  an  hour-glass  is  often  placed  near 
the  pulpit,  to  measure  out  the  length  of  a 
discourse. 

I  shall  be  willing  to  allow  a  man  one  round 
of  my  watch,  that  is,  a  whole  minute,  to  speak 


in;  but  if  he  exceeds  that  time,  it  shall  be 
lawful  for  any  of  the  company  to  look  upon 
the  watch,  or  to  call  him  down  to  order. 

Provided,  however,  that  if  any  one  can 
make  it  appear  he  is  turned  of  threescore,  he 
may  take  two,  or,  if  he  pleases,  three  rounds 
of  the  watch  without  giving  offence.  Pro- 
vided, also,  that  this  rule  be  not  construed  to 
extend  to  the  fair  sex,  who  shall  still  be  at 
liberty  to  talk  by  the  ordinary  watch  that  is 
now  in  use.  I  would  likewise  earnestly  recom- 
mend this  little  automaton,  which  may  be 
easily  carried  in  the  pocket  without  any  in- 
cumbrance, to  all  such  as  are  troubled  with 
this  infirmity  of  speech,  that  upon  pulling  out 
their  watches,  they  may  have  frequent  occa- 
sion to  consider  what  they  are  doing,  and  by 
that  means  cut  the  thread  of  the  story  short, 
and  hurry  to  a  conclusion.  I  shall  only  add, 
that  this  watch,  with  a  paper  of  directions 
how  to  use  it,  is  sold  at  Charles  Lillie's. 

I  am  afraid  a  Tatler  will  be  thought  a  very 
improper  paper  to  censure  this  humour  of 
being  talkative;  but  I  would  have  my  readers 
know  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
tattle  and  loquacity,  as  I  shall  show  at  large  in  a 
following  lucubration;  it  being  my  design  to 
throw  away  a  candle  upon  that  subject,  in 
order  to  explain  the  whole  art  of  tattling  in 
all  its  branches  and  subdivisions. 

THE   SPECTATOR 

NO.   II.     MARCH   13,   1711 

Dat  veniam  corvis,  vcxat  censura  columbas} 

—  Juv.  Sat.  ii.  63. 

Arietta  is  visited  by  all  persons  of  both 
sexes,  who  have  any  pretence  to  wit  and 
gallantry.  She  is  in  that  time  of  life  which  is 
neither  affected  with  the  follies  of  youth,  nor 
infirmities  of  age;  and  her  conversation  is  so 
mixed  with  gaiety  and  prudence,  that  she  is 
agreeable  both  to  the  young  and  the  old. 
Her  behaviour  is  very  frank,  without  being  in 
the  least  blameable:  and  as  she  is  out  of  the 
track  of  any  amorous  or  ambitious  pursuits 
of  her  own,  her  visitants  entertain  her  with 
accounts  of  themselves  very  freely,  whether 
they  concern  their  passions  or  their  interests. 
I  made  her  a  visit  this  afternoon,  having  been 
formerly  introduced  to  the  honour  of  her 
acquaintance  by  my  friend  Will  Honeycomb, 
who    has    prevailed    upon    her   to    admit    me 

•  Censure  spares  the  crows  and  attacks  the  doves. 


THE    SPECTATOR 


21^ 


sometimes  into  her  assembly,  as  a  civil  in- 
offensive man.  1  found  her  accompanied  with 
one  person  only,  a  common -place  talker,  who, 
upon  my  entrance,  arose,  and  after  a  very 
slight  civility  sat  down  again ;  then,  turning  to 
Arietta,  pursued  his  discourse,  which  I  found 
was  upon  the  old  topic  of  constancy  in  love. 
He  went  on  with  great  facility  in  repeating 
what  he  talks  every  day  of  his  life;  and  with 
the  ornaments  of  insignificant  laughs  and 
gestures,  enforced  his  arguments  by  cjuotations 
out  of  plays  and  songs,  which  allude  to  the 
perjuries  of  the  fair,  and  the  general  levity  of 
women.  Methought  he  strove  to  shine  more 
than  ordinarily  in  his  talkative  way,  that  he 
might  insult  my  silence,  and  distinguish  him- 
self before  a  woman  of  Arietta's  taste  and 
understanding.  She  had  often  an  inclination 
to  interrupt  him,  but  could  find  no  op{)or- 
tunity,  till  the  larum  ceased  of  itself,  which  it 
did  not  till  he  had  repeated  and  murdered  the 
celebrated  story  of  the  Ephesian  Matron. 

Arietta  seemed  to  regard  this  piece  of 
raillery  as  an  outrage  done  to  her  sex;  as  in- 
deed I  have  always  observed  that  women, 
whether  out  of  a  nicer  regard  to  their  honour, 
or  what  other  reason  I  cannot  tell,  are  more 
sensibly  touched  with  those  general  aspersions 
which  are  cast  upon  their  sex,  than  men  are 
by  what  is  said  of  theirs. 

When  she  had  a  little  recovered  herself  from 
the  serious  anger  she  was  in,  she  replied  in  the 
following  manner: 

"Sir,  when  I  consider  how  perfectly  new  all 
you  have  said  on  this  subject  is,  and  that  the 
story  you  have  given  us  is  not  quite  two  thou- 
sand years  old,  I  cannot  but  think  it  a  piece 
of  presumption  to  dispute  it  with  you;  but 
your  quotations  put  me  in  mind  of  the  fable 
of  the  lion  and  the  man.  The  man  walking 
with  that  nol)le  animal,  showed  him,  in  the 
ostentation  of  human  superiority,  a  sign  of  a 
man  killing  a  lion.  Upon  which,  the  lion  said 
very  justly,  'We  lions  are  none  of  us  painters, 
else  we  could  show  a  hundred  men  killed  by 
lions  for  one  lion  killed  by  a  man.'  You  men 
are  writers,  and  can  represent  us  women  as 
unbecoming  as  you  please  in  your  works, 
while  we  are  unable  to  return  the  injury.  You 
have  twice  or  thrice  observed  in  your  dis- 
course, that  hypocrisy  is  the  very  foundation 
of  our  education ;  and  that  an  ability  to  dis- 
semble our  aiTcctions  is  a  professed  part  of 
our  breeding.  These  and  such  other  reflec- 
tions are  sprinkled  up  and  down  the  writings 
of  all  ages,  by  authors,  who  leave  behind  them 


memorials  of  their  resentment  against  the 
scorn  of  particular  women,  in  invectives  against 
the  whole  sex.  Such  a  writer,  I  doubt  not, 
was  the  celebrated  Petronius,  who  invented  the 
pleasant  aggravations  of  the  frailty  of  the 
Ephesian  lady;  but  when  w'e  consider  this 
(juestion  between  the  sexes,  which  has  been 
either  a  point  of  dispute  or  raillery  ever  since 
there  were  men  and  women,  let  us  take  facts 
from  plain  peojjle,  and  from  such  as  have  not 
either  ambition  or  capacity  to  embellish  their 
narrations  with  any  beauties  of  imagination. 
I  was  the  other  day  amusing  myself  with 
Ligon's  Account  of  Barbadoes;  and,  in  answer 
to  your  well-wrought  tale,  I  will  give  you,  (as 
it  dwells  upon  my  memory)  out  of  that  honest 
traveller,  in  his  fifty-fifth  page,  the  history  of 
Inkle  and  Yarico. 

'"Mr.  Thomas  Inkle,  of  London,  aged 
tw-enty  years,  embarked  in  the  Downs,  on  the 
good  ship  called  the  Achilles,  bound  for  the 
West  Indies,  on  the  i6th  of  June,  1647,  in 
order  to  improve  his  fortune  by  trade  and 
merchandise.  Our  adventurer  was  the  third 
son  of  an  eminent  citizen,  who  had  taken 
particular  care  to  instil  into  his  mind  an  early 
love  of  gain,  by  making  him  a  perfect  master 
of  numbers,  and  consequently  giving  him  a 
quick  view  of  loss  and  advantage,  and  pre- 
venting the  natural  impulses  of  his  passions, 
by  prepos.session  towards  his  interests.  With 
a  mind  thus  turned,  young  Inkle  had  a  per- 
son every  way  agreeable,  a  ruddy  vigour  in  his 
countenance,  strength  in  his  limbs,  with  ring- 
lets of  fair  hair  loosely  flowing  on  his  shoulders. 
It  happened,  in  the  course  of  the  voyage,  that 
the  Achilles,  in  some  distress,  put  into  a  creek 
on  the  main  of  America,  in  search  of  pro- 
visions. The  youth,  who  is  the  hero  of  my 
story,  among  others  went  on  shore  on  this 
occasion.  From  their  first  landing  they  were 
observed  by  a  party  of  Indians,  who  hid  them- 
selves in  the  woods  for  that  purpose.  The 
English  unadvisedly  marched  a  great  distance 
from  the  shore  into  the  country,  and  were  in- 
tercepted by  the  natives,  who  slew  the  greatest 
number  of  them.  Our  adventurer  escaped 
among  others,  by  flying  into  a  forest.  Upon 
his  coming  into  a  remote  and  pathless  part  of 
the  wood,  he  threw  himself,  tired  and  breath- 
less, on  a  little  hillock,  when  an  Indian  maid 
rushed  from  a  thicket  behind  him.  After  the 
first  surprise  they  appeared  mutually  agree- 
able to  each  other.  If  the  European  was 
highly  charmed  with  the  limbs,  features,  and 
wild  graces  of  the  naked  American ;  the  Ameri- 


2l6 


GEORGE    BERKELEY 


can  was  no  less  taken  with  the  dress,  com- 
plexion, and  shape  of  an  European,  covered 
from  head  to  foot.  The  Indian  grew  im- 
mediately enamoured  of  him,  and  consequently 
solicitous  for  his  preservation.  She  therefore 
conveyed  him  to  a  cave,  where  she  gave  him 
a  delicious  repast  of  fruits,  and  led  him  to  a 
stream  to  slake  his  thirst.  In  the  midst  of 
these  good  offices,  she  would  sometimes  play 
with  his  hair,  and  delight  in  the  opposition  of 
its  colour  to  that  of  her  fingers:  then  open  his 
bosom,  then  laugh  at  him  for  covering  it. 
She  was,  it  seems,  a  person  of  distinction, 
for  she  every  day  came  to  him  in  a  different 
dress,  of  the  most  beautiful  shells,  bugles,  and 
bredes.  She  likewise  brought  him  a  great 
many  spoils,  which  her  other  lovers  had  pre- 
sented to  her,  so  that  his  cave  was  richly 
adorned  with  all  the  spotted  skins  of  beasts, 
and  most  party-coloured  feathers  of  fowls, 
which  that  world  afforded.  To  make  his 
confinement  more  tolerable,  she  would  carry 
him  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  or  by  the 
favour  of  moonlight,  to  unfrequented  groves 
and  solitudes,  and  .show  him  where  to  lie  down 
in  safety,  and  sleep  amidst  the  falls  of  waters 
and  melody  of  nightingales.  Her  part  was  to 
watch  and  hold  him  awake  in  her  arms,  for 
fear  of  her  countrymen,  and  wake  him  on 
occasions  to  consult  his  safety.  In  this  man- 
ner did  the  lovers  pass  away  their  time,  till 
they  had  learned  a  language  of  their  own,  in 
which  the  voyager  communicated  to  his  mis- 
tress how  happy  he  should  be  to  have  her  in 
his  country,  where  she  should  be  clothed  in 
such  silks  as  his  waistcoat  was  made  of,  and 
be  carried  in  houses  drawn  by  horses,  without 
being  exposed  to  wind  or  weather.  All  this 
he  promised  her  the  enjoyment  of,  without 
such  fears  and  alarms  as  they  were  there  tor- 
mented with.  In  this  tender  correspondence 
these  lovers  lived  for  several  months,  when 
Yarico,  instructed  by  her  lover,  discovered  a 
vessel  on  the  coast,  to  which  she  made  signals; 
and  in  the  night,  with  the  utmost  joy  and 
satisfaction,  accompanied  him  to  a  ship's  crew 
of  his  countrymen  bound  to  Barbadoes.  When 
a  vessel  from  the  main  arrives  in  that  island,  it 
seems  the  planters  come  down  to  the  shore, 
where  there  is  an  immediate  market  of  the 
Indians  and  other  slaves,  as  with  us  of  horses 
and  oxen. 

'"To  be  short,  Mr.  .Thomas  Inkle,  now 
coming  into  English  territories,  began  seriously 
to_  reflect  upon  his  loss  of  time,  and  to  weigh 
with  himself  how  many  days'  interest  of  his 


money  he  had  lost  during  his  stay  with  Yarico. 
This  thought  made  the  young  man  very  pen- 
sive, and  careful  what  account  he  should  be 
able  to  give  his  friends  of  his  voyage.  Upon 
which  consideration,  the  prudent  and  frugal 
young  man  sold  Yarico  to  a  Barbadian  mer- 
chant; notwithstanding  that  the  poor  girl,  to 
incline  him  to  commiserate  her  condition,  told 
him  that  she  was  with  child  by  him:  but  he 
only  made  use  of  that  information,  to  rise  in 
his  demands  upon  the  purchaser.'" 

I  was  so  touched  with  this  story  (which  I 
think  should  be  always  a  counterpart  to  the 
Ephesian  Matron)  that  I  left  the  room  with 
tears  in  my  eyes,  which  a  woman  of  Arietta's 
good  sense  did,  I  am  sure,  take  for  greater 
applause  than  any  compliments  I  could  make 
her. 

GEORGE   BERKELEY  (1685-1753) 

From    A    PROPOSAL     FOR     A    COLLEGE 
TO  BE  ERECTED  IN   THE   SUM- 
MER  ISLANDS' 

Although  there  are  several  excellent  persons 
of  the  Church  of  England,  whose  good  inten- 
tions and  endeavours  have  not  been  wanting 
to  propagate  the  Gospel  in  foreign  parts,  who 
have  even  combined  into  Societies  for  that 
very  purpose,  and  given  great  encouragement, 
not  only  for  English  missionaries  in  the  West 
Indies,  but  also  for  the  reformed  of  other 
nations,  led  by  their  example,  to  propagate 
Christianity  in  the  East;  it  is  nevertheless 
acknowledged  that  there  is  at  this  day  but 
little  sense  of  religion,  and  a  most  notorious 
corruption  of  manners,  in  the  English  Colonies 
settled  on  the  Continent  of  America,  and  the 
Islands.  It  is  also  acknowledged  that  the 
Gospel  hath  hitherto  made  but  a  very  incon- 
siderable progress  among  the  neighbouring 
Americans,  who  still  continue  in  much  the 
same  ignorance  and  barbarism  in  which  we 
found  them  above  a  hundred  years  ago. 

I  shall  therefore  venture  to  submit  my 
thoughts,  upon  a  point  that  I  have  long  con- 
sidered, to  better  judgments,  in  hopes  that 
any  expedient  will  be  favourably  hearkened  to 
which  is  proposed  for  the  remedy  of  these 
evils.     Now,  in  order  to  effect  this,  it  should 

'  The  complete  title  is:  A  Proposal  for  the  Better 
Supplying  of  Churches  in  our  Foreign  Plantations,  and 
for  Converting  the  Savage  Americans  to  Christianity, 
by  a  College  to  be  erected  in  the  Summer  Islands, 
otherwise  called  the  Isles  of  Bermudas. 


A  PROPOSAL  FOR  A  COLLEGE  TO  BE  ERECTED 


21 


seem  the  natural  proper  method  to  provide, 
in  the  first  place,  a  constant  supply  of  worthy 
clergymen  for  the  English  churches  in  those 
parts;  and,  in  the  second  place,  a  like  con- 
stant supply  of  zealous  missionaries,  well  fitted 
for  propagating  Christianity  among  the  savages. 

For,  though  the  surest  means  to  reform  the 
morals,  and  soften  the  behaviour  of  men  be, 
to  preach  to  them  the  pure  uncorrupt  doctrine 
of  the  Gospel,  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
success  of  preaching  depcndeth  in  good  meas- 
ure on  the  character  and  skill  of  the  preacher. 
Forasmuch  as  mankind  are  more  apt  to  copy 
characters  than  to  practise  precepts,  and  foras- 
much as  argument,  to  attain  its  full  strength, 
doth  not  less  require  the  life  of  zeal  than  the 
weight  of  reason ;  and  the  same  doctrine  which 
maketh  great  impression  when  delivered  with 
decency  and  address  loseth  very  much  of  its 
force  by  passing  through  awkward  or  unskil- 
ful hands. 

Now  the  clergy  sent  over  to  America  have 
proved,  too  many  of  them,  very  meanly  qualified 
both  in  learning  and  morals  for  the  discharge 
of  their  office.  And  indeed  little  can  be  ex- 
pected from  the  example  or  instruction  of 
those  who  quit  their  native  country  on  no 
other  motive  than  that  they  are  unable  to  pro- 
cure a  livelihood  in  it,  which  is  known  to  be 
often  the  case. 

To  this  may  be  imputed  the  small  care  that 
hath  been  taken  to  convert  the  negroes  of  our 
Plantations,  who,  to  the  infamy  of  England 
and  scandal  of  the  world,  continue  heathen 
under  Christian  masters,  and  in  Christian 
countries.  Which  could  never  be,  if  our 
planters  were  rightly  instructed  and  made 
sensible  that  they  disappointed  their  own  bap- 
tism by  denying  it  to  those  who  belong  to 
them:  that  it  would  be  of  advantage  to  their 
affairs  to  have  slaves  who  should  "obey  in  all 
things  their  masters  according  to  the  flesh,  not 
with  eye-service  as  men-pleasers,  but  in  single- 
ness of  heart,  as  fearing  God:"  that  Gospel 
liberty  consists  with  temporal  servitude;  and 
that  their  slaves  would  only  become  better 
slaves  by  being  Christian. 

And  though  it  be  allowed  that  some  of  the 
clergy  in  our  Colonies  have  approved  them- 
selves men  of  merit,  it  will  at  the  same  time 
be  allowed  that  the  most  zealous  and  able 
missionary  from  England  must  find  himself 
but  ill  qualified  for  converting  the  American 
heathen,  if  we  consider  the  difTerence  of 
language,  their  wild  way  of  living,  and,  above 
all,   the  great  jealousy   and   prejudice   which 


savage  nations  have  towards  foreigners,  or 
innovations  introduced  by  them. 

These  considerations  make  it  evident,  that 
a  College  or  Seminary  in  those  parts  is  very 
much  wanted;  and  therefore  the  providing 
such  a  Seminary  is  earnestly  proposed  and 
recommended  to  all  those  who  have  it  in  their 
power  to  contribute  to  so  good  a  work.  By 
this,  two  ends  would  be  obtained: 

First,  the  youth  of  our  English  Plantations 
might  be  themselves  fitted  for  the  ministry; 
and  men  of  merit  would  be  then  glad  to  fill 
the  churches  of  their  native  country,  which 
are  now  a  drain  for  the  very  dregs  and  refuse 
of  ours. 

At  present,  there  are,  I  am  told,  many 
churches  vacant  in  our  Plantations,  and  many 
very  ill  supplied;  nor  can  all  the  vigilance  and 
wisdom  of  that  great  prelate,  whose  peculiar 
care  it  is,  prevent  this,  so  long  as  the  aforesaid 
churches  are  supplied  from  England. 

And  supplied  they  must  be  with  such  as 
can  be  picked  up  in  England  or  Ireland,  until 
a  nursery  of  learning  for  the  education  of  the 
natives  is  founded.  This  indeed  might  pro- 
vide a  constant  succession  of  learned  and 
exemplary  pastors;  and  what  effect  this 
might  be  supposed  to  have  on  their  flocks  I 
need  not  say. 

Secondly,  the  children  of  savage  Americans, 
brought  up  in  such  a  Seminary,  and  well  in- 
structed in  religion  and  learning,  might  make 
the  ablest  and  properest  missionaries  for 
spreading  the  Gospel  among  their  country- 
men; who  would  be  less  apt  to  suspect,  and 
readier  to  embrace  a  doctrine  recommended 
by  neighbours  or  relations,  men  of  their  own 
blood  and  language,  than  if  it  were  proposed 
by  foreigners,  who  would  not  improbably  be 
thought  to  have  designs  on  the  liberty  or 
property  of  their  converts. 

The  young  Americans  necessary  for  this 
purpose  may,  in  the  beginning,  be  procured, 
either  by  peaceable  methods  from  those  savage 
nations  which  border  on  our  Colonies,  and 
are  in  friendship  with  us,  or  by  taking  captive 
the  children  of  our  enemies. 

It  is  proposed  to  admit  into  the  aforesaid 
College  only  such  savages  as  are  under  ten 
years  of  age,  before  evil  habits  have  taken  a 
deep  root;  and  yet  not  so  early  as  to  prevent 
retaining  their  mother-tongue,  which  should 
be  preserved  by  intercourse  among  themselves. 

It  is  farther  proposed  to  ground  these  voung 
Americans  thoroughly  in  religion  and  morality, 
and  to  give  them  a  good  tincture  of  other 


21? 


GEORGE    BERKELEY 


learning;  particularly  of  eloquence,  history, 
and  practical  mathematics;  to  which  it  may 
not  be  improper  to  add  some  skill  in  physic. 

If  there  were  a  yearly  supply  of  ten  or  a 
dozen  such  missionaries  sent  abroad  into  their 
respective  countries,  after  they  had  received 
the  degree  of  master  of  arts  in  the  aforesaid 
College,  and  holy  orders  in  England  (till  such 
time  as  Episcopacy  be  established  in  those 
parts),  it  is  hardly  to  be  doubted  but,  in  a 
little  time,  the  world  would  see  good  and  great 
effects  thereof. 

For,  to  any  considering  man,  the  employ- 
ing American  missionaries  for  the  conversion 
of  America  will,  of  all  others,  appear  the  most 
likely  method  to  succeed ;  especially  if  care  be 
taken  that,  during  the  whole  course  of  their 
education,  an  eye  should  be  had  to  their 
mission;  that  they  should  be  taught  betimes 
to  consider  themselves  as  trained  up  in  that 
sole  view,  without  any  other  prospect  of  pro- 
vision or  employment;  that  a  zeal  for  religion 
and  love  of  their  country  should  be  early  and 
constantly  instilled  into  their  minds,  by  re- 
peated lectures  and  admonitions;  that  they 
should  not  only  be  incited  by  the  common 
topics  of  religion  and  nature,  but  farther  ani- 
mated and  inflamed  by  the  great  examples  in 
past  ages  of  public  spirit  and  virtue,  to  rescue 
their  countrymen  from  their  savage  manners 
to  a  life  of  civility  and  religion. 

If  his  Majesty  would  graciously  please  to 
grant  a  Charter  for  a  College  to  be  erected  in 
a  proper  place  for  these  uses,  it  is  to  be  hoped 
a  fund  may  be  soon  raised,  by  the  contribu- 
tion of  well-disposed  persons,  sufficient  for 
building  and  endowing  the  same.  For,  as  the 
necessary  expense  would  be  small,  so  there 
are  men  of  religion  and  humanity  in  England 
who  would  be  pleased  to  see  any  design  set 
forward  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of 
mankind. 

A  small  expense  would  suffice  to  subsist 
and  educate  the  American  missionaries  in  a 
plain  simple  manner,  such  as  might  make  it 
easy  for  them  to  return  to  the  coarse  and  poor 
methods  of  life  in  use  among  their  country- 
men; and  nothing  can  contribute  more  to 
lessen  this  expense,  than  a  judicious  choice  of 
the  situation  where  the  Seminar)'  is  to  stand. 

Many  things  ought  to  be  considered  in  the 
choice  of  a  situation.  It  should  be  in  a  good 
air;  in  a  place  where  provisions  are  cheap 
and  plenty;  where  an  intercourse  might  easily 
be  kept  up  with  all  parts  of  America  and  the 
Islands;    in  a  place  of  security,  not  exposed 


to  the  insults  of  pirates,  savages,  or  other 
enemies;  where  there  is  no  great  trade  which 
might  tempt  the  Readers  or  Fellows  of  the 
College  to  become  merchants,  to  the  neglect 
of  their  proper  business;  where  there  are 
neither  riches  nor  luxury  to  divert  or  lessen 
their  application,  or  to  make  them  uneasy  and 
dissatisfied  with  a  homely  frugal  subsistence; 
lastly,  where  the  inhabitants,  if  such  a  place 
may  be  found,  are  noted  for  innocence  and 
simplicity  of  manners.  I  need  not  say  of  how 
great  importance  this  point  would  be  towards 
forming  the  morals  of  young  students,  and 
what  mighty  influence  it  must  have  on  the 
mission. 

It  is  evident  the  College  long  since  pro- 
jected in  Barbadoes  would  be  defective  in 
many  of  these  particulars;  for,  though  it  may 
have  its  use  among  the  inhabitants,  yet  a 
place  of  so  high  trade,  so  much  wealth  and 
luxury,  and  such  dissolute  morals  (not  to 
mention  the  great  price  and  scarcity  of  pro- 
visions) must,  at  first  sight,  seem  a  very 
improper  situation  for  a  general  Seminary 
intended  for  the  forming  missionaries,  and 
educating  youth  in  religion  and  sobriety  of 
manners.  The  same  objections  lie  against  the 
neighbouring  islands. 

And,  if  we  consider  the  accounts  given  of 
their  avarice  and  licentiousness,  their  coldness 
in  the  practice  of  religion,  and  their  aversion 
from  propagating  it  (which  appears  in  the 
withholding  their  slaves  from  baptism),  it  is 
to  be  feared,  that  the  inhabitants  in  the  popu- 
lous parts  of  our  Plantations  on  the  Continent 
are  not  much  fitter  than  those  in  the  islands 
above  mentioned,  to  influence  or  assist  such 
a  design.  And,  as  to  the  more  remote  and 
less  frequented  parts,  the  difficulty  of  being 
supplied  with  necessaries,  the  danger  of  being 
exposed  to  the  inroads  of  savages,  and,  above 
all,  the  want  of  intercourse  with  other  places, 
render  them  improper  situations  for  a  Semi- 
nary of  religion  and  learning. 

It  will  not  be  amiss  to  insert  here  an  obser- 
vation I  remember  to  have  seen  in  an  Abstract 
of  the  Proceedings,  &c.,  annexed  to  the  Dean 
of  Canterbur)^'s  Sermon  before  the  Society  for 
the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel  in  Foreign 
Parts;  that  the  savage  Indians  who  live  on 
the  Continent  will  not  suffer  their  children  to 
learn  English  or  Dutch,  lest  they  should  be 
debauched  by  conversing  with  their  European 
neighbours;  which  is  a  melancholy  but  strong 
confirmation  of  the  truth  of  what  hath  been 
now  advanced. 


A  PROPOSAL  FOR  A  COLLEGE  TO  BE  ERECTED 


219 


A  general  intercourse  and  correspondence 
with  all  the  English  Colonies,  both  on  the 
Islands  and  the  Continent,  and  with  other 
parts  of  America,  hath  been  before  laid  down 
as  a  necessary  circumstance,  the  reason  whereof 
is  very  evident.  But  this  circumstance  is 
hardly  to  be  found.  For,  on  the  Continent, 
where  there  are  neither  inns,  nor  carriages, 
nor  bridges  over  the  rivers,  there  is  no  travel- 
ling by  land  between  distant  places.  And  the 
English  settlements  are  reputed  to  extend 
along  the  sea-coast  for  the  space  of  lifteen 
hundred  miles.  It  is  therefore  plain  there 
can  be  no  convenient  communication  between 
them  otherwise  than  by  sea;  no  advantage 
therefore,  in  this  point,  can  be  gained  by 
settling  on  the  Continent. 

There  is  another  consideration  which  equally 
regards  the  Continent  and  the  Islands,  that 
the  general  course  of  trade  and  correspondence 
lies  from  all  those  Colonies  to  Great  Britain 
alone.  Whereas,  for  our  present  purpose,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  pitch  upon  a  place,  if 
such  could  be  found,  which  maintains  a  con- 
stant intercourse  with  all  the  other  Colonics, 
and  whose  commerce  lies  chiefly  or  altogether 
(not  in  Europe,  but)  in  America. 

There  is  but  one  spot  that  I  can  find  to 
which  this  circumstance  agrees;  and  that  is, 
the  Isles  of  Bermuda,  otherwise  called  the 
Summer  Islands.  These,  having  no  rich  com- 
modity or  manufacture,  such  as  sugar,  tobacco, 
or  the  like,  wherewithal  to  trade  to  England, 
are  obliged  to  become  carriers  for  America,  as 
the  Dutch  are  for  Europe.  The  Bermudans 
are  excellent  ship-wrights  and  sailors,  and 
have  a  great  number  of  very  good  sloops, 
which  are  always  passing  and  repassing  from 
all  parts  of  America.  They  drive  a  constant 
trade  to  the  islands  of  Jamaica,  Barbadoes, 
Antigua,  &c.,  with  butter,  onions,  cabbages, 
and  other  roots  and  vegetables,  which  they 
have  in  great  plenty  and  perfection.  They 
have  also  some  small  manufactures  of  joiner's 
work  and  matting,  which  they  export  to  the 
Plantations  on  the  Continent.  Hence  Ber- 
mudan  sloops  are  oftener  seen  in  the  ports  of 
America  than  in  any  other.  And,  indeed,  by 
the  best  information  I  could  get,  it  appears 
they  are  the  only  people  of  all  the  British 
Plantations  who  hold  a  general  correspondence 
with  the  rest. 

And  as  the  commerce  of  Bermuda  renders 
it  a  very  fit  place  wherein  to  erect  a  Seminary, 
so  likewise  doth  its  situation,  it  being  placed 
between  our  Plantations  on  the  Continent  and 


those  in  the  Isles,  so  as  equally  to  respect 
both.  To  which  may  be  added,  that  it  lies 
in  the  way  of  vessels  passing  from  America 
to  Great  Britain;  all  which  makes  it  plain 
that  the  youth,  to  be  educated  in  a  Seminary 
placed  in  the  Summer  Islands  would  have  fre- 
quent opportunities  of  going  thither  and  corre- 
sponding with  their  friends.  It  must  indeed 
be  owned  that  some  will  be  obliged  to  go  a 
long  way  to  any  one  place  which  we  suppo.se 
resorted  to  from  all  parts  of  our  Plantations; 
but  if  we  were  to  look  out  a  spot  the  nearest 
approaching  to  an  equal  distance  from  all  the 
rest,  I  believe  it  would  be  found  to  be  Ber- 
muda. It  remains  that  we  see  whether  it 
enjoys  the  other  qualities  or  conditions  laid 
down  as  well  as  this. 

The  Summer  Islands  are  situated  near  the 
latitude  of  thirty -three  degrees;  no  part  of 
the  world  enjoys  a  purer  air,  or  a  more  tem- 
perate climate,  the  great  ocean  which  environs 
them  at  once  moderating  the  heat  of  the  south 
winds,  and  the  severity  of  the  north-west. 
Such  a  latitude  on  the  Continent  might  l)e 
thought  too  hot;  but  the  air  in  Bermuda  is 
perpetually  fanned  and  kept  cool  by  sea- 
breezes,  which  render  the  weather  the  most 
healthy  and  delightful  that  could  be  wished, 
being  (as  is  affirmed  by  persons  who  have  long 
lived  there)  of  one  equal  tenor  almost  through- 
out the  whole  year,  like  the  latter  end  of  a 
fine  May;  insomuch  that  it  is  resorted  to  as 
the  Montijelier  of  America. 

Nor  are  these  isles  (if  we  may  believe  the 
accounts  given  of  them)  less  remarkable  for 
plenty  than  for  health;  there  being,  besides 
beef,  mutton,  and  fowl,  great  abundance  of 
fruits,  and  garden-stuff  of  all  kinds  in  per- 
fection: to  this,  if  we  add  the  great  plenty  and 
variety  of  fish  which  is  every  day  taken  on  their 
coasts,  it  would  seem,  that  a  Seminary  could 
nowhere  be  supplied  with  better  provisions,  or 
cheaper  than  here. 

About  forty  years  ago,  upon  cutting  down 
many  tall  cedars  that  sheltered  their  orange 
trees  from  the  north  wind  (which  sometimes 
blows  even  there  so  as  to  affect  that  delicate 
plant),  great  part  of  their  orange  plantations 
suffered;  but  other  cedars  are  since  grown 
up,  and  no  doubt  a  little  industry  would  again 
produce  as  great  plenty  of  oranges  as  ever  was 
there  heretofore.  I  mention  this  because  some 
have  inferred  from  the  present  scarcity  of  that 
fruit,  for  which  Bermuda  was  once  so  famous, 
that  there  hath  been  a  change  in  the  soil 
and  climate  for  the  worse.     But  this,  as  hath 


220 


GEORGE    BERKELEY 


been  observed,  proceeded  from  another  cause, 
which  is  now  in  great  measure  taken  away. 

Bermuda  is  a  cluster  of  small  islands,  which 
lie  in  a  very  narrow  compass,  containing,  in  all, 
not  quite  twenty  thousand  acres.  This  group  of 
isles  is  (to  use  Mr.  Waller's  expression)  walled 
round  with  rocks,  which  render  them  inac- 
cessible to  pirates  or  enemies;  there  being  but 
two  narrow  entrances,  both  well  guarded  by 
forts.  It  would  therefore  be  impossible  to  find 
anywhere  a  more  secure  retreat  for  students. 

The  trade  of  Bermuda  consists  only  in  garden- 
stuff,  and  some  poor  manufactures,  principally 
of  cedar  and  the  palmetto-leaf.  Bermuda  hats 
are  worn  by  our  ladies :  they  are  made  of  a  sort 
of  mat,  or  (as  they  call  it)  platting  made  of  the 
palmetto-leaf,  which  is  the  only  commodity 
that  I  can  find  exported  from  Bennuda  to 
Great  Britain ;  and  as  there  is  no  prospect  of 
making  a  fortune  by  this  small  trade,  so  it  can- 
not be  supposed  to  tempt  the  Fellows  of  the 
College  to  engage  in  it,  to  the  neglect  of  their 
peculiar  business,  which  might  possibly  be  the 
case  elsewhere. 

Such  as  their  trade  is,  such  is  their  wealth ; 
the  inhabitants  being  much  poorer  than  the 
other  Colonies,  who  do  not  fail  to  despise  them 
upon  that  account.  But,  if  they  have  less 
wealth,  they  have  withal  less  vice  and  expen- 
sive folly  than  their  neighbours.  They  are  repre- 
sented as  a  contented,  plain,  innocent  sort  of 
people,  free  from  avarice  and  liLxury,  as  well  as 
the  other  corruptions  that  attend  those  vices. 

I  am  also  informed  that  they  are  more  con- 
stant attendants  on  Divine  service,  more  kind 
and  respectful  to  their  pastor  (when  they  have 
one),  and  shew  much  more  humanity  to  their 
slaves,  and  charity  to  one  another,  than  iS  ob 
served  among  the  English  in  the  other  Planta- 
tions. One  reason  of  this  may  be  that  con- 
demned criminals,  being  employed  in  the 
manufactures  of  sugar  and  tobacco,  were  never 
transported  thither.  But,  whatever  be  the 
cause,  the  facts  are  attested  by  a  clergyman  of 
good  credit,  who  lived  among  them. 

Among  a  people  of  this  character,  and  in  a 
situation  thus  circumstantiated,  it  would  seem 
that  a  Seminary  of  religion  and  learning  might 
very  fitly  be  placed.  The  correspondence  with 
other  parts  of  America,  the  goodness  of  the 
air,  the  plenty  and  security  of  the  place,  the 
frugality  and  innocence  of  the  inhabitants,  all 
conspiring  to  favour  such  a  design.  Thus 
much  at  least  is  evident,  that  young  students 
would  be  there  less  liable  to  be  corrupted  in 
their  morals ;  and  the  governing  part  would  be 


easier,  and  better  contented  with  a  small  sti- 
pend, and  a  retired  academical  life,  in  a  corner 
from  whence  avarice  and  luxury  are  excluded, 
than  they  can  be  supposed  to  be  in  the  midst  of 
a  full  trade  and  great  riches,  attended  with  all 
that  high  living  and  parade  which  our  planters 
affect,  and  which,  as  well  as  all  fashionable 
vices,  should  be  far  removed  from  the  eyes  of 
the  young  American  missionaries,  who  are  to 
lead  a  life  of  poverty  and  self-denial  among 
their  countrymen. 

After  all,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that 
though  everything  else  should  concur  with  our 
wishes,  yet  if  a  set  of  good  Governors  and 
Teachers  be  wanting,  who  are  acquainted 
with  the  methods  of  education,  and  have  the 
zeal  and  ability  requisite  for  carrying  on  a 
design  of  this  nature,  it  would  certainly  come 
to  nothing. 

An  institution  of  this  kind  should  be  set  on 
foot  by  men  of  prudence,  spirit,  and  zeal,  as 
well  as  competent  learning,  who  should  be  led 
to  it  by  other  motives  than  the  necessity  of 
picking  up  a  maintenance.  For,  upon  this 
view,  what  man  of  merit  can  be  supposed  to 
quit  his  native  country,  and  take  up  with  a 
poor  college  subsistence  in  another  part  of  the 
world,  where  there  are  so  many  considerable 
parishes  actually  void,  and  so  many  others  ill 
supplied  for  want  of  fitting  incumbents?  Is  it 
likely  that  Fellowships  of  fifty  or  sixty  pounds 
a  year  should  tempt  abler  or  worthier  men 
than  benefices  of  many  times  their  value? 

And  except  able  and  worthy  men  do  first 
engage  in  this  affair,  with  a  resolution  to  exert 
themselves  in  forming  the  manners  of  the 
youth,  and  giving  them  a  proper  education,  it 
is  evident  the  Mission  and  the  College  will  be 
but  in  a  very  bad  way.  This  inconvenience 
seems  the  most  difficult  to  provide  against, 
and  if  not  provided  against,  it  will  be  the  most 
likely  to  obstruct  any  design  of  this  nature. 
So  true  it  is,  that  where  ignorance  or  ill  manners 
once  take  place  in  a  Seminary,  they  are  sure 
to  be  handed  down  in  a  succession  of  illiterate 
or  worthless  men. 

But  this  apprehension,  which  seems  so  well 
grounded,  that  a  College  in  any  part  of  America 
would  either  lie  unprovided,  or  be  worse  pro- 
vided than  their  churches  are,  hath  no  place 
in  Bermuda;  there  being  at  this  time  several 
gentlemen,  in  all  respects  very  well  qualified, 
and  in  possession  of  good  preferments  and  fair 
prospects  at  home,  who,  having  seriously  con- 
sidered the  great  benefits  that  may  arise  to  the 
Church  and  to  Mankind  from  such  an  under- 


SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 


221 


taking,  are  ready  to  engage  in  it,  and  to  dedi- 
cate the  remainder  of  their  lives  to  the  instruct- 
ing the  youth  of  America,  and  prosecuting  their 
own  studies,  upon  a  very  moderate  subsistence, 
in  a  retirement,  so  sweet  and  so  secure,  and 
every  way  so  well  fitted  for  a  place  of  education 
and  study,  as  Bermuda. 

Thus  much  the  writer  hereof  thought  him- 
self obliged  to  say  of  his  associates.  For  him- 
self he  can  only  say  that,  as  he  values  no  pre- 
ferment upon  earth  so  much  as  that  of  being 
employed  in  the  execution  of  this  design,  so 
he  hopes  to  make  up  for  other  defects,  by  the 
sincerity  of  his  endeavours.     *    *    * 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON   (1689-1761) 

THE  HISTORY  OF  CLARISSA  HARLOWE 

LETTER   XVI 

Miss  Clarissa  Harlowe  to  Miss  Howe 

Friday,  March  3. 

Oh  my  dear  friend,  I  have  had  a  sad  conflict ! 
Trial  upon  trial;  conference  upon  conference! 
—  But  what  law,  what  ceremony,  can  give  a 
man  a  right  to  a  heart  which  abhors  him  more 
than  it  does  any  living  creature? 

I  hope  my  mother  will  be  aljle  to  prevail 
for  me.  —  But  I  will  recount  all,  though  I 
sit  up  the  whole  night  to  do  it;  for  I  have  a 
vast  deal  to  write,  and  will  be  as  minute  as  you 
wish  me  to  be. 

I  concluded  my  last  in  a  fright.  It  was 
occasioned  by  a  conversation  that  passed  be- 
tween my  mother  and  my  aunt,  part  of  which 
Hannah  overheard.  I  need  not  give  you  the 
particulars ;  since  what  I  have  to  relate  to  you 
from  different  conversations  that  have  passed 
between  my  mother  and  me,  in  the  space  of  a 
very  few  hours,  will  include  them  all.  I  will 
begin  then. 

I  went  down  this  morning  when  breakfastwas 
ready  with  a  very  uneasy  heart,  from  what 
Hannah  had  informed  me  of  yesterday  after- 
noon; wishing  for  an  opportunity,  however,  to 
appeal  to  my  mother,  in  hopes  to  engage  her 
interest  in  my  behalf,  and  purposing  to  try  to 
find  one  when  she  retired  to  her  own  apartment 
after  breakfast:  but  unluckily  there  was  the 
odious  Solmes  sitting  asquat  between  my  mother 
and  sister,  with  so  miicJi  assurance  in  his  looks ! 
■ —  But  you  know,  my  dear,  that  those  we  love 
not  cannot  do  anything  to  please  us. 

Had  the  wretch  kept  his  seat,  it  might  have 
been  well  enough:    but  the  bent  and  broad- 


shouldered  creature  must  needs  rise,  and 
stalk  towards  a  chair,  which  was  just  by  that 
which  was  set  for  me. 

I  removed  it  to  a  distance,  as  if  to  make  way 
to  my  own  :  and  down  I  sat,  abruptly  I  believe ; 
what  I  had  heard  all  in  my  head. 

But  this  was  not  enough  to  daunt  him.  The 
man  is  a  very  confident,  he  is  a  very  bold,  staring 
man !  —  Indeed,  my  dear,  the  man  is  very 
confident. 

He  took  the  removed  chair,  and  drew  it  so 
near  mine,  squatting  in  it  with  his  ugly  weight, 
that  he  pressed  upon  my  hoop.  —  I  was  so 
offended  (all  I  had  heard,  as  I  said,  in  my 
head)  that  I  removed  to  another  chair.  I  own 
I  had  too  little  command  of  myself.  It  gave 
my  brother  and  sister  too  much  advantage. 
I  daresay  they  took  it.  But  I  did  it  involun- 
tarily, I  think.  I  could  not  help  it.  —  I  knew 
not  what  I  did. 

I  saw  that  my  father  was  excessively  dis- 
pleased. When  angrv',  no  man's  countenance 
ever  shows  it  so  much  as  my  father's.  "  Clarissa 
Harlowe  ! "  said  he  with  a  big  voice  —  and  there 
he  stopped.  —  "Sir,"  said  I,  trembling  and 
courtesying  (for  I  had  not  then  sat  down  again) ; 
and  put  my  chair  nearer  the  wretch,  and  sat 
down  —  my  face,  as  I  could  feel,  all  in  a  glow. 

"Make  tea,  child,"  said  my  kind  mamma: 
"sit  by  me,  love,  and  make  tea." 

I  removed  with  pleasure  to  the  seat  the  man 
had  quitted;  and  being  thus  indulgently  put 
into  employment,  soon  recovered  myself;  and 
in  the  course  of  the  breakfasting  ofticiously 
asked  two  or  three  questions  of  Mr.  Solmes, 
which  I  would  not  have  done,  but  to  make 
up  with  my  father.  —  "Pro»(/  spirits  maybe 
brought  to!'"  whisperingly  spoke  my  sister  to 
me  over  her  shoulder,  with  an  air  of  triumph 
and  scorn :   but  I  did  not  mind  her. 

My  mother  was  all  kindness  and  conde- 
scension. I  asked  her  once,  if  she  were  pleased 
with  the  tea?  She  said  softly  (and  again  called 
me  dear)  she  was  pleased  with  all  I  did.  I  was 
very  proud  of  this  encouraging  goodness:  and 
all  blew  over,  as  I  hoped,  between  my  father 
and  me ;  for  he  also  spoke  kindly  to  me  two  or 
three  times. 

Small  accidents  these,  my  dear,  to  trouble  you 
with;  only  as  they  lead  to  greater,  as  you  shall 
hear. 

Before  the  usual  breakfast-time  was  over, 
my  father  withdrew  with  my  mother,  telling 
her  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her.  Then  my 
sister  and  next  my  aunt  (who  was  with  us) 
dropped  away. 


222 


SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 


AFy  Ijrothcr  gave  himself  some  airs  of  insult, 
which  I  understood  well  enough;  but  which 
Mr.  Solmes  could  make  nothing  of:  and  at  last 
he  arose  from  his  seat  —  "Sister,"  said  he,  "I 
have  a  curiosity  to  show  you.  I  will  fetch  it." 
And  away  he  w^nt  shutting  the  door  close  after 
him. 

I  saw  what  all  this  was  for.  I  arose ;  the  man 
hemming  up  for  a  speech,  rising  and  beginning 
to  set  his  splay-feet  (indeed,  my  dear,  the  man 
in  all  his  ways  is  hateful  to  me)  in  an  approach- 
ing posture.  —  "I  will  save  my  brother  the 
trouble  of  bringing  to  me  his  curiosity,"  said 
I.  I  courtesied  —  "Your  servant,  sir!"  — 
The  man  cried,  "  Madam,  madam,"  twice, 
and  looked  like  a  fool.  • —  But  away  I  went  —  to 
find  my  brother,  to  save  my  word.  —  But  my 
brother,  indifferent  as  the  weather  was,  was 
gone  to  walk  in  the  garden  with  my  sister.  A 
plain  case  that  he  had  left  his  curiosity  with  me, 
and  designed  to  show  me  no  other. 

I  had  but  just  got  into  my  own  apartment,  and 
began  to  think  of  sending  Hannah  to  beg  an 
audience  of  my  mother  (the  more  encouraged 
by  her  condescending  goodness  at  breakfast), 
when  Shorey,  her  woman,  brought  me  her  com- 
mands to  attend  her  in  her  closet. 

My  father,  Hannah  told  me,  was  just  gone 
out  of  it  with  a  positive  angry  countenance. 
Then  I  as  much  dreaded  the  audience  as  I  had 
wished  for  it  before. 

I  went  down,  however;  but  apprehending  the 
subject  she  intended  to  talk  to  me  upon,  ap- 
proached her  trembling,  and  my  heart  in  visible 
palpitations. 

She  saw  my  concern.  Holding  out  her  kind 
arms,  as  she  sat,  "Come,  kiss  me,  my  dear," 
said  she,  with  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam  breaking 
through  the  cloud  that  overshadowed  her 
naturally  benign  aspect  —  "why  flutters  my 
jewel  so?" 

This  preparative  sweetness,  with  her  good- 
ness just  before,  confirmed  my  apprehensions. 
My  mother  saw  the  bitter  pill  wanted  gilding. 

"Oh,  my  mamma!"  was  all  I  could  say; 
and  I  clasped  my  arms  round  her  neck,  and  my 
face  sunk  into  her  bosom. 

"My  child!  my  child!  restrain,"  said  she, 
"your  powers  of  moving !  I  dare  not  else  trust 
myself  with  you."  —  And  my  tears  trickled 
down  her  bosom,  as  hers  bedewed  my  neck. 

Oh  the  words  of  kindness,  all  to  be  expressed 
in  vain,  that  flowed  from  her  lips ! 

"Lift  up  your  sweet  face,  my  best  child, 
my  own  Clarissa  Harlowe  !  —  Oh,  my  daughter, 
best  beloved  of  my  heart,  lift  up  a  face  so  ever 


amiable  to  me!  —  Why  these  sobs? — -Is  an 
apprehended  duty  so  affecting  a  thing,  that 
before  I  can  speak  —  but  I  am  glad,  my  love, 
you  can  guess  at  what  I  have  to  say  to  you. 
I  am  spared  the  pains  of  breaking  to  you  what 
was  a  task  upon  me  reluctantly  enough  under- 
taken to  break  to  you." 

Then  rising,  she  drew  a  chair  near  her  own, 
and  made  me  sit  down  by  her,  overwhelmed 
as  I  was  with  tears  of  apprehension  of  what  she 
had  to  say,  and  of  gratitude  for  her  truly  ma- 
ternal goodness  to  me  —  sobs  still  my  only  lan- 
guage. 

And  drawing  her  chair  still  nearer  to  mine, 
she  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  my 
glowing  cheek  wet  with  my  tears,  close  to  her 
own:  "Let  me  talk  to  you,  my  child.  Since 
silence  is  your  choice,  hearken  to  me,  and  be 
silent. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  what  I  every  day 
forego,  and  undergo,  for  the  sake  of  peace. 
Your  papa  is  a  very  good  man,  and  means 
well;  but  he  will  not  be  controlled;  nor  yet 
persuaded.  You  have  sometimes  seemed  to 
pity  7ne,  that  I  am  obliged  to  give  up  every  point. 
Poor  man  !  his  reputation  the  less  for  it ;  mine 
the  greater;  yet  would  I  not  have  this  credit 
if  I  could  help  it,  at  so  dear  a  rate  to  hi^n  and 
to  myself.  You  are  a  dutiful,  a  prudent,  and  a 
wise  child,"  she  was  pleased  to  say,  in  hope, 
no  doubt,  to  make  me  so:  "you  would  not  add, 
I  am  sure,  to  my  trouble:  you  would  not  wil- 
fully break  that  peace  which  costs  your  mother 
so  much  to  preserve.  Obedience  is  better 
than  sacrifice.  Oh,  my  Clary  Harlowe,  re- 
joice my  heart,  by  telling  me  I  have  appre- 
hended too  much!  —  I  see  your  concern!  I 
see  your  perplexity !  I  see  your  conflict  (loosing 
her  arm,  and  rising,  not  willing  I  should  see 
how  much  she  herself  was  affected).  I  will 
leave  you  a  moment.  —  Answer  me  not  — 
(for  I  was  essaying  to  speak,  and  had,  as  soon 
as  she  took  her  dear  cheek  from  mine,  dropped 
down  on  my  knees,  my  hands  clasped,  and 
lifted  up  in  a  supplicating  manner)  —  I  am 
not  prepared  for  your  irresistible  expostula- 
tion," she  was  pleased  to  say.  "I  will  leave  you 
to  recollection :  and  I  charge  you,  on  my 
blessing,  that  all  this  my  truly  maternal  ten- 
derness be  not  thrown  away  upon  you." 

And  then  she  withdrew  into  the  next  apart- 
ment; wiping  her  eyes  as  she  went  from  me; 
as  mine  overflowed;  my  heart  taking  in  the 
whole  compass  of  her  meaning. 

She  soon  returned,  having  recovered  more 
steadiness. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    CLARISSA    HARLOWE 


223 


Still  on  my  knees,  I  had  thrown  my  face 
across  the  chair  she  had  sat  in. 

"Look  up  to  me,  my  Clary  Harlowe  —  No 
sullenness,  I  hope !" 

"No,  indeed,  mycver  to-be-revered  mamma." 
—  And  I  arose.     I  bent  my  knee. 

She  raised  me.  "No  kneeling  to  me,  but 
with  knees  of  duty  and  com])liance.  Your 
heart,  not  your  knees,  must  bend.  It  is  ab- 
solutely determined.  Prepare  yourself  there- 
fore to  receive  your  father,  when  he  visits  you 
by  and  by,  as  he  would  wish  to  receive  yon. 
But  on  this  one  quarter  of  an  hour  depends 
the  peace  of  my  future  life,  the  satisfaction  of 
all  the  family,  and  your  own  security  from  a 
man  of  violence:  and  I  charge  you  besides, 
on  my  blessing,  that  you  think  of  being  Mrs. 
Solmes." 

There  went  the  dagger  to  my  heart,  and  down 
I  sunk:  and  when  I  recovered  found  myself 
in  the  arms  of  my  Hannah,  my  sister's  Betty 
holding  open  my  reluctantly-opened  palm,  my 
laces  cut,  my  linen  scented  with  hartshorn; 
and  my  mother  gone.  Had  I  been  less  kindly 
treated,  the  hated  name  still  forborne  to  be 
mentioned,  or  mentioned  with  a  little  more 
preparation  and  reserve,  I  had  stood  the  horrid 
sound  with  less  visible  emotion  —  but  to  be 
bid,  on  the  blessing  of  a  mother  so  dearly  be- 
loved, so  truly  reverenced,  to  think  of  being 
Mrs.  Solmes  —  what  a  denunciation  was  that ! 

Shorey  came  in  with  a  message  (delivered  in 
her  solemn  way):  "Your  mamma.  Miss,  is 
concerned  for  your  disorder:  she  expects  you 
down  again  in  an  hour;  and  bid  me  say, 
that  she  then  hopes  everything  from  your 
duty." 

I  made  no  reply;  for  what  could  I  say? 
And  leaning  upon  my  Hannah's  arm,  withdrew 
to  my  own  apartment.  There  you  will  guess 
how  the  greatest  part  of  the  hour  was  em- 
ployed. 

Within  that  time  my  mother  came  up  to  me. 

"I  love,"  she  was  pleased  to  say,  "to  come 
into  tills  apartment.  —  No  emotions,  child ! 
No  flutters!  —  Am  I  not  your  mother?  Am 
I  not  your  fond,  your  indulgent  mother?  —  Do 
not  discompose  me  by  discomposing  yourself! 
Do  not  occasion  me  uneasiness,  when  I  would 
give  you  nothing  but  pleasure.  Come,  my  dear, 
we  will  go  into  your  closet." 

She  took  my  hand,  led  the  way,  and  made  me 
sit  down  by  her:  and  after  she  had  inquired 
how  I  did,  she  began  in  a  strain  as  if  she  had 
supposed  I  had  made  use  of  the  intervening 
space  to  overcome  all  my  o])jections. 


She  was  pleased  to  tell  me,  that  my  father 
and  she,  in  order  to  spare  my  natural  modesty, 
had  taken  the  whole  affair  upon  themselves  — 

"Hear  me  out;  and  then  speak;"  for  I 
was  going  to  expostulate.  "  You  are  no  stranger 
to  the  end  of  Mr.  Solmes's  visits — " 

"O  Madam!—" 

"Hear  me  out;  and  then  speak.  —  He  is 
not  indeed  everything  I  wish  him  to  be;  but 
he  is  a  man  of  probity,  and  has  no  vices  — " 

"No  vices.  Madam  !  — " 

"Hear  me  out,  child.  —  You  have  not  be- 
haved much  amiss  to  him:  we  ha\e  seen  with 
pleasure  that  you  have  not  — " 

"O  Madam,  must  I  not  now  speak  !" 

"I  shall  have  done  presently.  —  A  young 
creature  of  your  virtuous  and  pious  turn," 
she  was  pleased  to  say,  "cannot  surely  love 
a  profligate:  you  love  your  brother  too  well, 
to  wish  to  marry  one  who  had  like  to  have 
killed  him,  and  who  threatened  your  uncles, 
and  defies  us  all.  You  have  had  your  own  way 
six  or  seven  times :  we  want  to  secure  you  against 
a  man  so  vile.  Tell  me  (I  have  a  right  to  know) 
whether  you  prefer  this  man  to  all  others?  — 
Yet  God  forbid  that  I  should  know  you  do; 
for  such  a  declaration  would  make  us  all  mis- 
erable. Yet  tell  me,  are  your  affections  en- 
gaged to  this  man?" 

I  knew  what  the  inference  would  be,  if  I 
had  said  they  were  not. 

"You  hesitate  —  You  answer  me  not  — 
You  cannot  answer  me."  —  Rising  —  "Never 
more  will  I  look  upon  you  with  an  eye  of 
favour  — " 

"O  Madam,  Madam!  Kill  me  not  with 
your  displeasure  —  I  would  not,  I  need  not, 
hesitate  one  moment,  did  I  not  dread  the  in- 
ference, if  I  answer  you  as  you  wish.  —  Yet  be 
that  inference  what  it  will,  your  threatened  dis- 
pleasure will  make  me  speak.  And  I  declare 
to  you,  that  I  know  not  my  own  heart,  if  it  be 
not  absolutely  free.  And  pray,  let  me  ask  my 
dearest  mamma,  in  what  has  my  conduct  been 
faulty,  that,  like  a  giddy  creature,  I  must  be 
forced  to  marry,  to  save  me  from  —  from  what? 
IvCt  me  beseech  you.  Madam,  to  be  the  guar- 
dian of  my  reputation  !  Let  not  your  Clarissa 
be  precipitated  into  a  state  she  wishes  not  to 
enter  into  with  any  man !  And  this  upon  a 
supposition  that  otherwise  she  shall  marry 
herself,  and  disgrace  her  whole  family." 

"Well  then.  Clary  (passing  over  the  force 
of  my  plea),  if  your  heart  be  free  — " 

"Oh,  my  beloved  mamma,  let  the  usual 
generosity  of  your  dear  heart  operate  in  my 


>24 


SAMUEL    RICHARDSON 


favour.  Urge  not  upon  me  the  inference  that 
made  me  hesitate." 

"I  won't  be  interrupted,  Clary  —  You  have 
seen,  in  my  behaviour  to  you  on  this  occasion, 
a  truly  maternal  tenderness;  you  have  observed 
that  I  have  undertaken  the  task  vv^ith  some  re- 
luctance, because  the  man  is  not  everything; 
and  because  I  know  you  carry  your  notions  of 
perfection  in  a  man  too  high  — " 

"Dearest  Madam,  this  one  time  excuse  me! 
—  Is  there  then  any  danger  that  I  should  be 
guilty  of  an  imprudent  thing  for  the  man's  sake 
you  hint  at?" 

"Again  interrupted!  —  Am  I  to  be  ques- 
tioned, and  argued  with?  You  know  this 
won't  do  somewhere  else.  You  hiow  it  w^on't. 
What  reason  then,  ungenerous  girl,  can  you 
have  for  arguing  with  me  thus,  but  because  you 
think  from  my  indulgence  to  you,  you  may?" 

"  What  can  I  say?  What  caw  I  do?  What 
must  that  cause  be  that  will  not  bear  being 
argued  upon?" 

"Again !     Clary  Harlowe ! " 

"Dearest  Madam,  forgive  me:  it  was  ahvays 
my  pride  and  my  pleasure  to  obey  you.  But 
look  upon  that  man  —  see  but  the  disagree- 
ableness  of  his  person  — " 

"Now,  Clary,  do  I  see  whose  person  you  have 
in  your  eye !  —  Now  is  Mr.  Solmes,  I  see,  but 
comparatively  disagreeable;  disagreeable  only 
as  another  man  has  a  much  more  specious 
person." 

"But,  Madam,  are  not  his  manners  equally 
so  ?  —  Is  not  his  person  the  true  representa- 
tive of  his  mind  ?  —  That  other  man  is  not, 
shall  not  be,  anything  to  me,  release  me  but 
from  this  one  man,  whom  my  heart,  unbidden, 
resists." 

"Condition  thus  with  your  father.  Will  he 
bear,  do  you  think,  to  be  thus  dialogued  with  ? 
Have  I  not  conjured  you,  as  you  value  my 
peace  —  What  is  it  that  /  do  not  give  up  ?  — 
This  very  task,  because  I  apprehended  you 
would  not  be  easily  persuaded,  is  a  task  in- 
deed upon  me.  And  will  you  give  up  nothing? 
Have  you  not  refused  as  many  as  have  been 
offered  to  you?  If  you  would  not  have  us 
guess  for  whom,  comply;  for  comply  you  must, 
or  be  looked  upon  as  in  a  state  of  defiance  with 
your  whole  family." 

And  saying  this,  she  arose,  and  went  from 
me.  But  at  the  chamber-door  stopped;  and 
turned  back:  "I  will  not  say  below  in  what 
disposition  I  leave  you.  Consider  of  every- 
thing. The  matter  is  resolved  upon.  As 
you  value  your  father's   blessing  and   mine. 


and  the  satisfaction  of  all  the  family,  resolve 
to  comply.  I  will  leave  you  for  a  few  moments. 
I  will  come  up  to  you  again.  See  that  I  find 
you  as  I  wish  to  find  you;  and  since  your 
heart  is  free,  let  your  duty  govern  it." 

In  about  half  an  hour,  my  mother  returned. 
She  found  me  in  tears.  She  took  my  hand: 
"It  is  my  part  evermore,"  said  she,  "to  be  of 
the  acknowledging  side.  I  believe  I  have 
needlessly  exposed  myself  to  your  opposition, 
by  the  method  I  have  taken  with  you.  I  first 
began  as  if  I  expected  a  denial,  and  by  my 
indulgence  brought  it  upon  myself." 

"  Do  not,  my  dearest  mamma !  do  not  say 
so!" 

"Were  the  occasion  for  this  debate,"  pro- 
ceeded she,  "to  have  risen  from  myself;  were 
it  in  my  power  to  dispense  with  your  com- 
pliance; you  too  well  know  what  you  can  do 
with  me." 

Would  anybody,  my  dear  Miss  Howe,  wish 
to  marry,  who  sees  a  wife  of  such  a  temper,  and 
blessed  with  such  an  understanding  as  my 
mother  is  noted  for,  not  only  deprived  of  all 
power,  but  obliged  to  be  even  active  in  bringing 
to  bear  points  of  high  importance,  which  she 
thinks  ought  not  to  be  insisted  upon? 

"  When  I  came  to  you  a  second  time,"  pro- 
ceeded she,  "knowing  that  your  opposition 
would  avail  you  nothing,  I  refused  to  hear 
your  reasons:  and  in  this  I  was  wrong  too, 
because  a  young  creature  who  loves  to  reason, 
and  used  to  love  to  be  convinced  by  reason, 
ought  to  have  all  her  objections  heard:  I  now 
therefore,  this  third  time,  see  you;  and  am 
come  resolved  to  hear  all  you  have  to  say: 
and  let  me,  my  dear,  by  my  patience,  engage 
your  gratitude;  your  generosity,  I  \\i\\  call  it, 
because  it  is  to  you  I  speak,  who  used  to  have 
a  mind  wholly  generous.  —  Let  me,  if  your 
heart  be  really  free,  let  me  see  what  it  will  induce 
you  to  do  to  of)lige  me:  and  so  as  you  permit 
your  usual  discretion  to  govern  you,  I  will  hear 
all  you  have  to  say;  but  with  this  intimation, 
that  say  w'hat  you  will,  it  will  be  of  no  avail 
elsewhere." 

"What  a  dreadful  saying  is  that!  But 
could  I  engage  your  pity.  Madam,  it  would  be 
somewhat." 

"You  have  as  much  of  my  pity  as  of  my  love. 
But  what  is  person,  Clary,  with  one  of  your 
prudence,  and  your  heart  disengaged?^' 

"Should  the  eye  be  disgusted,  when  the  heart 
is  to  be  engaged?  —  O  Madam,  who  can  think 
of  marrying  when  the  heart  is  shocked  at  the 
first  appearance,  and  where  the  disgust  must 


THE    HISTORY    OF    CLARISSA    HARLOWE 


225 


be  confirmed  by  every  conversation  after- 
wards?" 

"This,  Clary,  is  owing  to  your  prepossession. 
Let  me  not  have  cause  to  regret  that  noble 
firmness  of  mind  in  so  young  a  creature  which 
I  thought  your  glory,  and  which  was  my  boast 
in  your  character.  In  this  instance  it  would  be 
obstinacy,  and  want  of  duty.  —  Have  you  not 
made  objections  to  several — " 

"That  was  to  their  minds,  to  their  principles, 
Madam.  —  But  this  man  — " 

"Is  an  honest  man.  Clary  Harlowe.  He  has 
a  good  mind.     He  is  a  virtuous  man." 

"iife  an  honest  man?  His  a  good  mind. 
Madam?     He  a  virtuous  man?  — " 

"Nobody  denies  him  these  qualities." 

"Can  he  be  an  honest  man  who  offers  terms 
that  will  rob  all  his  own  relations  of  their  just 
expectations?  —  Can  Ids  mind  be  good — " 

"You,  Clary  Harlowe,  for  whose  sake  he 
offers  so  much,  are  the  last  person  that  should 
make  this  observation." 

"  Give  me  leave  to  say.  Madam,  that  a  person 
preferring  happiness  to  fortune,  as  I  do;  that 
want  not  even  what  I  have,  and  can  give  up 
the  use  of  that,  as  an  instance  of  duty  — " 

"No  more,  no  more  of  your  merits!  —  You 
know  you  will  be  a  gainer  by  that  cheerful 
instance  of  your  duty;  not  a  loser.  You  know 
you  have  but  cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters  — 
so  no  more  of  that !  —  For  it  is  not  understood 
as  a  merit  by  everybody,  I  assure  you;  though 
I  think  it  a  high  one ;  and  so  did  your  father  and 
uncles  at  the  time  — " 

"At  the  time,  Madam  !  —  How  unworthily 
do  my  brother  and  sister,  who  are  afraid  that 
the  favour  I  was  so  lately  in  — " 

"I  hear  nothing  against  your  brother  and 
sister.  What  family  feuds  have  I  in  prospect, 
at  a  time  when  I  hoped  to  have  most  comfort 
from  you  all !" 

"God  bless  my  brother  and  sister  in  all 
their  worthy  views  1  You  shall  have  no  family 
feuds  if  I  can  prevent  them.  You  yourself. 
Madam,  shall  tell  me  what  I  shall  bear  from 
them,  and  I  will  bear  it:  but  let  my  actions, 
not  their  misrepresentations  (as  I  am  sure  by 
the  disgraceful  prohibitions  I  have  met  with  has 
been  the  case),  speak  for  me." 

Just  then  up  came  my  father,  with  a  stern- 
ness in  his  looks  that  made  me  tremble.  —  He 
took  two  or  three  turns  about  my  chamber, 
though  pained  by  his  gout;  and  then  said  to 
my  mother,  who  was  silent  as  soon  as  she  saw 
him  — 

"My  dear,  you  arc  long  absent.  —  Dinner 


is  near  ready.  What  you  had  to  say  lay  in  a 
very  little  comi)a.ss.  Surely  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  declare  your  will,  and  my  will  — 
but  perhaps  you  may  be  talking  of  the  prepa- 
rations —  let  us  have  you  soon  down  —  your 
daughter  in  your  hand,  if  worthy  of  the 
name." 

And  down  he  went,  casting  his  eye  upon  me 
with  a  look  so  stern,  that  I  was  unable  to  say 
one  word  to  him,  or  even  for  a  few  minutes  to 
my  mother. 

Was  not  this  very  intimidating,  my  dear? 

My  mother,  seeing  my  concern,  seemed 
to  pity  me.  She  called  me  her  good  child, 
and  ki.ssed  me;  and  told  me  that  my  father 
should  not  know  I  had  made  such  opposition. 
"He  has  kindly  furnished  us  with  an  excuse 
for  being  so  long  together,"  said  she.  —  "Come, 
my  dear  —  dinner  will  be  upon  table  pres- 
ently—  shall  we  go  down?" — And  took  my 
hand. 

This  made  me  start:  "What,  Madam,  go 
down  to  let  it  be  supposed  we  were  talking 
of  preparations/ — Oh,  my  beloved  mamma, 
command  me  not  down  upon  such  a  supposi- 
tion." 

"You  see,  child,  that  to  stay  longer  together, 
will  be  owning  that  you  are  debating  about  an 
absolute  duty;  and  that  will  not  be  borne. 
Did  not  your  father  himself  some  days  ago  tell 
you  he  would  be  obeyed?  I  will  a  third  time 
leave  you.  I  must  say  something  by  way  of 
excuse  for  you:  and  that  you  desire  not  to  go 
down  to  dinner  —  that  your  modesty  on  the 
occasion  — " 

"O  Madam!  say  not  my  modesty  on  sucli 
an  occasion:    for  that  will  be  to  give  hope- — " 

"And  design  you  not  to  give  hope?  —  Per- 
verse girl!"  —  Risi)!g  and  flingi)ig  from  me; 
"take  more  time  for  consideration!  —  Since 
it  is  necessary,  take  more  time  —  and  when  I 
see  you  next,  let  me  know  what  blame  I  have 
to  cast  upon  myself,  or  to  bear  from  your 
father,  for  my  indulgence  to  you." 

She  made,  however,  a  little  stop  at  the  cham- 
ber-door; and  seemed  to  expect  that  I  would 
have  besought  her  to  make  the  gentlest  con- 
struction for  me;  for,  hesitating,  she  was 
pleased  to  say,  "I  suppose  you  would  not  have 
me  make  a  report — " 

"O  Madam!"  interrupted  I,  "whose  favour 
can  I  hope  for,  if  I  lose  my  mamma's?" 

To  have  desired  a  favourable  report,  you 
know,  my  dear,  would  have  been  qualifying 
upon  a  point  that  I  was  too  much  determined 
upon,  to  give  room  for  any  of  my  friends  to 


226 


HENRY    FIELDING 


think  I  have  the  least  hesitation  about  it.     And 
so  my  mother  went  down  stairs. 

I  will  deposit  thus  far;  and  as  I  know  you 
will  not  think  me  too  minute  in  the  relation  of 
particulars  so  very  interesting  to  one  you  hon- 
our with  your  love,  proceed  in  the  same  way. 
As  matters  stand,  I  don't  care  to  have  papers 
so  freely  written  about  me. 

Pray  let  Robert  call  every  day,  if  you  can 
spare  him,  whether  I  have  anything  ready  or 
not. 

I  should  be  glad  you  would  not  send  hfm 
empty  handed.  What  a  generosity  will  it  be 
in  you,  to  write  as  frequently  from  friendship 
as  I  am  forced  to  do  from  misfortune !  The 
letters  being  taken  away  will  ])e  an  assurance 
that  you  have  them.  As  I  shall  write  and  de- 
posit as  I  have  opportunity,  the  formality  of 
super  and  ii/?)-scription  will  be  excused.  For 
I  need  not  say  how  much  I  am 

Your  sincere  and  ever  affectionate 

CI.  Harlowe. 

HENRY   FIELDING  (i 707-1 754) 

TOM    JONES 

BOOK  I 

Chap.  I.  —  The  Introduction  to  the  Work, 
OR  Bill  of  Fare  to  the  Feast 

An  author  ought  to  consider  himself,  not  as 
a  gentleman  who  gives  a  private  or  eleemosy- 
nary treat,  but  rather  as  one  who  keeps  a  pub- 
lic ordinary,  at  which  all  persons  are  welcome 
for  their  money.  In  the  former  case,  it  is  well 
known  that  the  entertainer  provides  what  fare 
he  pleases;  and  though  this  should  be  very 
indifferent  and  utterly  disagreeable  to  the  taste 
of  his  company,  they  must  not  find  any  fault: 
nay,  on  the  contrary,  good  breeding  forces 
them  outwardly  to  approve  and  to  commend 
whatever  is  set  before  them.  Now  the  con- 
trary of  this  happens  to  the  master  of  an 
ordinary:  men  who  pay  for  what  they  eat, 
will  insist  on  gratifying  their  palates,  however 
nice  and  whimsical  these  may  prove;  and  if 
everything  is  not  agreeable  to  their  taste,  will 
challenge  a  right  to  censure,  to  abuse,  and  to 
d — n  their  dinner  without  control. 

To  prevent,  therefore,  giving  offence  to  their 
customers  by  any  such  disappointment,  it 
has  been  usual  with  the  honest  and  well- 
meaning  host  to  provide  a  bill  of  fare,  which  all 
persons  may  peruse  at  their  first  entrance  into 
the    house;     and,    having    thence    acquainted 


themselves  with  the  entertainment  which  they 
may  expect,  may  either  stay  and  regale  with 
what  is  provided  for  them,  or  may  depart  to 
some  other  ordinary  better  accommodated  to 
their  taste. 

As  we  do  not  disdain  to  borrow  wit  or  wisdom 
from  any  man  who  is  capable  of  lending  us 
either,  we  have  condescended  to  take  a  hint 
from  these  honest  victuallers,  and  shall  prefix 
not  only  a  general  bill  of  fare  to  our  whole 
entertainment,  but  shall  likewise  give  the 
reader  particular  bills  to  every  course  which  is 
to  be  served  up  in  this  volume. 

The  provision,  then,  which  we  have  here 
made,  is  no  other  than  Human  Nature:  nor  do 
I  fear  that  my  sensible  reader,  though  most 
luxurious  in  his  taste,  will  start,  cavil,  or  be 
offended  because  I  have  named  but  one  article. 
The  tortoise,  as  the  alderman  of  Bristol,  well 
learned  in  eating,  knows  by  much  experience, 
besides  the  delicious  calipash  and  calipee,  con- 
tains many  different  kinds  of  food ;  nor  can  the 
learned  reader  be  ignorant,  that  in  human 
nature,  though  here  collected  under  one  general 
name,  is  such  prodigious  variety,  that  a  cook 
will  have  sooner  gone  through  all  the  several 
species  of  animal  and  vegetable  food  in  the 
world,  than  an  author  will  be  able  to  exhaust 
so  extensive  a  subject. 

An  objection  may  perhaps  be  apprehended 
from  the  more  delicate,  that  this  dish  is  too 
common  and  vulgar;  for  what  else  is  the  sub- 
ject of  all  the  romances,  novels,  plays,  and 
poems,  with  which  the  stalls  abound?  Many 
exquisite  viands  might  be  rejected  by  the  epi- 
cure, if  it  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  his  contemn- 
ing of  them  as  common  and  vulgar,  that  some- 
thing was  to  be  found  in  the  most  paltry  alleys 
under  the  same  name.  In  reality,  true  nature 
is  as  difficult  to  be  met  with  in  authors,  as  the 
Bayonne  ham,  or  Bologna  sausage,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  shops. 

But  the  whole,  to  continue  the  same  meta- 
phor, consists  in  the  cookery  of  the  author; 
for,  as  Mr.  Pope  tells  us,  — 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dress'd; 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed. 

The  same  animal  which  hath  the  honour  to 
have  some  part  of  his  flesh  eaten  at  the  table 
of  a  duke,  may  perhaps  be  degraded  in  another 
part,  and  some  of  his  limbs  gibbetted,  as  it 
were,  in  the  vilest  stall  in  town.  Where  then 
lies  the  difference  between  the  food  of  the  noble- 
man and  the  porter,  if  both  are  at  dinner  on  the 


TOM   JONES 


227 


same  ox  or  calf,  but  in  the  seasoning,  the  dress- 
ing, the  garnishing,  and  the  setting  forth? 
Hence  the  one  provokes  and  incites  the  most 
languid  appetite,  and  the  other  turns  and  pails 
that  which  is  the  sharpest  and  keenest. 

In  like  manner  the  excellence  of  the  mental 
entertainment  consists  less  in  the  subject  than 
in  the  author's  skill  in  well  dressing  it  up. 
How  pleased,  therefore,  will  the  reader  l)e  to  find 
that  we  have,  in  the  following  work,  adhered 
closely  to  one  of  the  highest  principles  of  the 
best  cook  which  the  present  age,  or  perhaps  that 
of  Heliogabalus,  hath  produced?  This  great 
man,  as  is  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  polite 
eating,  begins  at  first  by  setting  plain  things 
before  his  hungry  guests,  rising  afterwards  by 
degrees,  as  their  stomachs  may  be  supposed  to 
decrease,  to  the  very  quintessence  of  sauce  and 
spices.  In  like  manner  we  shall  represent 
human  nature  at  first,  to  the  keen  appetite 
of  our  reader,  in  that  more  plain  and  simple 
manner  in  which  it  is  found  in  the  country, 
and  shall  hereafter  hash  and  ragout  it  with 
all  the  high  French  and  Italian  seasoning  of 
affectation  and  vice  which  courts  and  cities 
afford.  By  these  means,  we  doubt  not  but  our 
reader  may  be  rendered  desirous  to  read  on  for 
ever,  as  the  great  person  just  above  mentioned 
is  supposed  to  have  made  some  persons  eat. 

Having  premised  thus  much,  we  will  now 
detain  those  who  like  our  bill  of  fare  no  longer 
from  their  diet,  and  shall  proceed  directly  to 
serve  up  the  first  course  of  our  history  for  their 
entertainment. 

BOOK  II 
Chap.   I.  —  Showing  what  Kind  of  History 

THIS  is;    WHAT  it  IS  LIKE,  AND  WHAT 
IT  IS  NOT  LIKE 

Though  we  have  properly  enough  entitled 
this  our  work  a  history,  and  not  a  life ;  nor  an 
apology  for  a  life,  as  is  more  in  fashion ;  yet  we 
intend  in  it  rather  to  pursue  the  method  of 
those  writers  who  profess  to  disclose  the  revo- 
lutions of  countries,  than  to  imitate  the  painful 
and  voluminous  historian,  who,  to  preserve  the 
regularity  of  his  series,  thinks  himself  obliged 
to  fill  up  as  much  paper  with  the  details  of 
months  and  years  in  which  nothing  remarkable 
happened,  as  he  employs  upon  those  notable 
eras  when  the  greatest  scenes  have  been  trans- 
acted on  the  human  stage.  Such  histories  as 
these  do  in  reality  very  much  resemble  a  news- 
paper, which  consists  of  just  the  same  number 
of  words,  whether  there  be  any  news  in  it  or  not. 


They  may  likewise  be  compared  to  a  stage 
coach,  which  performs  constantly  the  same 
course  empty  as  well  as  full:  the  writer  indeed 
seems  to  think  himself  obliged  to  keep  even 
pace  with  Time,  whose  amanuensis  he  is; 
and  like  his  master,  travels  as  slowly  through 
centuries  of  monkish  dulness,  when  the  world 
seems  to  have  been  asleep,  as  through  that 
bright  and  busy  age  so  nobly  distinguished  by 
the  excellent  Latin  poet: 

Ad  confliKcndum  vcnicntibus  uiidiquc  Pocnis, 
Omnia  cum  belli  trcpido  concussa  tumultu 
Horrida  contremucrc  sub  altis  aethcris  auris; 
In  dubioquc  fuit  sub  utrorum  rcgna  cadendum 
Omnibus  humanis  essct,  terraque  marique: 

of  which  we  wish  we  could  give  our  reader  a 
more  adequate  translation  than  that  by  Mr. 
Creech : 

When  dreadful  Carthage  frighted  Rome  with  arms, 
And  all  the  world  was  shook  with  fierce  alarms; 
Whilst  undecided  yet  which  part  should  fall, 
Which  nation  rise  the  glorious  lord  of  all. 

Now  it  is  our  purpose,  in  the  ensuing  pages, 
to  pursue  a  contrary  method :  when  any  extraor- 
dinary scene  presents  itself,  as  we  trust  will 
often '.be  the  case,  we  shall  spare  no  pains  nor 
paper  to  open  it  at  large  to  our  reader;  but  if 
whole  years  should  pass  without  producing  any 
thing  worthy  his  notice,  we  shall  not  be  afraid 
of  a  chasm  in  our  history,  but  shall  hasten  on 
to  matters  of  consequence,  and  leave  such  pe- 
riods of  time  totally  unobserved.  These  are 
indeed  to  be  considered  as  blanks  in  the  grand 
lottery  of  Time :  we  therefore,  who  are  the  regis- 
ters of  that  lottery,  shall  imitate  those  sagacious 
persons  who  deal  in  that  which  is  drawn  at 
Guildhall,  and  who  never  trouble  the  public 
with  the  many  blanks  they  dispose  of;  but  when 
a  great  prize  happens  to  be  drawn,  the  news- 
papers are  presently  filled  with  it,  and  the 
world  is  sure  to  be  informed  at  whose  ofhce  it 
was  sold:  indeed  commonly  two  or  three  dif- 
ferent offices  lay  claim  to  the  honour  of  having 
disposed  of  it;  by  which  I  supjwse  the  ad- 
venturers are  given  to  understand  that  certain 
brokers  are  in  the  secrets  of  Fortune,  and  in- 
deed of  her  cabinet  council. 

My  reader  then  is  not  to  be  surprised,  if  in 
the  course  of  this  work  he  shall  find  some 
chapters  very  short  and  others  altogether  as 
long;  some  that  contain  only  the  time  of  a 
single  day  and  others  that  comprise  years;  in 
a  word,  if  my  history  sometimes  seems  to  stand 
still,  and  sometimes  to  fly:  for  all  which  I  shall 


228 


HENRY   FIELDING 


not  look  on  myself  as  accountable  to  any  court 
of  critical  jurisdiction  whatever;  for  as  I  am 
in  reality  the  founder  of  a  new  province  of 
writing,  so  I  am  at  liberty  to  make  what  laws 
I  please  therein;  and  these  laws  my  readers, 
whom  I  consider  as  my  subjects,  are  bound  to 
believe  in  and  to  obey;  with  which,  that  they 
may  readily  and  cheerfully  comply,  I  do  hereby 
assure  them  that  I  shall  principally  regard 
their  ease  and  advantage  in  all  such  institu- 
tions; for  I  do  not,  like  a  jtire  divino  tyrant, 
imagine  that  they  are  my  slaves  or  my  com- 
modity. I  am  indeed  set  over  them  for  their 
own  good  only,  and  was  created  for  their  use 
and  not  they  for  mine;  nor  do  I  doubt,  while 
I  make  their  interest  the  great  rule  of  my 
writings,  they  will  unanimously  concur  in  sup- 
porting my  dignity,  and  in  rendering  me  all 
the  honour  I  shall  deserve  or  desire. 

BOOK  V 

Chap.  I.  —  Of  the  Serious  in  Writing,  and 
FOR  WHAT  Purpose  it  is  Introduced 

Peradventure  there  may  be  no  parts  in  this 
prodigious  work  which  will  give  the  reader  less 
pleasure  in  the  perusing,  than  those  which 
have  given  the  author  the  greatest  pain  in  com- 
posing. Among  these  probably  may  be  reck- 
oned those  initial  essays  which  we  have  prefixed 
to  the  historical  matter  contained  in  every 
book;  and  which  we  have  determined  to  be 
essentially  necessary  to  this  kind  of  writing, 
of  which  we  have  set  ourselves  at  the  head. 
For  this  our  determination  we  do  not  hold  our- 
selves strictly  bound  to  assign  any  reason;  it 
being  abundantly  sufiicient  that  we  have  laid 
it  down  as  a  rule  necessary  to  be  observed  in  all 
prosai-comi-epic  writing.  Who  ever  demanded 
the  reasons  of  that  nice  unity  of  time  or  place 
which  is  now  established  to  be  so  essential  to 
dramatic  poetry?  What  critic  has  ever  been 
asked,  why  a  play  may  not  contain  two  days 
as  well  as  one  ?  or  why  the  audience,  provided 
they  travel  like  electors,  without  any  expense, 
may  not  be  wafted  fifty  miles  as  well  as  five  ? 
Has  any  commentator  well  accounted  for  the 
limitation  which  an  ancient  critic  has  set  to  the 
drama,  which  he  will  have  contain  neither  more 
nor  less  than  five  acts?  or  has  any  one  living 
attempted  to  explain  what  the  modern  judges 
of  our  theatres  mean  by  that  word  Low;  by 
which  they  have  happily  succeeded  in  banish- 
ing all  humour  from  the  stage,  and  have  made 
the  theatre  as  dull  as  a  drawing-room?  Upon 
all  these  occasions  the  world  seems  to  have 


embraced  a  maxim  of  our  law,  viz.,  cuicunque 
in  arte  sua  perito  credendum  est:  for  it  seems 
perhaps  difiicult  to  conceive  that  any  one  should 
have  had  enough  of  impudence  to  lay  down 
dogmatical  rules  in  any  art  or  science  without 
the  least  foundation:  in  such  cases,  therefore, 
we  are  apt  to  conclude  there  are  sound  and  good 
reasons  at  the  bottom,  though  we  are  unfor- 
tunately not  able  to  see  so  far.  Now  in  reality 
the  world  have  paid  too  great  a  compliment 
to  critics,  and  have  imagined  them  men  of  much 
greater  prof  undity  than  they  really  are:  from  this 
complaisance  the  critics  have  been  emboldened 
to  assume  a  dictatorial  power,  and  have  so  far 
succeeded  that  they  have  now  become  the'  mas- 
ters, and  have  the  assurance  to  give  laws  to 
those  authors  from  whose  predecessors  they 
originally  received  them.  The  critic,  rightly 
considered,  is  no  more  than  the  clerk,  whose 
office  it  is  to  transcribe  the  rules  and  laws  laid 
down  by  those  great  judges,  whose  vast  strength 
of  genius  has  placed  them  in  the  light  of  legis- 
lators in  the  several  sciences  over  which  they 
presided:  this  office  was  all  which  the  critics 
of  old  aspired  to;  nor  did  they  ever  dare  to 
advance  a  sentence,  without  supporting  it  by 
the  authority  of  the  judge  from  whence  it  was 
borrowed.  But  in  process  of  time,  and  in 
ages  of  ignorance,  the  clerk  began  to  invade  the 
power  and  assume  the  dignity  of  his  master; 
the  laws  of  writing  were  no  longer  founded  on 
the  practice  of  the  author,  but  on  the  dictates 
of  the  critic:  the  clerk  became  the  legislator, 
and  those  very  peremptorily  gave  laws  whose 
business  it  was  at  first  only  to  transcribe  them. 
Hence  arose  an  obvious  and  perhaps  an  un- 
avoidable error;  for  these  critics,  being  men  of 
shallow  capacities,  very  easily  mistook  mere 
form  for  substance:  they  acted  as  a  judge 
would  who  should  adhere  to  the  lifeless  letter 
of  law,  and  reject  the  spirit.  Little  circum- 
stances, which  were  perhaps  accidental  in  a 
great  author,  were  by  these  critics  considered  to 
constitute  his  chief  merit,  and  transmitted  as 
essentials  to  be  observed  by  all  his  successors; 
to  these  encroachments,  time  and  ignorance, 
the  two  great  supporters  of  imposture,  gave 
authority;  and  thus  many  rules  for  good  writ- 
ing have  been  established,  which  have  not  the 
least  foundation  in  truth  or  nature;  and  which 
commonly  serve  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
curb  and  restrain  genius  in  the  same  manner 
as  it  would  have  restrained  the  dancing  master, 
had  the  many  excellent  treatises  on  that  art 
laid  it  down  as  an  essential  rule  that  every 
man  must  dance  in  chains.     To  avoid,  there- 


TOM  JONES 


229 


fore,  all  imputation  of  laying  down  a  rule  for 
posterity,  founded  only  on  the  authority  of 
ipse  dixit,  —  for  which,  to  say  the  truth,  we 
have  not  the  profoundest  veneration,  —  we 
shall  here  waive  the  privilege  above  contended 
for,  and  proceed  to  lay  before  the  reader  the 
reasons  which  have  induced  us  to  intersperse 
these  several  digressive  essays  in  the  course  of 
this  work.  And  here  we  shall  of  necessity  be 
led  to  open  a  new  vein  of  knowledge,  which,  if 
it  has  been  discovered,  has  not  to  our  remem- 
brance been  wrought  on  by  any  ancient  or 
modern  writer:  this  vein  is  no  other  than  that 
of  contrast,  which  runs  through  all  the  works 
of  the  creation,  and  may  probably  have  a  large 
share  in  constituting  in  us  the  idea  of  all  beauty, 
as  well  natural  as  artificial:  for  what  demon- 
strates the  beauty  and  excellence  of  anything 
but  its  reverse?  Thus  the  beauty  of  day,  and 
that  of  summer,  is  set  off  by  the  horrors  of  night 
and  winter;  and  I  believe,  if  it  was  possible 
for  a  man  to  have  seen  only  the  two  former, 
he  would  have  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  their 
beauty.  But  to  avoid  too  serious  an  air;  can 
it  be  doubted  but  that  the  finest  woman  in  the 
world  would  lose  all  benefit  of  her  charms  in 
the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  never  seen  one  of 
another  cast?  The  ladies  themselves  seem 
so  sensible  of  this,  that  they  are  all  industrious 
to  procure  foils;  nay,  they  will  become  foils 
to  themselves:  for  I  have  observed,  at  Bath 
particularly,  that  they  endeavour  to  appear  as 
ugly  as  possible  in  the  morning,  in  order  to  set 
off  that  beauty  which  they  intend  to  show  you 
in  the  evening.  Most  artists  have  this  secret 
in  practice,  though  some  perhaps  have  not 
much  studied  the  theory;  the  jeweller  knows 
that  the  finest  brilliant  requires  a  foil;  and 
the  painter,  by  the  contrast  of  his  figures,  often 
acquires  great  applause. 

A  great  genius  among  us  will  illustrate  this 
matter  fully.  I  cannot  indeed  range  him  under 
any  general  head  of  common  artists,  as  he  has  a 
title  to  be  placed  among  those 

Inventas  qui  vitam  excoluere  per  artes: 

Who  by  invented  arts  have  life  improved. 

I  mean  here,  the  inventor  of  that  most  exquisite 
entertainment,  called  the  English  pantomime. 
This  entertainment  consisted  of  two  parts, 
which  the  inventor  distinguished  by  the  names 
of  the  serious  and  the  comic.  The  serious  ex- 
hibited a  certain  number  of  heathen  gods  and 
heroes,  who  were  certainly  the  worst  and  dullest 
company  into  which  an  audience  was  ever  in- 


troduced; and,  which  was  a  secret  known  to 
few,  were  actually  intended  so  to  be,  in  order  to 
contrast  the  comic  part  of  the  entertainment, 
and  to  display  the  tricks  of  Harlequin  to  the 
better  advantage.  This  was,  perhaps,  no  ver}' 
civil  use  of  such  personages,  but  the  contriv- 
ance was,  nevertheless,  ingenious  enough, 
and  had  its  effect.  And  this  will  now  plainly 
appear,  if,  instead  of  serious  and  comic,  we 
supply  the  words  duller  and  dullest,  for  the 
comic  was  certainly  duller  than  anything  before 
shown  on  the  stage,  and  could  be  set  off  only 
by  that  superlative  degree  of  dullness  which 
composed  the  serious.  So  intolerably  serious, 
indeed,  were  these  gods  and  heroes,  that  Harle- 
quin (though  the  English  gentleman  of  that 
name  is  not  at  all  related  to  the  French  family, 
for  he  is  of  a  much  more  serious  disposition) 
was  always  welcome  on  the  stage,  as  he  relieved 
the  audience  from  worse  company.  Judicious 
writers  have  always  practised  this  art  of  con- 
trast, with  great  success.  I  have  been  surprised 
that  Horace  should  cavil  at  this  art  in  Homer ; 
but,  indeed,  he  contradicts  himself  in  the  very 
next  fine: 

Indignor  quandoque  bonus  dormitat  Homerus, 
Verum  opere  in  longo  fas  est  obrepere  somnum: 

I  grieve  if  e'er  great  Homer  chance  to  sleep; 
Yet  slumbers  on  long  works  have  right  to  creep: 

for  we  are  not  here  to  understand,  as  perhaps 
some  have,  that  an  author  actually  falls  asleep 
while  he  is  writing.  It  is  true  that  readers  are 
too  apt  to  be  so  overtaken.  But  if  the  work 
was  as  long  as  any  of  Oldmixon,  the  author 
himself  is  too  well  entertained  to  be  subject 
to  the  least  drowsiness:  he  is,  as  Mr.  Pope 
observes, 

Sleepless  himself  to  give  his  readers  sleep. 

To  say  the  truth,  these  soporific  parts  are  so 
many  serious  scenes  artfully  interwoven,  in 
order  to  contrast  and  set  off  the  rest;  and  this 
is  the  true  meaning  of  a  late  facetious  writer, 
who  told  the  public  that,  whenever  he  was  dull, 
they  might  be  assured  there  was  a  design  in  it. 
In  this  light,  then,  or  rather  in  this  darkness,  I 
would  have  the  reader  to  consider  these  initial 
essays;  and,  after  this  warning,  if  he  shall  be 
of  opinion  that  he  can  find  enough  of  serious 
in  other  parts  of  this  history,  he  may  pass  over 
these,  in  which  we  profess  to  be  laboriously 
dull,  and  begin  the  following  books  at  the 
second  chapter. 


230 


HENRY    FIELDING 


BOOK  VIII 

Chap.  I.  —  A  wonderful  Long  Chapter  con- 
cerning THE  Marvellous;  being  much  the 
Longest  of  all  our  introductory  Chapters 

As  we  are  now  entering  upon  a  book,  in  which 
the  course  of  our  history  will  oblige  us  to  relate 
some  matters  of  a  more  strange  and  surprising 
kind  than  any  which  have  hitherto  occurred, 
it  may  not  be  amiss,  in  the  prolegomenous  or 
introductory  chapter,  to  say  something  of  that 
species  of  writing  which  is  called  the  marvel- 
lous. To  this  we  shall,  as  well  for  the  sake 
of  ourselves  as  of  others,  endeavour  to  set  some 
certain  bounds;  and,  indeed,  nothing  can  be 
more  necessary,  as  critics  of  very  dilTerent  com- 
plexions are  here  apt  to  run  into  very  different 
extremes ;  for  while  some  are,  with  M.  Dacier, 
ready  to  allow,  that  the  same  thing  which  is 
impossilile  may  yet  be  probable,  others  have  so 
little  historic  or  poetic  faith,  that  they  believe 
nothing  to  be  either  possible  or  probable,  the 
like  to  which  has  not  occurred  to  their  own 
observation.  First,  then,  I  think  it  may  very 
reasonably  be  required  of  every  writer,  that  he 
keeps  within  the  bounds  of  possibility;  and  still 
remembers  that  what  it  is  not  possible  for  man 
to  perform,  it  is  scarce  possible  for  man  to  be- 
lieve he  did  perform.  This  conviction,  perhaps, 
gave  birth  to  many  stories  of  the  ancient  heathen 
deities,  for  most  of  them  are  of  poetical  original. 
The  poet,  being  desirous  to  indulge  a  wanton 
and  extravagant  imagination,  took  refuge  in 
that  power,  of  the  extent  of  which  his  readers 
were  no  judges,  or  rather  which  they  imagined 
to  be  infinite,  and  consequently  they  could  not 
be  shocked  at  any  prodigies  related  of  it.  This 
has  been  strongly  urged  in  defence  of  Homer's 
miracles:  and  it  is  perhaps  a  defence;  not,  as 
Mr.  Pope  would  have  it,  because  Ulysses  told 
a  set  of  lies  to  the  Pheacians,  who  were  a  very 
dull  nation;  but  because  the  poet  himself 
wrote  to  heathens,  to  whom  poetical  fables 
were  articles  of  faith. 

For  my  own  part,  I  must  confess,  so  com- 
passionate is  my  temper,  I  wish  Polypheme 
had  confined  himself  to  his  milk  diet,  and  pre- 
served his  eye ;  nor  could  Ulysses  be  much  more 
concerned  than  myself,  when  his  companions 
were  turned  into  swine  by  Circe,  who  showed, 
I  think,  afterwards  too  much  regard  for  man's 
flesh,  to  be  supposed  capable  of  converting 
it  into  bacon.  I  wish,  likewise,  with  all  my 
heart,  that  Homer  could  have  known  the  rule 
prescribed  l)y  Horace,  to  introduce  super- 
natural agents  as  seldom  as  possible :  we  should 


not  then  have  seen  his  gods  coming  on  trivial 
errands,  and  often  behaving  themselves  so  as 
not  only  to  forfeit  all  title  to  respect,  but  to 
become  the  objects  of  scorn  and  derision;  a 
conduct  which  must  have  shocked  the  cre- 
dulity of  a  pious  and  sagacious  heathen ;  and 
which  could  never  have  been  defended,  unless 
by  agreeing  with  a  supposition  to  which  I  have 
been  sometimes  almost  inclined,  that  this  most 
glorious  poet,  as  he  certainly  was,  had  an  intent 
to  burlesque  the  superstitious  faith  of  his  own 
age  and  country.  But  I  have  rested  too  long 
on  a  doctrine  which  can  be  of  no  use  to  a  Chris- 
tian writer;  for  as  he  cannot  introduce  into  his 
works  any  of  that  heavenly  host  which  make  a 
part  of  his  creed,  so  is  it  horrid  puerility  to 
search  the  heathen  theology  for  any  of  those 
deities  who  have  been  long  since  dethroned  from 
their  immortality.  Lord  Shaftesbury  observes, 
that  nothing  is  more  cold  than  the  invocation  of 
a  Muse  by  a  modern:  he  might  have  added, 
that  nothing  can  be  more  absurd.  A  modern 
may,  with  much  more  elegance,  invoke  a 
ballad,  as  some  have  thought  Homer  did,  or  a 
mug  of  ale,  with  the  author  of  Hudibras; 
which  latter  may  perhaps  have  inspired  much 
more  poetry,  as  well  as  prose,  than  all  the 
liquors  of  Hippocrene  or  Helicon. 

The  only  supernatural  agents  which  can  in 
any  manner  be  allowed  to  us  moderns,  are 
ghosts;  but  of  these  I  would  advise  an  author 
to  be  extremely  sparing.  These  are  indeed, 
like  arsenic,  and  other  dangerous  drugs  in 
physic,  to  be  used  with  the  utmost  caution: 
nor  would  I  advise  the  introduction  of  them  at 
all  in  those  works,  or  by  those  authors,  to  which, 
or  to  whom,  a  horse-laugh  in  the  reader  would 
be  any  great  prejudice  or  mortification.  As 
for  elves  and  fairies,  and  other  such  mummery, 
I  purposely  omit  the  mention  of  them,  as  I 
should  be  very  unwilling  to  confine  within  any 
bounds  those  surprising  imaginations,  for 
whose  vast  capacity  the  limits  of  human  na- 
ture are  too  narrow;  whose  works  are  to  be 
considered  as  a  new  creation;  and  who  have, 
consequently,  just  right  to  do  what  they  will 
with  their  own.  Man,  therefore,  is  the  high- 
est subject,  unless  on  very  extraordinary  occa- 
sions indeed,  which  presents  itself  to  the  pen 
of  our  historian,  or  of  our  poet ;  and,  in  relating 
his  actions,  great  care  is  to  be  taken  that  we  do 
not  exceed  the  capacity  of  the  agent  we  de- 
scribe. Nor  is  possibility  alone  suflficient  to 
justify  us;  we  must  keep  likewise  within  the 
rules  of  probability.  It  is,  I  think,  the  opinion 
of  Aristotle ;  or,  if  not,  it  is  the  opinion  of  some 


TOM    JONES 


231 


wise  man,  whose  authority  will  be  as  weighty 
when  it  is  as  old,  "That  it  is  no  excuse  for  a  |)oet 
who  relates  what  is  incredi!)le,  that  the  thing 
related  is  a  matter  of  fact."  This  may,  per- 
haps, be  allowed  true  with  regard  to  poetry, 
but  it  may  be  thought  impractical^le  to  extend 
it  to  the  historian;  for  he  is  obliged  to  record 
matters  as  he  finds  them,  though  they  may 
be  of  so  extraordinary  a  nature  as  will  require 
no  small  degree  of  historical  faith  to  swallow 
them.  Such  was  the  successless  armament 
of  Xerxes,  described  by  Herodotus,  or  the  suc- 
cessful expedition  of  Alexander,  related  by 
Arrian:  such  of  later  years  was  the  victory 
of  Agincourt,  obtained  by  Harry  the  Fifth,  or 
that  of  Narva,  won  by  Charles  the  Twelfth  of 
Sweden :  all  which  instances,  the  more  we  reflect 
on  them,  appear  still  the  more  astonishing. 

Such  facts,  however,  as  they  occur  in  the 
thread  of  the  story,  nay,  indeed,  as  they  con- 
stitute the  essential  part  of  it,  the  historian  is 
not  only  justifiable  in  recording  as  they  really 
happened,  but  indeed  would  be  unpardonable 
should  he  omit  or  alter  them.  But  there  are 
other  facts,  not  of  such  consequence  nor  so 
necessary,  which,  though  ever  so  well  attested, 
may  nevertheless  be  sacrificed  to  oblivion, 
in  complaisance  to  the  scepticism  of  a  reader: 
such  is  that  memorable  story  of  the  ghost  of 
George  Villiers,  which  might  with  more  pro- 
priety have  been  made  a  present  of  to  Dr. 
Drelincourt,  to  have  kept  the  ghost  of  Mrs. 
Veale  company,  at  the  head  of  his  "Discourse 
upon  Death,"  than  have  been  introduced  into 
so  solemn  a  work  as  the  "History  of  the  Rebel- 
lion." To  say  the  truth,  if  tlie  historian  will 
confine  himself  to  what  really  happened,  and 
utterly  reject  any  circumstance,  which,  though 
ever  so  well  attested,  he  must  be  well  assured 
is  false,  he  will  sometimes  fall  into  the  marvel- 
lous, but  never  into  the  incredible:  he  will  often 
raise  the  wonder  and  surprise  of  his  reader,  but 
never  that  incredulous  hatred  mentioned  by 
Horace.  It  is  by  falling  into  fiction  therefore 
that  we  generally  ofTend  against  this  rule,  of 
deserting  probability,  which  the  historian  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  quits  till  he  forsakes  his  character, 
and  commences  a  writer  of  romance.  In  this, 
however,  those  historians  who  relate  public 
transactions,  have  the  advantage  of  us,  who  con- 
fine ourselves  to  scenes  of  private  life.  The 
credit  of  the  former  is  by  common  notoriety 
supported  for  a  long  time;  and  public  records, 
with  the  concurrent  testimony  of  many  authors, 
bear  evidence  to  their  truth  in  future  ages. 

Thus  a  Trajan  and  an  Antoninus,  a  Nero  and 


a  Caligula,  have  all  met  with  the  belief  of  pos- 
terity; and  no  one  doubts  but  that  men  so  very 
good  and  so  very  bad  were  once  the  masters  of 
mankind:    but  we,  who  deal  in  j)rivate  char- 
acter, who  search  into  the  most  retired  recesses, 
and  draw  forth  examples  of  virtue  and  vice 
from  holes  and  corners  of  the  world,  are  in  a 
more    dangerous    situation.     As   we    have    no 
public    notoriety,     no     concurrent    testimony, 
no  reccjrds  to  support  and  corroborate  what 
we  deliver,  it  becomes  us  to  keep  within  the 
limits  not  only  of  possibility,  but  of  probability 
too;   and  this  more  especially  in  painting  what 
is  greatly  good   and   amiable.     Knavery  and 
folly,  though  ever  so  exorbitant,  will  more  easily 
meet  with  assent,  for  ill-nature  adds  great  suj)- 
port  and  strength  to  faith.     Thus  we  may  per- 
haps with  little  danger,  relate  the  history  of 
Fisher,  who  having  long  owed  his  bread  to  the 
generosity  of  Mr.  Derby,  and  ha\ing  one  morn- 
ing received  a  considerable  bounty  from  his 
hands,  yet  in  order  to  possess  himself  of  what 
remained  in  his  friend's  escritoire,   concealed 
himself  in  a  public  office  of  the  Temple,  through 
which  there  was  a  passage  into  IMr.  Derby's 
chambers.     Here  he  overheard  Mr.  Derby  for 
many  hours  solacing  himself  at  an  entertain- 
ment which  he  that  evening  gave  his  friends, 
and  to  which  Fisher  had  been  invited;   during 
all  this  time  no  tender,  no  grateful  reflections 
arose  to  restrain  his  purpose;    but  when  the 
poor  gentleman  had  let  his  company  out  through 
the  ofi'ice,  Fisher  came  suddenly  from  his  lurk- 
ing-place, and,  walking  softly  behind  his  friend 
into  his  chamber,  discharged  a  pistol-ball  into 
his   head.     This   may   be   believed   when   the 
bones  of  Fisher  are  as  rotten  as  his  heart. 
Nay,    perhaps,    it   will    be   credited,    that   the 
villain  went  two  days  afterwards  with  some 
young  ladies  to  the  play  of  Hamlet,  and,  with 
an   unaltered    countenance  heard   one  of  the 
ladies,  who  little  suspected  how  near  she  was 
to  the  person,  cry  out,  "Good  God !   if  the  man 
that  murdered  ilr.  Derby  was  now  present ! " 
manifesting  in  this  a  more  seared  and  callous 
conscience  than  even  Nero  himself;   of  whom 
we  are  told  by  Suetonius,  "that  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  guilt,  after  the  death  of  his  mother, 
became  immediately   intolerable,  and  so  con- 
tinued;   nor  could  all  the  congratulations  of 
the  soldiers,  of  the  senate,  and  the  people,  allay 
the  horrors  of  his  conscience." 

But  now,  on  the  other  hand,  should  I  tell 
my  reader,  that  I  had  known  a  man  whose 
penetrating  genius  had  enabled  him  to  raise  a 
large  fortune  in  a  way  where  no  beginning  was 


232 


HENRY    FIELDING 


chalked  out  to  him ;  that  he  had  done  this  with 
the  most  perfect  preservation  of  his  integrity, 
and  not  only  without  the  least  injustice  or  in- 
jury to  any  one  individual  person,  but  with  the 
highest  advantage  to  trade,  and  a  vast  increase 
of  the  public  revenue;  that  he  had  expended 
one  part  of  the  income  of  this  fortune  in  dis- 
covering a  taste  superior  to  most,  by  works 
where  the  highest  dignity  was  united  with  the 
purest  simplicity,  and  another  part  in  displaying 
a  degree  of  goodness  superior  to  all  men,  by 
acts  of  charity  to  objects  whose  only  recom- 
mendations were  their  merits  or  their  wants; 
that  he  was  most  industrious  in  searching  after 
merit  in  distress,  most  eager  to  relieve  it,  and 
then  as  careful,  perhaps  too  careful,  to  conceal 
what  he  had  done;  that  his  house,  his  furni- 
ture, his  gardens,  his  table,  his  private  hos- 
pitality, and  his  public  beneficence,  all  denoted 
the  mind  from  which  they  flowed,  and  were  all 
intrinsically  rich  and  noble,  without  tinsel,  or 
external  ostentation;  that  he  filled  every  rela- 
tion in  life  with  the  most  adequate  virtue; 
that  he  was  most  piously  religious  to  his  Creator, 
most  zealously  loyal  to  his  sovereign,  a  most 
tender  husband  to  his  wife,  a  kind  relation,  a 
munificent  patron,  a  warm  and  firm  friend,  a 
knowing  and  a  cheerful  companion,  indulgent 
to  his  servants,  hospitable  to  his  neighbours, 
charitable  to  the  poor,  and  benevolent  to  all 
mankind :  —  should  I  add  to  these  the  epithets 
of  wise,  brave,  elegant,  and  indeed  every  other 
epithet  in  our  language;   I  might  surely  say, 

.  .  .   Quis  credet?   nemo,  Hercule !   nemo: 
Vel  duo,  vel  nemo :  '■ 

and  yet  I  know  a  man  who  is  all  I  have  here 
described.  But  a  single  instance  (and  I  really 
know  not  such  another)  is  not  sufficient  to 
justify  us,  while  we  are  writing  to  thousands 
who  never  heard  of  the  person,  nor  of  anything 
like  him.  Such  rarae  aves  ^  should  be  remitted 
to  the  epitaph-writer,  or  to  some  poet,  w^ho  may 
condescend  to  hitch  him  in  a  distich,  or  to  slide 
him  into  a  rhyme  with  an  air  of  carelessness  and 
neglect,  without  giving  any  offence  to  the  reader. 
In  the  last  place,  the  actions  should  be  such 
as  may  not  only  be  within  the  compass  of  human 
agency,  and  which  human  agents  may  probably 
be  supposed  to  do;  but  they  should  be  likely 
for  the  very  actors  and  characters  themselves 
to  have  performed;  for  what  may  be  only 
wonderful  and   surprising   in   one   man,    may 

1  Who    will    believe    it  ?     No  one,    by    Hercules ! 
no  one ;   two  at  most,  or  none.  ^  j-^j-g  birds 


become  improbable,  or  indeed  impossible,  when 
related  of  another.  This  last  requisite  is  what 
the  dramatic  critics  call  conservation  of  char- 
acter; and  it  requires  a  very  extraordinary 
degree  of  judgment,  and  a  most  exact  know- 
ledge of  human  nature. 

It  is  admirably  remarked  by  a  most  excellent 
writer,  that  zeal  can  no  more  hurry  a  man  to 
act  in  direct  opposition  to  itself,  than  a  rapid 
stream  can  carry  a  boat  against  its  own  current. 
I  will  venture  to  say,  that  for  a  man  to  act  in 
direct  contradiction  to  the  dictates  of  his  nature, 
is,  if  not  impossible,  as  improbable  and  as 
miraculous  as  anything  which  can  be  well  con- 
ceived. Should  the  best  parts  of  the  story  of 
M.  Antoninus  be  ascribed  to  Nero,  or  should 
the  worst  incidents  of  Nero's  life  be  imputed  to 
Antoninus,  what  would  be  more  shocking  to 
belief  than  either  instance?  whereas  both 
these,  being  related  of  their  proper  agent,  con- 
stitute the  truly  marv^ellous.  Our  modern 
authors  of  comedy  have  fallen  almost  univer- 
sally into  the  error  here  hinted  at :  their  heroes 
generally  are  notorious  rogues,  and  their  hero- 
ines abandoned  jades,  during  the  first  four 
acts;  but  in  the  fifth,  the  former  become  very 
worthy  gentlemen,  and  the  latter  women  of 
virtue  and  discretion;  nor  is  the  writer  often 
so  kind  as  to  give  himself  the  least  trouble  to 
reconcile  or  account  for  this  monstrous  change 
and  incongruity.  There  is  indeed  no  other 
reason  to  be  assigned  for  it,  than  because  the 
play  is  drawing  to  a  conclusion ;  as  if  it  was  no 
less  natural  in  a  rogue  to  repent  in  the  last  act 
of  a  play,  than  in  the  last  of  his  life ;  which  we 
perceive  to  be  generally  the  case  at  Tyburn,  a 
place  which  might  indeed  close  the  scene  of 
some  comedies  with  much  propriety,  as  the 
heroes  in  these  are  commonly  eminent  for 
those  very  talents  which  not  only  bring  men  to 
the  gallows,  but  enable  them  to  make  an  heroic 
figure  when  they  are  there. 

Within  these  few  restrictions,  I  think,  every 
writer  may  be  permitted  to  deal  as  much  in  the 
wonderful  as  he  pleases;  nay,  if  he  thus  keeps 
within  the  rules  of  credibility,  the  more  he  can 
surprise  the  reader,  the  more  he  will  engage 
his  attention,  and  the  more  he  will  charm  him. 
As  a  genius  of  the  highest  rank  observes  in  his 
fifth  chapter  of  the  Bathos,  "The  great  art  of 
all  poetry  is  to  mix  truth  with  fiction,  in  order 
to  join  the  credible  with  the  surprising:"  for 
though  every  good  author  will  confine  himself 
within  the  bounds  of  probability,  it  is  by  no 
means  necessary  that  his  characters  or  his 
incidents  should  be  trite,  common,  or  vulgar; 


TOM    JONES 


233 


such  as  happen  in  every  street  or  in  every  house, 
or  which  may  be  met  with  in  the  home  articles 
of  a  newspaper;  nor  must  he  Ije  inhibited  from 
showing  many  persons  and  things,  which  may 
possibly  have  never  fallen  within  the  knowledge 
of  great  part  of  his  readers.  If  the  writer 
strictly  observes  the  rules  above-mentioned,  he 
has  discharged  his  part;  and  is  then  entitled 
to  some  faith  from  his  reader,  who  is  indeed 
guilty  of  critical  infidelity  if  he  disbelieves  him. 
For  want  of  a  portion  of  such  faith,  I  remember 
the  character  of  a  young  lady  of  quality  was 
condemned  on  the  stage  for  being  unnatural, 
by  the  unanimous  voice  of  a  very  large  assembly 
of  clerks  and  apprentices,  though  it  had  the 
previous  suffrages  of  many  ladies  of  the  first 
rank ;  one  of  whom,  very  eminent  for  her  under- 
standing, declared  it  was  the  picture  of  half  the 
young  people  of  her  acquaintance. 

BOOK  X 

Chap.  I.  —  Containing  Instructions  very 

necessary  to  be  perused  by 

Modern  Critics 

Reader,  it  is  impossible  we  should  know 
what  sort  of  person  thou  wilt  be;  for  perhaps 
thou  mayest  be  as  learned  in  human  nature  as 
Shakspeare  himself  was,  and  perhaps  thou 
mayest  be  no  wiser  than  some  of  his  editors. 
Now,  lest  this  latter  should  be  the  case,  we 
think  proper,  before  we  go  any  farther  together, 
to  give  thee  a  few  wholesome  admonitions, 
that  thou  mayest  not  as  grossly  misunderstand 
and  misrepresent  us,  as  some  of  the  said  editors 
have  misunderstood  and  misrepresented  their 
author.  First,  then,  we  warn  thee  not  too 
hastily  to  condemn  any  of  the  incidents  in  this 
our  history  as  impertinent  and  foreign  to  our 
main  design,  because  thou  dost  not  immediately 
conceive  in  what  manner  such  incident  may 
conduce  to  that  design.  This  work  may, 
indeed,  be  considered  as  a  great  creation  of  our 
own;  and  for  a  little  reptile  of  a  critic  to  pre- 
sume to  find  fault  with  any  of  its  parts,  without 
knowing  the  manner  in  which  the  whole  is 
connected,  and  before  he  comes  to  the  final 
catastrophe,  is  a  most  presumptuous  absurdity. 
The  allusion  and  metaphor  we  have  here  made 
use  of,  we  must  acknowledge  to  be  infinitely 
too  great  for  our  occasion ;  but  there  is,  indeed, 
no  other  which  is  at  all  adequate  to  express  the 
difference  between  an  author  of  the  first  rate 
and  a  critic  of  the  lowest.  Another  caution  we 
would  give  thee,  my  good  reptile,  is,  that  thou 


dost  not  find  out  too  near  a  resemblance  between 
certain  characters  here  introduced;  as,  for 
instance,  between  the  landlady  who  appears 
in  the  seventh  book  and  her  in  the  ninth. 
Thou  art  to  know,  friend,  that  there  are  certain 
characteristics  in  which  most  individuals  of 
every  profession  and  occupation  agree:  to  be 
able  to  preserve  these  characteristics,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  diversify  their  operations,  is  one 
talent  of  a  good  writer.  Again,  to  mark  the 
nice  distinction  between  two  persons  actuated 
by  the  same  vice  or  folly,  is  another;  and  as 
this  last  talent  is  found  in  very  few  writers, 
so  is  the  true  discernment  of  it  found  in  as  few 
readers;  though,  I  believe,  the  observ-ation  of 
this  forms  a  very  principal  pleasure  in  those 
who  are  capable  of  the  discovery.  Every 
person,  for  instance,  can  distinguish  between 
Sir  Epicure  Mammon  and  Sir  Fopling  Flutter; 
but  to  note  the  difference  between  Sir  Fopling 
Flutter  and  Sir  Courtly  Nice  requires  a  more 
exquisite  judgment,  for  want  of  which,  vulgar 
spectators  of  plays  very  often  do  great  injustice 
in  the  theatre,  where  I  have  sometimes  known 
a  poet  in  danger  of  being  convicted  as  a  thief, 
upon  much  worse  evidence  than  the  resemblance 
of  hands  has  been  held  to  be  in  the  law.  In 
reality,  I  apprehend  every  amorous  widow  on 
the  stage  would  run  the  hazard  of  being  con- 
demned as  a  servile  imitation  of  Dido,  but  that 
happily  very  few  of  our  playhouse  critics  under- 
stand enough  of  Latin  to  read  Virgil. 

In  the  next  place,  we  must  admonish  thee, 
my  worthy  friend  (for  perhaps  thy  heart  may 
be  better  than  thy  head),  not  to  condemn  a 
character  as  a  bad  one  because  it  is  not  perfectly 
a  good  one.  If  thou  dost  delight  in  these 
models  of  perfection,  there  are  books  enow 
written  to  gratify  thy  taste;  but  as  we  have 
not,  in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  ever 
happened  to  meet  with  any  such  person,  we 
have  not  chosen  to  introduce  any  such  here. 
To  say  the  truth,  I  a  little  question  whether 
mere  man  ever  arrived  at  this  consummate 
degree  of  excellence,  as  well  as  whether  there 
has  ever  existed  a  monster  bad  enough  to  verify 
that 

.  .   .   nulla  virtute  redemptum 
A  vitiis  '  .   .  . 

in  Juvenal :  nor  do  I,  indeed,  conceive  the  good 
purposes  served  by  inserting  characters  of  such 
angelic  perfection,  or  such  diabolical  depravity, 
in  any  work  of  invention ;  since,  from  contem- 
plating either,  the  mind  of  man  is  more  Hkely 

'  by  no  virtue  redeemed  from  his  vices 


234 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


to  be  overwhelmed  with  sorrow  and  shame, 
than  to  draw  any  good  uses  from  such  patterns ; 
for,  in  the  former  instance,  he  may  be  both 
concerned  and  ashamed  to  see  a  pattern  of 
excellence  in  his  nature,  which  he  may  reason- 
ably despair  of  ever  arriving  at:  and,  in  con- 
templating the  latter,  he  may  be  no  less  af- 
fected with  those  uneasy  sensations,  at  seeing 
the  nature,  of  which  he  is  a  partaker,  degraded 
into  so  odious  and  detestable  a  creature.  In 
fact,  if  there  be  enough  of  goodness  in  a  char- 
acter to  engage  the  admiration  and  affection  of 
a  well-disposed  mind,  though  there  should 
appear  some  of  those  little  blemishes,  quas 
humana  parum  cavit  naiura,^  they  will  raise 
our  compassion  rather  than  our  abhorrence. 
Indeed,  nothing  can  be  of  more  moral  use  than 
the  imperfections  which  are  seen  in  examples 
of  this  kind ;  since  such  form  a  kind  of  surpri.se, 
more  apt  to  affect  and  dwell  upon  our  minds, 
than  the  faults  of  very  vicious  and  wicked 
persons.  The  foibles  and  vices  of  men,  in 
whom  there  is  a  great  mixture  of  good,  become 
more  glaring  objects  from  the  virtues  which 
contrast  them  and  show  their  deformity;  and 
when  we  find  such  vices  attended  with  their 
evil  consequence  to  our  favourite  characters, 
we  are  not  only  taught  to  shun  them  for  our  own 
sake,  but  to  hate  them  for  the  mischiefs  they 
have  already  brought  on  those  we  love.  And 
now,  my  friend,  having  given  you  these  few 
admonitions,  we  will,  if  you  please,  once  more 
set  forward  with  our  history. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON   (i  709-1 784) 
CONGREVE 

William  Congreve  descended  from  a  family 
in  Staffordshire,  of  so  great  antiquity  that  it 
claims  a  place  among  the  few  that  extend  their 
line  beyond  the  Norman  Conquest;  and  was 
the  son  of  William  Congreve,  second  son  of 
Richard  Congreve,  of  Congreve  and  Stratton. 
He  visited,  once  at  least,  the  residence  of  his 
ancestors;  and,  I  believe,  more  places  than  one 
are  still  shown,  in  groves  and  gardens,  where 
he  is  related  to  have  written  his  "Old  Bach- 
elor." 

Neither  the  time  nor  place  of  his  birth  are 
certainly  known;  if  the  inscription  upon  his 
monument  be  true,  he  was  born  in  1672.  For 
the  place ;  it  was  said  by  himself,  that  he  owed 
his  nativity  to  England,  and  by  every  body 

'  which  human  nature  too  httle  avoids 


else  that  he  was  born  in  Ireland.  Southern 
mentioned  him  with  sharp  censure,  as  a  man 
that  meanly  disowned  his  native  country.  The 
biographers  assign  his  nativity  to  Bardsa,  near 
Leeds  in  Yorkshire,  from  the  account  given  by 
himself,  as  they  suppose,  to  Jacob. 

To  doubt  whether  a  man  of  eminence  has 
told  the  truth  about  his  own  birth,  is,  in  appear- 
ance, to  be  very  deficient  in  candour;  yet  no- 
body can  live  long  without  knowing  that  false- 
hoods of  convenience  or  vanity,  falsehoods 
from  which  no  evil  immediately  visible  ensues, 
except  the  general  degradation  of  human 
testimony,  are  very  lightly  uttered,  and  once 
uttered  are  sullenly  supported.  Boileau,  who 
desired  to  be  thought  a  rigorous  and  steady 
moralist,  having  told  a  petty  lie  to  Lewis  XIV, 
continued  it  afterwards  by  false  dates;  "think- 
ing himself  obliged  in  honour,"  says  his  admirer, 
"to  maintain  what,  when  he  said  it,  was  so 
well  received." 

Wherever  Congreve  was  born,  he  was  edu- 
cated first  at  Kilkenny,  and  afterwards  at 
Dublin,  his  father  having  some  military  employ- 
ment that  stationed  him  in  Ireland:  but,  after 
having  passed  through  the  usual  preparatory 
studies,  as  may  be  reasonably  supposed,  with 
great  celerity  and  success,  his  father  thought  it 
proper  to  assign  him  a  profession,  by  which 
something  might  be  gotten;  and  about  the 
time  of  the  Revolution  sent  him,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  to  study  law  in  the  Middle  Temple, 
where  he  lived  for  several  years,  but  with  very 
little  attention  to  Statutes  or  Reports. 

His  disposition  to  become  an  author  appeared 
very  early,  as  he  very  early  felt  that  force  of 
imagination,  and  possessed  that  copiousness  of 
sentiment,  by  which  intellectual  pleasure  can 
be  given.  His  first  performance  was  a  novel, 
called  "Incognita,  or  Love  and  Duty  recon- 
ciled:" it  is  praised  by  the  biographers,  who 
quote  some  part  of  the  Preface,  that  is,  indeed, 
for  such  a  time  of  life,  uncommonly  judicious. 
I  would  rather  praise  it  than  read  it. 

His  first  dramatic  labour  was  "The  Old 
Bachelor;"  of  which  he  says,  in  his  defence 
against  Collier,  "that  the  comedy  was  written, 
as  several  know,  some  years  before  it  was  acted. 
When  I  wrote  it,  I  had  little  thoughts  of  the 
stage;  but  did  it  to  amuse  myself  in  a  slow 
recovery  from  a  fit  of  sickness.  Afterwards, 
through  my  indiscretion,  it  was  seen,  and  in 
some  little  time  more  it  was  acted;  and  I, 
through  the  remainder  of  my  indiscretion,  suf- 
fered myself  to  be  drawn  into  the  prosecution 
of  a  difficult  and  thankless  study,  and  to  be 


CONGREVE 


235 


involved  in  a  perpetual  war  with  knaves  and 
fools." 

There  seems  to  be  a  strange  affectation  in 
authors  of  appearing  to  have  done  every  thing 
by  chance.  "The  Old  Bachelor"  was  written 
for  amusement  in  the  languor  of  convalescence. 
Yet  it  is  apparently  composed  with  great  elabo- 
rateness of  dialogue,  and  incessant  ambition 
of  wit.  The  age  of  the  writer  considered,  it 
is  indeed  a  very  wonderful  performance; 
for,  whenever  written,  it  was  acted  (1693) 
when  he  was  not  more  than  twenty-one  years 
old;  and  was  then  recommended  by  Mr. 
Dryden,  Mr.  Southern,  and  Mr.  Maynwaring. 
Dryden  said  that  he  never  had  seen  such  a  first 
play;  but  they  found  it  deficient  in  some  things 
requisite  to  the  success  of  its  e.xhibition,  and  by 
their  greater  e.xperience  fitted  it  for  the  stage. 
Southern  used  to  relate  of  one  comedy,  prob- 
ably of  this,  that,  when  Congreve  read  it  to 
the  players,  he  pronounced  it  so  wretchedly,  that 
they  had  almost  rejected  it;  but  they  were 
afterwards  so  well  persuaded  of  its  excellence, 
that,  for  half  a  year  before  it  was  acted,  the 
manager  allowed  its  author  the  privilege  of  the 
house. 

Few  plays  have  ever  been  so  beneficial  to 
the  writer;  for  it  procured  him  the  patronage 
of  Halifax,  who  immediately  made  him  one  of 
the  commissioners  for  licensing  coaches,  and 
soon  after  gave  him  a  place  in  the  pipe-otfice, 
and  another  in  the  customs  of  six  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  Congreve's  conversation  must 
surely  have  been  at  least  equally  pleasing  with 
his  writings. 

Such  a  comedy,  written  at  such  an  age,  re- 
quires some  consideration.  As  the  lighter 
species  of  dramatic  poetry  professes  the  imi- 
tation of  common  life,  of  real  manners,  and 
daily  incidents,  it  apparently  presupposes  a 
familiar  knowledge  of  many  characters,  and 
exact  observation  of  the  passing  world;  the 
diiliculty  therefore  is,  to  conceive  how  this 
knowledge  can  be  obtained  by  a  boy. 

But  if  "The  Old  Bachelor"  be  more  nearly 
examined,  it  will  be  found  to  be  one  of  those 
comedies  which  may  be  made  by  a  mind  vigor- 
ous and  acute,  and  furnished  with  comic  char- 
acters by  the  perusal  of  other  poets,  without 
much  actual  commerce  with  mankind.  The 
dialogue  is  one  constant  reciprocation  of  con- 
ceits, or  clash  of  wit,  in  which  nothing  flows 
necessarily  from  the  occasion  or  is  dictated  by 
nature.  The  characters  both  of  men  and  wo- 
men are  either  fictitious  and  artificial,  as  those 
of  Heartwell   and   the   Ladies;    or  easy  and 


common,  as  Witlol  a  tame  idiot,  liluff  a  swag- 
gering coward,  and  Fondlewife  a  jealous  puri- 
tan; and  the  catastrophe  arises  from  a  mi.stake 
not  very  prol)ably  produced,  by  marrying  a 
woman  in  a  mask. 

Yet  this  gay  comedy,  when  all  these  deduc- 
tions are  made,  will  still  remain  the  work  of 
very  powerful  and  fertile  faculties;  the  dia- 
logue is  quick  and  sparkling,  the  incidents  such 
as  seize  the  attention,  and  the  wit  so  exuberant 
that  it  "o'er-informs  its  tenement." 

Ne.xt  year  he  gave  another  specimen  of  his 
abilities  in  "The  Double  Dealer,"  which  was 
not  received  with  equal  kindness.  He  writes 
to  his  patron  the  lord  Halifax  a  dedication,  in 
which  he  endeavours  to  reconcile  the  reader 
to  that  which  found  few  friends  among  the 
audience.  These  apologies  are  always  useless: 
"de  gustibus  non  est  disputandum;"  men  may 
be  convinced,  but  they  cannot  be  pleased, 
against  their  will.  But,  though  taste  is  ob- 
stinate, it  is  ver}^  variable :  and  time  often  pre- 
vails when  arguments  have  failed. 

Queen  Mary  conferred  upon  both  those 
plays  the  honour  of  her  presence;  and  when 
she  died  soon  after,  Congreve  testified  his 
gratitude  by  a  despicable  effusion  of  elegiac 
pastoral;  a  composition  in  which  all  is  unnat- 
ural, and  yet  nothing  is  new. 

In  another  year  (1695)  his  prolific  pen  pro- 
duced "Love  for  Love;"  a  comedy  of  nearer 
alliance  to  life,  and  exhibiting  more  real 
manners  than  either  of  the  former.  The  char- 
acter of  Foresight  was  then  common.  Dryden 
calculated  nativities;  both  Cromwell  and  King 
William  had  their  lucky  days;  and  Shaftesbury 
himself,  though  he  had  no  religion,  was  said 
to  regard  predictions.  The  Sailor  is  not  ac- 
counted very  natural,  but  he  is  very  pleasant. 

With  this  play  was  opened  the  New  Theatre, 
under  the  direction  of  Betterton  the  tragedian ; 
where  he  exhibited  two  years  afterwards  (1687) 
"The  Mourning  Bride,"  a  tragedy,  so  written 
as  to  show  him  sufficiently  qualified  for  either 
kind  of  dramatic  poetry. 

In  this  play,  of  which,  when  he  afterwards 
revised  it,  he  reduced  the  versification  to  greater 
regularity,  there  is  more  bustle  than  sentiment ; 
the  plot  is  busy  and  intricate,  and  the  events 
take  hold  on  the  attention ;  but,  except  a  ver}' 
few  passages,  we  are  rather  amused  with  noise, 
and  perplexed  with  stratagem,  than  enter- 
tained with  any  true  delineation  of  natural 
characters.  This,  however,  was  received  with 
more  benevolence  than  any  other  of  his  works, 
and  still  continues  to  be  acted  and  applauded. 


236 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


But  whatever  objections  may  be  made  either 
to  his  comic  or  tragic  excellence,  they  are  lost 
at  once  in  the  blaze  of  admiration,  when  it  is  re- 
membered that  he  had  produced  these  four  plays 
before  he  had  passed  his  twenty-fifth  year, 
Ijefore  other  men,  even  such  as  are  sometime 
to  shine  in  eminence,  have  passed  their  proba- 
tion of  literature,  or  presume  to  hope  for  any 
other  notice  than  such  as  is  bestowed  on  dili- 
gence and  inquiry.  Among  all  the  efforts  of 
early  genius  which  literary  history  records,  I 
doubt  whether  any  one  can  be  produced  that 
more  surpasses  the  common  limits  of  nature 
than  the  plays  of  Congreve. 

About  this  time  began  the  long-continued 
controversy  between  Collier  and  the  poets. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First  the  Puritans 
had  raised  a  violent  clamour  against  the  drama, 
which  they  considered  as  an  entertainment 
not  lawful  to  Christians,  an  opinion  held  by 
them  in  common  with  the  church  of  Rome; 
and  Prj'nne  published  "Histriomastix,"  a  huge 
volume,  in  which  stage-plays  were  censured. 
The  outrages  and  crimes  of  the  Puritans 
brought  afterwards  their  whole  system  of  doc- 
trine into  disrepute,  and  from  the  Restoration 
the  poets  and  players  were  left  at  quiet;  for 
to  have  molested  them  would  have  had  the 
appearance  of  tendency  to  puritanical  malig- 
nity. 

This  danger,  however,  was  worn  away  by 
time;  and  Collier,  a  fierce  and  implacable 
Nonjuror,  knew  that  an  attack  upon  the  theatre 
would  never  make  him  suspected  for  a  Puritan ; 
he  therefore  (1698)  published  "A  short  View 
of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness  of  the 
English  Stage,"  I  believe  with  no  other  motive 
than  religious  zeal  and  honest  indignation.  He 
was  formed  for  a  controvertist ;  with  sufficient 
learning;  with  diction  vehement  and  pointed, 
though  often  vulgar  and  incorrect ;  with  uncon- 
querable pertinacity;  with  wit  in  the  highest 
degree  keen  and  sarcastic;  and  with  all  those 
powers,  exalted  and  invigorated  by  just  con- 
fidence in  his  cause. 

Thus  qualified,  and  thus  incited,  he  walked 
out  to  battle,  and  assailed  at  once  most  of  the 
living  writers,  from  Dryden  to  D'Urfey.  His 
onset  was  violent;  those  passages,  which, 
while  they  stood  single  had  passed  with  little 
notice,  when  they  were  accumulated  and  ex- 
posed together,  excited  horror;  the  wise  and 
the  pious  caught  the  alarm;  and  the  nation 
wondered  why  it  had  so  long  suffered  irreligion 
and  licentiousness  to  be  openly  taught  at  the 
public  charge. 


Nothing  now  remained  for  the  poets  but 
to  resist  or  fly.  Dryden's  conscience,  or  his 
prudence,  angry  as  he  was,  withheld  him  from 
the  conflict :  Congreve  and  Vanbrugh  attempted 
answers.  Congreve,  a  very  young  man,  elated 
with  success,  and  impatient  of  censure,  as- 
sumed an  air  of  confidence  and  security.  His 
chief  artifice  of  controversy  is  to  retort  upon  his 
adversary  his  own  words;  he  is  very  angry, 
and,  hoping  to  conquer  Collier  with  his  own 
weapons,  allows  himself  in  the  use  of  every 
term  of  contumely  and  contempt;  but  he  has 
the  sword  without  the  arm  of  Scanderbeg;  he 
has  his  antagonist's  coarseness,  but  not  his 
strength.  Collier  replied;  for  contest  was  his 
delight,  he  was  not  to  be  frighted  from  his  pur- 
pose or  his  prey. 

The  cause  of  Congreve  was  not  tenable; 
whatever  glosses  he  might  use  for  the  defence 
or  palliation  of  single  passages,  the  general 
tenor  and  tendency  of  his  plays  must  always 
be  condemned.  It  is  acknowledged,  with  uni- 
versal conviction,  that  the  perusal  of  his  works 
will  make  no  man  better;  and  that  their  ulti- 
mate effect  is  to  represent  pleasure  in  alliance 
with  vice,  and  to  relax  those  obligations  by 
which  life  ought  to  be  regulated. 

The  stage  found  other  advocates,  and  the 
dispute  was  protracted  through  ten  years:  but 
at  last  Comedy  grew  more  modest;  and 
Collier  lived  to  see  the  reward  of  his  labour 
in  the  reformation  of  the  theatre. 

Of  the  powers  by  which  this  important  vic- 
tory was  achieved,  a  quotation  from  "Love 
for  Love,"  and  the  remark  upon  it,  may  afford 
a  specimen: 

"Sir  Samps.  Sampson's  a  very  good  name; 
for  your  Sampsons  were  strong  dogs  from  the 
beginning. 

"Angel.  Have  a  care  —  If  you  remember, 
the  strongest  Sampson  of  your  name  puU'd 
an  old  house  over  his  head  at  last."    . 

Here  you  have  the  Sacred  History  bur- 
lesqued; and  Sampson  once  more  brought 
into  the  house  of  Dagon,  to  make  sport  for 
the  Philistines. 

Congreve's  last  play  was  "The  Way  of  the 
World;"  which,  though  as  he  hints  in  his 
dedication  it  was  written  with  great  labour 
and  much  thought,  was  received  with  so  little 
favour,  that,  being  in  a  high  degree  offended 
and  disgusted,  he  resolved  to  commit  his  quiet 
and  his  fame  no  more  to  the  caprices  of  an 
audience. 

From  this  time  his  life  ceased  to  the  public; 
he  lived  for  himself  and  for  his  friends;    and 


CONGREVE 


237 


among  his  friends  was  able  to  name  every 
man  of  his  time  whom  wit  and  elegance  had 
raised  to  reputation.  It  may  be  therefore 
reasonably  supposed  that  his  manners  were 
polite,  and  his  conversation  pleasing. 

He  seems  not  to  have  taken  much  pleasure 
in  writing,  as  he  contributed  nothing  to  the 
Spectator,  and  only  one  paper  to  the  Tatler, 
though  published  by  men  with  whom  he  might 
be  supposed  willing  to  associate;  and  though 
he  lived  many  years  after  the  publication  of 
his  "Miscellaneous  Poems,"  yet  he  added 
nothing  to  them,  but  lived  on  in  literary  indo- 
lence; engaged  in  no  controversy,  contending 
with  no  rival,  neither  soliciting  flattery  by 
public  commendations,  nor  provoking  enmity 
by  malignant  criticism,  but  passing  his  time 
among  the  great  and  splendid,  in  the  placid 
enjoyment  of  his  fame  and  fortune. 

Having  owed  his  fortune  to  Halifax,  he  con- 
tinued always  of  his  patron's  party,  but,  as 
it  seems,  without  violence  or  acrimony;  and 
his  firmness  was  naturally  esteemed,  as  his 
abilities  were  reverenced.  His  security  there- 
fore was  never  violated;  and  when,  upon  the 
extrusion  of  the  Whigs,  some  intercession  was 
used  lest  Congreve  should  be  displaced,  the 
earl  of  Oxford  made  this  answer: 

"  Non  obtusa  adeo  gestamus  pectora  Poeni, 
Nee  tam  aversus  equos  Tyria  sol  jungit  ab  urbe."  ' 

He  that  was  thus  honoured  by  the  adverse 
party  might  naturally  expect  to  be  advanced 
when  his  friends  returned  to  power,  and  he 
was  accordingly  made  secretary  for  the  island 
of  Jamaica;  a  place,  I  suppose,  without  trust 
or  care,  but  which,  with  his  post  in  the  cus- 
toms, is  said  to  have  afforded  him  twelve  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year. 

His  honours  were  yet  far  greater  than  his 
profits.  Every  writer  mentioned  him  with 
respect;  and,  among  other  testimonies  to  his 
merit,  Steele  made  him  the  patron  of  his  Mis- 
cellany, and  Pope  inscribed  to  him  his  trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad. 

But  he  treated  the  Muses  with  ingratitude; 
for,  having  long  conversed  familiarly  with  the 
great,  he  wished  to  be  considered  rather  as  a 
man  of  fashion  than  of  wit;  and,  when  he 
received  a  visit  from  Voltaire,  disgusted  him 
by  the  despicable  foppery  of  desiring  to  be 
considered  not  as  an  author  but  a  gentleman; 

'  We  Carthaginians  bear  not  such  blunted  souls 
nor  does  the  sun  averse  from  our  city  yoke  his  steeds. 


to  which  the  Frenchman  replied,  ".that,  if  he 
had  been  only  a  gentleman,  he  should  not  have 
come  to  visit  him." 

In  his  retirement  he  may  be  suppo.sed  to 
have  applied  him.self  to  books;  for  he  discovers 
more  literature  than  the  poets  have  commonly 
attained.  But  his  studies  were  in  his  latter 
days  obstructed  by  cataracts  in  his  eyes,  which 
at  last  terminated  in  blindness.  This  melan- 
choly state  was  aggravated  by  the  gout,  for 
which  he  sought  relief  by  a  journey  to  Bath ; 
but,  being  overturned  in  his  chariot,  com- 
plained from  that  time  of  a  pain  in  his  side, 
and  died  at  his  house  in  Surrey-street  in 
the  Strand,  Jan.  29,  1728-9.  Having  lain 
in  state  in  the  Jerusalem-chamber,  he  was 
buried  in  Westminster-abbey,  where  a  monu- 
ment is  erected  to  his  memory  by  Henrietta, 
duchess  of  Marlljorough,  to  whom,  for  reasons 
either  not  known  or  not  mentioned,  he  be- 
queathed a  legacy  of  about  ten  thousand 
pounds;  the  accumulation  of  attentive  parsi- 
mony, which  though  to  her  superfluous  and 
useless,  might  have  given  great  assistance  to 
the  ancient  family  from  which  he  descended, 
at  that  time,  by  the  imprudence  of  his  relation, 
reduced  to  difficulties  and  distress. 

Congreve  has  merit  of  the  highest  kind;  he 
is  an  original  writer,  who  borrowed  neither 
the  models  of  his  plot  nor  the  manner  of  his 
dialogue.  Of  his  plays  I  cannot  speak  dis- 
tinctly; for  since  I  inspected  them  many  years 
have  passed;  but  what  remains  upon  my 
memory  is,  that  his  characters  are  commonly 
fictitious  and  artificial,  with  very  little  of 
nature,  and  not  much  of  life.  He  formed  a 
peculiar  idea  of  comic  excellence,  which  he 
supposed  to  consist  in  gay  remarks  and  un- 
expected answers;  but  that  which  he  en- 
deavoured, he  seldom  failed  of  perfonning. 
His  scenes  exhibit  not  much  of  humour, 
imagery,  or  passion ;  his  personages  are  a  kind 
of  intellectual  gladiators;  every  sentence  is  to 
ward  or  strike;  the  contest  of  smartness  is 
never  intermitted;  his  wit  is  a  meteor  play- 
ing to  and  fro  with  alternate  coruscations. 
His  comedies  have  therefore,  in  some  degree, 
the  operation  of  tragedies;  they  surprise  rather 
than  divert,  and  rai.se  admiration  oftener  than 
merriment.  But  they  are  the  works  of  a  mind 
replete  with  images,  and  quick  in  combination. 

Of  his  miscellaneous  poetry  I  cannot  say 
any  thing  very  favourable.  The  powers  of 
Congreve  seem  to  desert  him  when  he  leaves 
the  stage,  as  Antaeus  was  no  longer  strong 
than   when   he   could  touch   the   ground.     It 


238 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


cannot  be.  observed  without  wonder,  that  a 
mind  so  vigorous  and  fertile  in  dramatic  com- 
positions should  on  any  other  occasion  dis- 
cover nothing  but  impotence  and  poverty.  He 
has  in  these  little  pieces  neither  elevation  of 
fancy,  selection  of  language,  nor  skill  in  versi- 
fication; yet,  if  I  were  required  to  select  from 
the  whole  mass  of  English  poetry  the  most 
poetical  paragraph,  I  know  not  what  I  could 
prefer  to  an  exclamation  in  "The  Mourning 
Bride": 

Aim.    It  was  a  fancy'd  noise;  for  allis  hush' d. 
Leo.    It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 
Aim.    It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient  wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle: 
We'll  listen  — 
Leo.    Hark ! 

Aim.    No,  all  is  hush'd  and  still  as  death.  —  Tis 
dreadful ! 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads, 
To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immoveable, 
Looking  tranquillity !     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight;   the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
Thy'  voice  —  my  own  affrights  me  with  its  echoes. 

He  who  reads  these  lines  enjoys  for  a  moment 
the  powers  of  a  poet;  he  feels  what  he  remem- 
bers to  have  felt  before;  but  he  feels  it  with 
great  increase  of  sensibility;  he  recognizes  a 
familiar  image,  but  meets  it  again  amplified 
and  expanded,  embellished  with  beauty,  and 
enlarged  with  majesty. 

Yet  could  the  author,  who  appears  here  to 
have  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  Nature,  lament 
the  death  of  queen  Mary  in  lines  like  these : 

The  rocks  are  cleft,  and  new-descending  rills 
Furrow  the  brows  of  all  the  impending  hills. 
The  water-gods  to  floods  their  rivulets  turn. 
And  each,  with  streaming  eyes,  suppHes  his  wanting 

urn. 
The  Fauns  forsake  the  woods,  the  Nymphs  the  grove, 
And  round  the  plain  in  sad  distractions  rove: 
In  prickly  brakes  their  tender  limbs  they  tear, 
And  leave  on  thorns  their  locks  of  golden  hair. 
With  their  sharp  nails,  themselves  the  Satyrs  wound, 

And  tug  their  shaggy  beards,  and  bite  with  grief  the 
ground. 

Lo  Pan  himself,  beneath  a  blasted  oak, 

Dejected  lies,  his  pipe  in  pieces  broke. 

See  Pales  weeping  too,  in  wild  despair. 

And  to  the  piercing  winds  her  bosom  bare. 


And  sec  yon  fading  myrtle,  where  appears 

The  Queen  of  Love,  all  bath'd  in  flowing  tears; 

See  how  she  wrings  her  hands,  and  beats  her  breast, 

And  tears  her  useless  girdle  from  her  waist ! 

Hear  the  sad  mumiurs  of  her  sighing  doves  ! 

For  grief  they  sigh,  forgetful  of  their  loves. 

And,  many  years  after,  he  gave  no  proof  that 
time  had  improved  his  wisdom  or  his  wit ;  for, 
on  the  death  of  the  marquis  of  Blandford,  this 
was  his  song: 

And  now  the  winds,  which  had  so  long  been  still, 

Began  the  swelling  air  with  sighs  to  fill ! 

The  water  nymphs,  who  motionless  remain'd, 

Like  images  of  ice,  while  she  complain' d. 

Now  loos'd  their  streams;   as  when  descending  rains 

Roll  the  steep  torrents  headlong  o'er  the  plains. 

The  prone  creation,  who  so  long  had  gaz'd, 

Charm'd  with  her  cries,  and  at  her  griefs  amaz'd, 

Began  to  roar  and  howl  with  horrid  yell, 

Dismal  to  hear,  and  terrible  to  tell  1 

Nothing  but  groans  and  sighs  were  heard  around. 

And  Echo  multiplied  each  mournful  sound. 

In  both  these  funeral  poems,  when  he  has 
yelled  out  many  syllables  of  senseless  dolour, 
he  dismisses  his  reader  with  senseless  conso- 
lation :  from  the  grave  of  Pastora  rises  a  light 
that  forms  a  star;  and  where  Amaryllis  wept 
for  Amyntas,  from  every  tear  sprung  up  a 
violet. 

But  William  is  his  hero,  and  of  William  he 
will  sing: 

The  hovering  winds  on  downy  wings  shall  wait  around. 
And  catch,  and  waft  to  foreign  lands,  the  flying  sound. 

It  cannot  but  be  proper  to  show  what  they 
shall  have  to  catch  and  carry: 

'Twas  now  when  flowery  lawns  the  prospect  made. 

And  flowing  brooks  beneath  a  forest  shade, 

A  lowing  heifer,  loveliest  of  the  herd. 

Stood  feeding  by;   while  two  fierce  bulls  prepar'd 

Their  armed  heads  for  fight,  by  fate  -of  war  to  prove 

The  victor  worthy  of  the  fair-one's  love; 

Unthought  presage  of  what  met  next  my  view; 

For  soon  the  shady  scene  withdrew. 

And  now,  for  woods  and  fields,  and  springing  flowers. 

Behold   a  town    arise,    bulwark'd    with    walls    and 

lofty  towers; 
Two  rival  armies  all  the  plain  o'erspread. 
Each  in  battalia  rang'd,  and  shining  arms  array'd; 
With  eager  eyes  beholding  both  from  far 
Namur,  the  prize  and  mistress  of  the  war. 

The  "Birth  of  the  Muse"   is  a  miserable 
fiction.     One    good    line    it    has,    which    was 


ESSAYS    FROM    THE    RAMBLER 


239 


borrowed  from  Dryden.    The  concluding  verses 
are  these: 

This  said,  no  more  rcmain'd.      Th'  ctherial  host 
Again  impatient  crowd  the  crystal  coast. 
The  father,  now,  within  his  spacious  hands; 
Encompass'd    all    the    mingled    mass    of    seas    and 

lands; 
And,  having  heav'd  aloft  the  ponderous  sphere, 
He  launch'd  the  world  to  float  in  ambient  air. 

Of  his  irregular  poems,  that  to  Mrs.  Ara- 
bella Hunt  seems  to  be  the  best:  his  ode  for 
St.  Cecilia's  Day,  however,  has  some  lines 
which  Pope  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote 
his  own. 

His  imitations  of  Horace  are  feebly  para- 
phrastical,  and  the  additions  which  he  makes 
are  of  httle  value.  He  sometimes  retains 
what  were  more  properly  omitted,  as  when  he 
talks  of  vervain  and  gicms  to  propitiate  Venus. 

Of  his  translations,  the  satire  of  Juvenal 
was  written  very  early,  and  may  therefore  be 
forgiven  though  it  have  not  the  massiness  and 
vigour  of  the  original.  In  all  his  versions 
strength  and  sprightliness  are  wanting:  his 
Hymn  to  Venus,  from  Homer,  is  perhaps  the 
best.  His  lines  are  weakened  with  expletives, 
and  his  rhymes  are  frequently  imperfect. 

His  petty  poems  are  seldom  worth  the  cost 
of  criticism;  sometimes  the  thoughts  are  false, 
and  sometimes  common.  In  his  verses  on 
Lady  Gethin,  the  latter  part  is  in  imitation  of 
Dryden's  ode  on  Mrs.  Killigrew;  and  Doris, 
that  has  been  so  lavishly  flattered  by  Steele, 
has  indeed  some  lively  stanzas,  but  the  ex- 
pression might  be  mended;  and  the  inost 
striking  part  of  the  character  had  been  already 
shown  in  "Love  for  Love."  His  "Art  of 
Pleasing"  is  founded  on  a  vulgar,  but  perhaps 
impracticable  principle,  and  the  staleness  of 
the  sense  is  not  concealed  by  any  novelty  of 
illustration  or  elegance  of  diction. 

This  tissue  of  poetry,  from  which  he  seems 
to  have  hoped  a  lasting  name,  is  totally  neg- 
lected, and  known  only  as  appended  to  his 
plays. 

While  comedy  or  while  tragedy  is  regarded, 
his  plays  are  likely  to  be  read;  but,  except 
what  relates  to  the  stage,  I  know  not  that  he 
has  ever  written  a  stanza  that  is  sung,  or  a 
couplet  that  is  quoted.  The  general  character 
of  his  "Miscellanies"  is,  that  they  show  little 
wit,  and  little  virtue. 

Yet  to  him  it  must  be  confessed,  that  we 
are  indebted  for  the  correction  of  a  national 
error,  and  for  the  cure  of  our  Pindaric  mad- 


ness. He  first  taught  the  English  writers  that 
Pindar's  odes  were  regular;  and  though  cer- 
tainly he  had  not  the  fire  requisite  for  the 
higher  species  of  lyric  poetry,  he  has  shown 
us,  that  enthusiasm  has  its  rules,  and  that  in 
mere  confusion  there  is  neither  grace  nor 
greatness. 

ESSAYS    FROM   THE    RAMBLER 

NO.    68.     SATURDAY,    NOVEMBER    10,    1750 

Vivendum  rcctc,  cum  />roptcr  plurima,  tunc  his 
Praecipue  causis,  ut  linguas  mancipiorum 
Contcmnas ;  nam  lingua  nmli  pars  pessima  servi. 

—  Juv. 

Let  us  live  well:    were  it  alone  for  this 

The  baneful  tongue  of  servants  to  despise: 

Slander,  that  worst  of  poisons,  ever  finds 

An  easy  entrance  to  ignoble  minds.  — •  Hervey. 

The  younger  Pliny  has  very  justly  observed, 
that  of  actions  that  deserve  our  attention,  the 
most  splendid  are  not  always  the  greatest. 
Fame,  and  wonder,  and  applause,  are  not 
excited  but  by  external  and  adventitious  cir- 
cumstances, often  distinct  and  separate  from 
virtue  and  heroism.  Eminence  of  station, 
greatness  of  effect,  and  all  the  favours  of  for- 
tune, must  concur  to  place  excellence  in  public 
view;  but  fortitude,  diligence,  and  patience, 
divested  of  their  show,  glide  unobserved  through 
the  crowd  of  life,  and  suffer  and  act,  though 
with  the  same  vigour  and  constancy,  yet  with- 
out pity  and  without  praise. 

This  remark  may  be  extended  to  all  parts  of 
life.  Nothing  is  to  be  estimated  by  its  effect 
upon  common  eyes  and  common  ears.  A 
thousand  miseries  make  silent  and  invisible 
inroads  on  mankind,  and  the  heart  feels  in- 
numerable throbs  which  never  break  into  com- 
plaint. Perhaps,  likewise,  our  pleasures  are 
for  the  most  part  equally  secret,  and  most  are 
borne  up  by  some  private  satisfaction,  some 
internal  consciousness,  some  latent  hope,  some 
peculiar  prospect,  which  they  never  communi- 
cate, but  reserve  for  solitary  hours,  and  clandes- 
tine meditation. 

The  inain  of  life  is,  indeed,  composed  of 
small  incidents  and  petty  occurrences;  of 
wishes  for  objects  not  remote,  and  grief  for 
disappointments  of  no  fatal  consequence;  of 
insect  vexations  which  sting  us  and  fly  away, 
im])ertinences  which  buzz  awhile  about  us, 
and  are  heard  no  more;  of  meteorous  pleas- 
ures which  dance  before  us  and  are  dissipated; 
of  comi)liments  which  glide  off  the  soul  like 


240 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


other  music,  and  are  forgotten  by  him  tliat 
gave  and  him  that  received  them. 

Such  is  the  general  heap  out  of  wliich  every 
man  is  to  cull  his  own  condition;  for,  as  the 
chemists  tell  us,  that  all  bodies  are  resolvable 
into  the  same  elements,  and  that  the  bound- 
less variety  of  things  arises  from  the  different 
proportions  of  very  few  ingredients;  so  a  few 
pains  and  a  few  pleasures  are  all  the  materials 
of  human  life,  and  of  these  the  proportions  are 
partly  allotted  by  Providence,  and  partly  left 
to  the  arrangement  of  reason  and  of  choice. 

As  these  are  well  or  ill  disposed,  man  is  for 
the  most  part  happy  or  miserable.  For  very 
few  are  involved  in  great  events,  or  have  their 
thread  of  life  entwisted  with  the  chain  of 
causes  on  which  amiies  or  nations  are  sus- 
pended; and  even  those  who  seem  wholly 
busied  in  public  affairs,  and  elevated  above 
low  cares,  or  trivial  pleasures,  pass  the  chief 
part  of  their  time  in  familiar  and  domestic 
scenes;  from  these  they  came  into  public  life, 
to  these  they  are  every  hour  recalled  by  pas- 
sions not  to  be  suppressed ;  in  these  they  have 
the  reward  of  their  toils,  and  to  these  at  last 
they  retire. 

The  great  end  of  prudence  is  to  give  cheer- 
fulness to  those  hours,  which  splendour  can- 
not gild  and  acclamation  cannot  exhilarate; 
those  soft  intervals  of  unbended  amusement, 
in  which  a  man  shrinks  to  his  natural  dimen- 
sions, and  throws  aside  the  ornaments  or  dis- 
guises, which  he  feels  in  privacy  to  be  useless 
encumbrances,  and  so  lose  all  effect  when  they 
become  familiar.  To  be  happy  at  home  is 
the  ultimate  result  of  all  ambition,  the  end  to 
which  every  enterprise  and  labour  tends,  and 
of  which  every  desire  prompts  the  prosecution. 

It  is,  indeed,  at  home  that  every  man  must 
be  known  by  those  who  would  make  a  just 
estimate  either  of  his  virtue  or  felicity;  for 
smiles  and  embroidery  are  alike  occasional, 
and  the  mind  is  often  dressed  for  show  in 
painted   honour    and    fictitious    benevolence. 

Ever}'  man  must  have  found  some  whose 
lives,  in  every  house  but  their  own,  was  a 
continual  series  of  hypocrisy,  and  who  con- 
cealed under  fair  appearances  bad  qualities, 
which,  whenever  they  thought  themselves  out 
of  the  reach  of  censure,  broke  out  from  their 
restraint,  like  winds  imprisoned  in  their  caverns, 
and  whom  every  one  had  reason  to  love,  but 
they  whose  love  a  wise  man  is  chiefly  solicitous 
to  procure.  And  there  are  others  who,  with- 
out any  show  of  general  goodness,  and  without 
the   attractions   by  which   popularity   is   con- 


ciliated, are  received  among  their  own  families 
as  bestowers  of  happiness,  and  reverenced  as 
instructors,  guardians,  and  benefactors. 

The  most  authentic  witnesses  of  any  man's 
character  are  those  who  know  him  in  his  own 
family,  and  see  him  without  any  restraint  or 
rule  of  conduct,  but  such  as  he  voluntarily 
prescribes  to  himself.  If  a  man  carries  virtue 
with  him  into  his  private  apartments,  and  takes 
no  advantage  of  unlimited  power  or  probable 
secrecy;  if  we  trace  him  through  the  round  of 
his  time,  and  find  that  his  character,  with 
those  allowances  which  mortal  frailty  must 
always  want,  is  uniform  and  regular,  we  have 
all  the  evidence  of  his  sincerity,  that  one  man 
can  have  with  regard  to  another:  and,  indeed, 
as  hypocrisy  cannot  be  its  own  reward,  we 
may,  without  hesitation,  determine  that  his 
heart  is  pure. 

The  highest  panegyric,  therefore,  that 
private  virtue  can  receive,  is  the  praise  of 
servants.  For,  however  vanity  or  insolence 
may  look  down  with  contempt  on  the  suffrage 
of  men  undignified  by  wealth,  and  unen- 
lightened by  education,  it  very  seldom  happens 
that  they  commend  or  blame  without  justice. 
Vice  and  virtue  are  easily  distinguished.  Op- 
pression, according  to  Harrington's  aphorism, 
will  be  felt  by  those  that  cannot  see  it;  and, 
perhaps,  it  falls  out  very  often  that,  in  moral 
questions,  the  philosophers  in  the  gown,  and 
in  the  livery,  dift"er  not  so  much  in  their  senti- 
ments, as  in  their  language,  and  have  equal 
power  of  discerning  right,  though  they  can- 
not point  it  out  to  others  with  equal  address. 

There  are  very  few  faults  to  be  committed 
in  solitude,  or  without  some  agents,  partners, 
confederates,  or  witnesses;  and,  therefore,  the 
ser\'ant  must  commonly  know  the  secrets  of  a 
master,  who  has  any  secrets  to  entrust;  and 
failings,  merely  personal,  are  so  frequently  ex- 
posed by  that  security  v/hich  pride  and  folly 
generally  produce,  and  so  inquisitively  watched 
by  that  desire  of  reducing  the  inequalities  of 
condition,  which  the  lower  orders  of  the  world 
will  always  feel,  that  the  testimony  of  a  menial 
domestic  can  seldom  be  considered  as  defective 
for  want  of  knowledge.  And  though  its  im- 
partiality may  be  sometimes  suspected,  it  is  at 
least  as  credible  as  that  of  equals,  where  rivalry 
instigates  censure,  or  friendship  dictates  pallia- 
tions. 

The  danger  of  betraying  our  weaknesses  to 
our  servants,  and  the  impossibility  of  conceal- 
ing it  from  them,  may  be  justly  considered  as 
one   motive   to   a   regular  and   irreproachable 


ESSAYS    FROM    THE    R.\MBLER 


241 


life.  For  no  condition  is  more  hateful  or 
despicable,  than  his  who  has  put  himself  in 
the  power  of  his  servant;  in  the  power  of  him 
whom,  perhaps,  he  has  first  corrupted  I)y  mak- 
ing him  subservient  to  his  vices,  and  whose 
fidehty  he  therefore  cannot  enforce  by  any 
precepts  of  honesty  or  reason.  It  is  seldom 
known  that  authority  thus  acquired,  is  pos- 
sessed without  insolence,  or  that  the  master  is 
not  forced  to  confess  by  his  tameness  or  for- 
bearance, that  he  has  enslaved  himself  by 
some  foolish  confidence.  And  his  crime  is 
equally  punished,  whatever  part  he  takes  of 
the  choice  to  which  he  is  reduced;  and  he  is 
from  that  fatal  hour,  in  which  he  sacrificed 
his  dignity  to  his  passions,  in  perpetual  dread 
of  insolence  or  defamation;  of  a  controller  at 
home,  or  an  accuser  abroad.  He  is  condemned 
to  purchase,  by  continual  bribes,  that  secrecy 
which  bribes  never  secured,  and  which,  after  a 
long  course  of  submission,  promises,  and  anxi- 
eties, he  will  find  violated  in  a  fit  of  rage, 
or  in  a  frolic  of  drunkenness. 

To  dread  no  eye,  and  to  suspect  no  tongue, 
is  the  great  prerogative  of  innocence;  an 
exemption  granted  only  to  invariable  virtue. 
But,  guilt  has  always  its  horrors  and  solici- 
tudes; and  to  make  it  yet  more  shameful  and 
detestable,  it  is  doomed  often  to  stand  in  awe 
of  those,  to  whom  nothing  could  give  influence 
or  weight,  but  their  power  of  betraying. 

NO.  6g.     TUESDAY,   NOVEMBER   13,   1750 

Flet  quoqiie,  ut  hi  spcculo  rugas  adspcxit  aniles, 
Tyndaris ;  et  sccum,  cur  sit  bis  rapta,  rcquirit. 
Tempus  edax  reruni,  tuque  invidiosa  vctustas 
Omnia  dcslruitis ;    vitiataque  dcntihus  aevi 
Paulatim  lenta  consumitis  omnia  mortc.  —  Ovid. 

The  dreadful  wrinkles  when  poor  Helen  spy'd, 
Ah!    why  this  second  rape?  —  with  tears  she  cry'd. 
Time,  thou  devourer,  and  thou  envious  age, 
Who  all  destroy  with  keen  corroding  rage, 
Beneath  your  jaws,  whate'er  have  pleas'd  or  please. 
Must  sink,  consum'd  by  swift  or  slow  degrees.    " 

—  Elphinston. 

An  old  Greek  epigrammatist,  intending  to 
show  the  miseries  that  attend  the  last  stage 
of  man,  imprecates  upon  those  who  are  so 
foolish  as  to  wish  for  long  life,  the  calamity 
of  continuing  to  grow  old  from  century  to 
century.  He  thought  that  no  adventitious  or 
foreign  pain  was  requisite;  that  decrepitude 
itself  was  an  epitome  of  whatever  is  dreadful ; 
and  nothing  could  be  added  to  the  curse  of 


age,  but  that  it  should  be  extended  beyond  its 
natural  limits. 

The  most  indifferent  or  negligent  spectator 
can  indeed  scarcely  retire  without  heaviness  of 
heart,  from  a  view  of  the  last  scenes  of  the  trag- 
edy of  life,  in  which  he  finds  those,  who  in  the 
former  parts  of  the  drama,  were  distinguished 
by  opposition  of  conduct,  contrariety  of  de- 
signs, and  dissimilitude  of  personal  qualities, 
all  involved  in  one  common  distress,  and  all 
struggling  with  affliction  which  they  cannot 
hope  to  overcome. 

The  other  miseries,  which  waylay  our  pass- 
age through  the  world,  wisdom  may  escape, 
and  fortitude  may  conquer:  by  caution  and 
circumspection  we  may  steal  along  with  very 
little  to  obstruct  or  incommode  us;  by  spirit 
and  vigour  we  may  force  a  way,  and  reward 
the  vexation  of  contest  by  the  pleasures  of 
victory.  But  a  time  must  come  when  our 
policy  and  bravery  shall  be  equally  useless; 
when  we  shall  all  sink  into  helplessness  and 
sadness,  without  any  power  of  receiving  solace 
from  the  pleasures  that  have  formerly  delighted 
us,  or  any  prospect  of  emerging  into  a  second 
possession  of  the  blessings  that  we  have  lost. 

The  industry  of  man  has,  indeed,  not  been 
wanting  in  endeavours  to  procure  comforts  for 
these  hours  of  dejection  and  melancholy,  and 
to  gild  the  dreadful  gloom  with  artificial  light. 
The  most  usual  support  of  old  age  is  wealth. 
He  whose  possessions  are  large,  and  whose 
chests  are  full,  imagines  himself  always  forti- 
fied against  invasions  on  his  authority.  If  he 
has  lost  all  other  means  of  government,  if  his 
strength  and  his  reason  fail  him,  he  can  at 
last  alter  his  will;  and  therefore  all  that  have 
hopes  must  likewise  have  fears,  and  he  may 
still  continue  to  give  laws  to  such  as  have  not 
ceased  to  regard  their  own  interest. 

This  is,  indeed,  too  frequently  the  citadel  of 
the  dotard,  the  last  fortress  to  which  age  re- 
tires, and  in  which  he  makes  the  stand  against 
the  upstart  race  that  seizes  his  domains,  dis- 
putes his  commands,  and  cancels  his  prescrip- 
tions. But  here,  though  there  may  be  safety, 
there  is  no  pleasure;  and  what  remains  is  but 
a  proof  that  more  was  once  possessed. 

Nothing  seems  to  have  been  more  univer- 
sally dreaded  by  the  ancients  than  orbity,  or 
want  of  children;  and,  indeed,  to  a  man  who 
has  survived  all  the  companions  of  his  youth, 
all  who  have  particii)ated  his  pleasures  and 
his  cares,  have  been  engaged  in  the  same 
events,  and  filled  their  minds  with  the  same 
conceptions,  this  full-peopled  world  is  a  dismal 


242 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


solitude.  He  stands  forlorn  and  silent,  neg- 
lected or  insulted,  in  the  midst  of  multitudes, 
animated  with  hopes  which  he  cannot  share, 
and  employed  in  business  which  he  is  no 
longer  able  to  forward  or  retard;  nor  can  he 
find  any  to  whom  his  life  or  his  death  are  of 
importance,  unless  he  has  secured  some  do- 
mestic gratifications,  some  tender  employ- 
ments, and  endeared  himself  to  some  whose 
interest  and  gratitude  may  unite  them  to 
him. 

So  different  are  the  colours  of  life  as  we 
look  forward  to  the  future,  or  backward  to  the 
past;  and  so  different  the  opinions  and  senti- 
ments which  this  contrariety  of  appearance 
naturally  produces,  that  the  conversation  of 
the  old  and  young  ends  generally  with  con- 
tempt or  pity  on  either  side.  To  a  young  man 
entering  the  world  with  fulness  of  hope,  and 
ardour  of  pursuit,  nothing  is  so  unpleasing  as 
the  cold  caution,  the  faint  expectations,  the 
scrupulous  diffidence,  which  experience  and 
disappointments  certainly  infuse;  and  the  old 
wonders  in  his  turn  that  the  world  never  can 
grow  wiser,  that  neither  precepts,  nor  testi- 
monies can  cure  boys  of  their  credulity  and 
sufficiency;  and  that  no  one  can  be  convinced 
that  snares  are  laid  for  him,  till  he  finds  him- 
self entangled. 

Thus  one  generation  is  always  the  scorn  and 
wonder  of  the  other,  and  the  notions  of  the  old 
and  young  are  like  liquors  of  different  gravity 
and  texture  which  never  can  unite.  The 
spirits  of  youth  sublimed  by  health,  and 
volatilised  by  passion,  soon  leave  behind  them 
the  phlegmatic  sediment  of  weariness  and 
deliberation,  and  burst  out  in  temerity  and 
enterprise.  The  tenderness  therefore  which 
nature  infuses,  and  which  long  habits  of  be- 
neficence confirm,  is  necessary  to  reconcile  such 
opposition;  and  an  old  man  must  be  a  father 
to  bear  with  patience  those  follies  and  absurdi- 
ties which  he  will  perpetually  imagine  himself 
to  find  in  the  schemes  and  expectations,  the 
pleasures  and  the  sorrows,  of  those  who  have 
not  yet  been  hardened  by  time,  and  chilled  by 
frustration. 

Yet  it  may  be  doubted,  wdiether  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  children  ripening  into  strength,  be 
not  overbalanced  by  the  pain  of  seeing  some 
fall  in  their  blossom,  and  others  blasted  in 
their  growth ;  some  shaken  down  with  storms, 
some  tainted  with  cankers,  and  some  shrivelled 
in  the  shade ;  and  whether  he  that  extends  his 
care  beyond  himself,  does  not  multiply  his 
anxieties  more  than  his  pleasures,  and  weary 


himself  to  no  purpose,  by  superintending  what 
he  cannot  regulate. 

But,  though  age  be  to  every  order  of  human 
beings  sufficiently  terrible,  it  is  particularly  to 
be  dreaded  by  fine  ladies,  who  have  had  no 
other  end  or  ambition  than  to  fill  up  the  day 
and  the  night  with  dress,  diversions,  and 
flattery,  and  who,  having  made  no  acquaint- 
ance with  knowledge,  or  with  business,  have 
constantly  caught  all  their  ideas  from  the 
current  prattle  of  the  hour,  and  been  indebted 
for  all  their  happiness  to  compliments  and 
treats.  With  these  ladies,  age  begins  early, 
and  very  often  lasts  long;  it  begins  when  their 
beauty  fades,  when  their  mirth  loses  its  spright- 
liness,  and  their  motion  its  ease.  From  that 
time  all  which  gave  them  joy  vanishes  from 
about  them;  they  hear  the  praises  bestowed 
on  others,  which  used  to  swell  their  bosoms 
with  exultation.  They  visit  the  seats  of 
felicity,  and  endeavour  to  continue  the  habit 
of  being  delighted.  But  pleasure  is  only  re- 
ceived when  we  believe  that  we  give  it  in 
return.  Neglect  and  petulance  inform  them 
that  their  power  and  their  value  are  past; 
and  what  then  remains  but  a  tedious  and 
comfortless  uniformity  of  time,  without  any 
motion  of  the  heart,  or  exercise  of  the  reason? 

Yet,  however  age  may  discourage  us  by  its 
appearance  from  considering  it  in  prospect, 
we  shall  all  by  degrees  certainly  be  old;  and 
therefore  we  ought  to  inquire  what  provision 
can  be  made  against  that  time  of  distress? 
what  happiness  can  be  stored  up  against  the 
winter  of  life?  and  how  we  may  pass  our 
latter  years  with  serenity  and  cheerfulness? 

If  it  has  been  found  by  the  experience  of 
mankind,  that  not  even  the  best  seasons  of 
life  are  able  to  supply  sufficient  gratifications, 
without  anticipating  uncertain  felicities,  it 
cannot  surely  be  supposed  that  old  age,  worn 
with  labours,  harassed  with  anxieties,  and 
tortured  with  diseases,  should  have  any  glad- 
ness of  its  own,  or  feel  any  satisfaction  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  present.  All  the 
comfort  that  can  now  be  expected  must  be 
recalled  from  the  past,  or  borrowed  from  the 
future;  the  past  is  very  soon  exhausted,  all 
the  events  or  actions  of  which  the  memory 
can  afford  pleasure  are  quickly  recollected; 
and  the  future  lies  beyond  the  grave,  where  it 
can  be  reached  only  by  virtue  and  devotion. 

Piety  is  the  only  proper  and  adequate  relief 
of  decaying  man.  He  that  grows  old  without 
religious  hopes,  as  he  declines  into  imbecility, 
and  feels  pains  and  sorrows  incessantly  crowd- 


DAVID    HUME 


243 


ing  upon  him,  falls  into  a  gulf  of  bottomless 
misery,  in  which  every  reflection  must  plunge 
him  deeper,  and  where  he  finds  only  new 
gradations  of  anguish,  and  precipices  of  horror. 


DAVID   HUME   (1711-1776) 

AN  INQUIRY   CONCERNING  THE  PRIN- 
CIPLES   OF   MORALS 

SECT,    v.  — WHY    UTILITY   PLEASES 

Part  II 

Self-love  is  a  principle  in  human  nature  of 
such  extensive  energy,  and  the  interest  of  each 
individual  is,  in  general,  so  closely  connected 
with  that  of  the  community,  that  those  philoso- 
phers were  excusable,  who  fancied,  that  all 
our  concern  for  the  public  might  be  resolved 
into  a  concern  for  our  own  happiness  and 
preservation.  They  saw  every  moment,  in- 
stances of  approbation  or  blame,  satisfaction 
or  displeasure  towards  characters  and  actions; 
they  denominated  the  objects  of  these  senti- 
ments, virtues,  or  vices;  they  observed,  that 
the  former  had  a  tendency  to  increase  the 
happiness,  and  the  latter  the  misery  of  man- 
kind; they  asked,  whether  it  were  possible 
that  we  could  have  any  general  concern  for 
society,  or  any  disinterested  resentment  of  the 
welfare  or  injury  of  others;  they  found  it 
simpler  to  consider  all  these  sentiments  as 
modifications  of  self-love;  and  they  discovered 
a  pretence,  at  least,  for  this  unity  of  principle, 
in  that  close  union  of  interest,  which  is  so 
observable  between  the  public  and  each 
individual. 

But  notwithstanding  this  frequent  confusion 
of  interests,  it  is  easy  to  attain  what  natural 
philosophers,  after  Lord  Bacon,  have  affected 
to  call  the  experimentiim  criicis,  or  that  ex- 
periment which  points  out  the  right  way  in 
any  doubt  or  ambiguity.  We  have  found  in- 
stances, in  which  private  interest  was  separate 
from  public;  in  which  it  was  even  contrary: 
And  yet  we  observed  the  moral  sentiment  to 
continue,  notwithstanding  this  disjunction  of 
interests.  And  wherever  these  distinct  in- 
terests sensibly  concurred,  we  always  found  a 
sensible  increase  of  the  sentiment,  and  a  more 
warm  affection  to  virtue,  and  detestation  of 
vice,  or  what  we  properly  call,  gratitude  and 
revenge.  Compelled  by  these  instances,  we 
must  renounce  the  theory  which  accounts  for 
every  moral  sentiment  by  the  principle  of  self- 


love.  We  must  adopt  a  more  public  affection 
and  allow,  that  the  interests  of  society  are  not, 
even  on  their  own  account,  entirely  indifferent 
to  us.  Usefulness  is  only  a  tendency  to  a  cer- 
tain end;  and  it  is  a  contradiction  in  terms, 
that  anything  pleases  as  means  to  an  end, 
where  the  end  itself  no  wise  affects  us.  If 
usefulness,  therefore,  be  a  source  of  moral 
sentiment,  and  if  this  usefulness  be  not  always 
considered  with  a  reference  to  self;  it  follows, 
that  everything,  which  contrilnites  to  the  hap- 
piness of  society,  recommends  itself  directly 
to  our  approbation  and  good-will.  Here  is  a 
principle,  which  accounts,  in  great  part,  for 
the  origin  of  morality:  And  what  need  we 
seek  for  abstruse  and  remote  systems,  when 
there  occurs  one  so  obvious  and  natural? 

Have  we  any  difiiculty  to  comprehend  the 
force  of  humanity  and  benevolence?  Or  to 
conceive,  that  the  very  aspect  of  happiness, 
joy,  prosperity,  gives  pleasure;  that  of  pain, 
suffering,  sorrow,  communicates  uneasiness? 
The  human  countenance,  says  Horace,  borrows 
smiles  or  tears  from  the  human  countenance. 
Reduce  a  person  to  solitude,  and  he  loses  all 
enjoyment,  except  either  of  the  sensual  or 
speculative  kind;  and  that  because  the  move- 
ments of  his  heart  are  not  forwarded  by  cor- 
respondent movements  in  his  fellow-creatures. 
The  signs  of  sorrow  and  mourning,  though 
arbitrary,  affect  us  with  melancholy;  but  the 
natural  symptoms,  tears  and  cries  and  groans, 
never  fail  to  infuse  compassion  and  uneasiness. 
And  if  the  effects  of  misery  touch  us  in  so  lively 
a  manner;  can  we  be  supposed  altogether  in- 
sensible or  indifferent  towards  its  causes;  when 
a  malicious  or  treacherous  character  and  be- 
haviour are  presented  to  us? 

We  enter,  I  shall  suppose,  into  a  convenient, 
warm,  well-contrived  apartment:  We  neces- 
sarily receive  a  pleasure  from  its  very  survey; 
because  it  presents  us  with  the  pleasing  ideas 
of  ease,  satisfaction,  and  enjoyment.  The 
hospitable,  good-humoured,  humane  landlord 
appears.  This  circumstance  surely  must  em- 
bellish the  whole;  nor  can  we  easily  forbear 
reflecting,  with  pleasure,  on  the  satisfaction 
which  results  to  every  one  from  his  intercourse 
and  good  offices. 

His  whole  family,  by  the  freedom,  case,  con- 
fidence, and  calm  enjoyment,  difl'used  over 
their  countenances,  sufliciently  express  their 
happiness.  I  have  a  pleasing  sympathy  in 
the  prospect  of  so  mucli  joy,  and  can  never  con- 
sider the  source  of  it,  without  the  most  agree- 
able emotions. 


244 


DAVID    HUME 


He  tells  me,  that  an  oppressive  and  powerful 
neighbour  had  attempted  to  dispossess  him  of 
his  inheritance,  and  had  long  disturbed  all  his 
innocent  and  social  pleasures.  I  feel  an  im- 
mediate indignation  arise  in  me  against  such 
violence  and   injury. 

But  it  is  no  wonder,  he  adds,  that  a  private 
wrong  should  proceed  from  a  man,  who  had 
enslaved  provinces,  depopulated  cities,  and 
made  the  field  and  scaffold  stream  with  human 
blood.  I  am  struck  with  horror  at  the  prospect 
of  so  much  misery,  and  am  actuated  by  the 
strongest  antipathy  against  its  author. 

In  general,  it  is  certain,  that,  wherever  we 
go,  whatever  we  reflect  on  or  converse  about, 
everything  still  presents  us  with  the  view  of 
human  happiness  or  misery,  and  excites  in  our 
breast  a  sympathetic  movement  of  pleasure 
or  uneasiness.  In  our  serious  occupations, 
in  our  careless  amusements,  this  principle 
still  exerts  its  active  energ}^ 

A  man,  who  enters  the  theatre,  is  immediately 
struck  with  the  view  of  so  great  a  multitude, 
participating  of  one  common  amusement;  and 
experiences,  from  their  very  aspect,  a  supe- 
rior sensibility  or  disposition  of  being  affected 
with  every  sentiment,  which  he  shares  with 
his  fellow-creatures. 

He  obsenes  the  actors  to  be  animated  by  the 
appearance  of  a  full  audience,  and  raised  to  a 
degree  of  enthusiasm,  which  they  cannot  com- 
mand in  any  solitary  or  calm  moment. 

Every  movement  of  the  theatre,  by  a  skilful 
poet,  is  communicated,  as  it  were  by  magic, 
to  the  spectators;  who  weep,  tremble,  resent, 
rejoice,  and  are  inflamed  with  all  the  variety 
of  passions,  which  actuate  the  several  person- 
ages of  the  drama. 

Where  any  event  crosses  our  wishes,  and 
interrupts  the  happiness  of  the  favourite  char- 
acters, we  feel  a  sensible  anxiety  and  concern. 
But  where  their  sufferings  proceed  from  the 
treachery,  cruelty,  or  tyranny  of  an  enemy,  our 
breasts  are  affected  with  the  liveliest  resent- 
ment against  the  author  of  these  calamities. 

It  is  here  esteemed  contrary  to  the  rules  of 
art  to  represent  anything  cool  and  indifferent. 
A  distant  friend,  or  a  confidant  who  has  no 
immediate  interest  in  the  catastrophe,  ought, 
if  possible,  to  be  avoided  by  the  poet;  as  com- 
municating a  like  indifference  to  the  audience, 
and  checking  the  progress  of  the  passions. 

Few  species  of  poetry  are  more  entertaining 
than  pastoral;  and  every  one  is  sensible,  that 
the  chief  source  of  its  pleasure  arises  from 
those   images   of   a  gentle   and   tender    tran- 


quillity, which  it  represents  in  its  personages, 
and  of  which  it  communicates  a  like  sentiment 
to  the  reader.  Sannazarius,  who  transferred 
the  scene  to  the  sea-shore,  though  he  presented 
the  most  magnificent  object  in  nature,  is  con- 
fessed to  have  erred  in  his  choice.  The  idea  of 
toil,  labour,  and  danger,  suffered  by  the  fisher- 
men, is  painful;  by  an  unavoidable  sympathy, 
which  attends  every  conception  of  human 
happiness  or  misery. 

When  I  was  twenty,  says  a  French  poet, 
Ovid  was  my  favourite:  Now  I  am  forty,  I 
declare  for  Horace.  We  enter,  to  be  sure, 
more  readily  into  sentiments,  which  resemble 
those  we  feel  every  day:  But  no  passion,  when 
well  represented,  can  be  entirely  indifferent  to 
us;  because  there  is  none,  of  which  every  man 
has  not,  within  him,  at  least  the  seeds  and 
first  principles.  It  is  the  business  of  poetry 
to  bring  every  affection  near  to  us  by  lively 
imagery  and  representation,  and  make  it  look 
like  truth  and  reality:  A  certain  proof,  that, 
wherever  reality  is  found,  our  minds  are 
disposed  to  be  strongly  affected  by  it. 

Anv  recent  event  or  piece  of  news,  by  which 
the  fate  of  states,  provinces,  or  many  individ- 
uals is  affected,  is  extremely  interesting  even 
to  those  whose  welfare  is  not  immediately 
engaged.  Such  intelligence  is  propagated  with 
celerity,  heard  with  avidity,  and  inquired  into 
with  attention  and  concern.  The  interest  of 
society  appears,  on  this  occasion,  to  be,  in  some 
degree,  the  interest  of  each  individual.  The 
imagination  is  sure  to  be  affected;  though  the 
passions  excited  may  not  always  be  so  strong 
and  steady  as  to  have  great  influence  on  the 
conduct  and  behaviour. 

The  perusal  of  a  history  seems  a  calm  en- 
tertainment; but  would  be  no  entertainment 
at  all,  did  not  our  hearts  beat  with  correspond- 
ent movements  to  those  which  are  described 
by  the  historian. 

Thucydides  and  Guicciardin  support  with 
difficulty  our  attention;  while  the  former 
describes  the  trivial  rencounters  of  the  small 
cities  of  Greece,  and  the  latter  the  harmless 
wars  of  Pisa.  The  few  persons  interested,  and 
the  small  interest  fill  not  the  imagination,  and 
engage  not  the  affections.  The  deep  distress 
of  the  numerous  Athenian  army  before  Syra- 
cuse; the  danger,  which  so  nearly  threatens 
Venice;  these  excite  compassion;  these  move 
terror  and  anxiety. 

The  indifferent,  uninteresting  style  of  Sue- 
tonius, equally  with  the  masterly  pencil  of 
Tacitus,   may   convince   us  of  the   cruel  de- 


AN    INQUIRY    CONCERNING    THE    PRINCIPLES    OF    MORALS      245 


pravity  of  Nero  or  Tiberius:  But  what  a  differ- 
ence of  sentiment !  While  the  former  coldly 
relates  the  facts;  and  the  latter  sets  before 
our  e}'es  the  venerable  figures  of  a  Soranus  and 
a  Thrasea,  intrepid  in  their  fate,  and  only 
moved  by  the  melting  sorrows  of  their  friends 
and  kindred.  What  sympathy  then  touches 
every  human  heart !  What  indignation  against 
the  tyrant,  whose  causeless  fear  or  unjjrovoked 
malice  gave  rise  to  such  detestable  barbarity ! 

If  we  bring  these  subjects  nearer:  If  wc 
remove  all  suspicion  of  fiction  and  deceit: 
What  powerful  concern  is  excited,  and  how 
much  superior,  in  many  instances,  to  the  nar- 
row attachments  of  self-love  and  private  inter- 
est !  Popular  sedition,  party  zeal,  a  devoted 
obedience  to  factious  leaders;  these  are  some 
of  the  most  visible,  though  less  laudable  effects 
of  this  social  sympathy  in  human  nature. 

The  frivolousness  of  the  subject  too,  we  may 
observe,  is  not  able  to  detach  us  entirely  from 
what  carries  an  image  of  human  sentiment  and 
affection. 

When  a  person  stutters,  and  pronounces  with 
difficulty,  we  even  sympathise  with  this  trivial 
uneasiness,  and  suffer  for  him.  And  it  is  a 
rule  in  criticism,  that  every  combination  of 
syllables  or  letters,  which  gives  pain  to  the 
organs  of  speech  in  the  recital,  appears  also, 
from  a  species  of  sympathy,  harsh  and  disa- 
greeable to  the  ear.  Nay,  when  we  run  over 
a  book  with  our  eye,  we  are  sensible  of  such 
unharmonious  composition;  because  we  still 
imagine,  that  a  person  recites  it  to  us,  and 
suffers  from  the  pronunciation  of  these  jarring 
sounds.     So  delicate  is  our  sympathy ! 

Easy  and  unconstrained  postures  and  motions 
are  always  beautiful:  An  air  of  health  and  vig- 
our is  agreeable:  Clothes  which  warm,  without 
burdening  the  bodv;  which  cover,  without 
imprisoning  the  limbs,  are  well-fashioned. 
In  every  judgment  of  beauty,  the  feelings  of  the 
person  affected  enter  into  consideration,  and 
communicate  to  the  spectator  similar  touches 
of  pain  or  pleasure.  What  wonder,  then,  if 
we  can  pronounce  no  judgment  concerning  the 
character  and  conduct  of  men,  without  con- 
sidering the  tendencies  of  their  actions,  and  the 
happiness  or  misery  which  thence  arises  to 
society?  What  association  of  ideas  would 
ever  operate,  were  that  principle  here  totally 
unactive  ? 

If  any  man  from  a  cold  insensibility,  or  nar- 
row selfishness  of  temper,  is  unaffected  with  the 
images  of  human  happiness  or  misery,  he  must 
be  equally  indift'erent    to  the  images  of   vice 


and  virtue:  As,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
always  found,  that  a  warm  concern  for  the 
interests  of  our  species  is  attended  with  a 
delicate  feeling  of  all  moral  distinctions;  a 
strong  resentment  of  injury  done  to  men; 
a  lively  approbation  of  their  welfare.  In  this 
particular,  though  great  superiority  is  observ- 
able of  one  man  above  another;  yet  none  are 
so  entirely  indifferent  to  the  interest  of  their 
fellow-creatures,  as  to  perceive  no  distinc- 
tions of  moral  good  and  evil,  in  consequence  of 
the  different  tendencies  of  actions  and  prin- 
ciples. How,  indeed,  can  we  suppose  it  pos- 
sible in  any  one,  who  wears  a  human  heart,  that 
if  there  be  subjected  to  his  censure,  one  char- 
acter or  system  of  conduct,  which  is  beneficial, 
and  another,  which  is  pernicious,  to  his  species 
or  community,  he  will  not  so  much  as  give  a 
cool  preference  to  the  former,  or  ascribe  to  it 
the  smallest  merit  or  regard?  Let  us  suppose 
such  a  person  ever  so  selfish;  let  private 
interest  have  engrossed  ever  so  much  his  at- 
tention; yet  in  instances,  where  that  is  not 
concerned,  he  must  unavoidably  feel  some  pro- 
pensity to  the  good  of  mankind,  and  make 
it  an  object  of  choice,  if  everything  else  be 
equal.  Would  any  man,  who  is  walking  along, 
tread  as  willingly  on  another's  gouty  toes, 
whom  he  has  no  quarrel  with,  as  on  the  hard 
flint  and  pavement?  There  is  here  surely  a 
difference  in  the  case.  We  surely  take  into 
consideration  the  happiness  and  misery  of 
others,  in  weighing  the  several  motives  of  action, 
and  incline  to  the  former,  where  no  private 
regards  draw  us  to  seek  our  own  promotion  or 
advantage  by  the  injury  of  our  fellow-creatures. 
And  if  the  principles  of  humanity  are  capable, 
in  many  instances,  of  influencing  our  actions, 
they  must,  at  all  times,  have  some  authority 
over  our  sentiments,  and  give  us  a  general 
approbation  of  what  is  useful  to  society,  and 
blame  of  what  is  dangerous  or  pernicious. 
The  degrees  of  these  sentiments  may  be  the 
subject  of  controversy ;  but  the  reality  of  their 
existence,  one  should  think,  must  be  admitted, 
in  every  theory  or  system. 

A  creature,  absolutely  malicious  and  spite- 
ful, were  there  any  such  in  nature,  must  be 
worse  than  indifferent  to  the  images  of  vice 
and  virtue.  All  his  sentiments  must  be  in- 
verted, and  directly  opposite  to  those  which 
prevail  in  the  human  species.  Whatever  con- 
tributes to  the  good  of  mankind,  as  it  crosses 
the  constant  bent  of  his  wishes  and  desires, 
must  produce  uneasiness  and  disapprobation; 
and  on  the  contrary,  whatever  is  the  source  of 


246 


DAVID    HUME 


disorder  and  misery  in  society,  must,  for  the 
same  reason,  be  regarded  with  pleasure  and 
complacency.  Timon,  who,  probably  from 
his  affected  spleen,  more  than  any  inveterate 
malice,  was  denominated  the  man-hater,  em- 
braced Alcibiades,  with  great  fondness.  Co 
on  my  hoy!  cried  he,  acquire  the  confidence 
of  the  people:  You  will  one  day,  I  foresee,  be 
the  cause  of  great  calamities  to  them:  Could  we 
admit  the  two  principles  of  the  Manicheans, 
it  is  an  infallible  consequence,  that  their  senti- 
ments of  human  actions,  as  well  as  of  every- 
thing else,  must  be  totally  opposite,  and  that 
every  instance  of  justice  and  humanity,  from 
its  necessary  tendency,  must  please  the  one 
deity  and  displease  the  other.  All  mankind 
so  far  resemble  the  good  principle,  that,  where 
interest  or  revenge  or  envy  perverts  not  our 
disposition,  we  are  always  inclined,  from  our 
natural  philanthropy,  to  give  the  preference 
to  the  happiness  of  society,  and  consequently 
to  virtue,  above  its  opposite.  Absolute,  un- 
provoked, disinterested  malice  has  never,  per- 
haps, place  in  any  human  breast;  or  if  it 
had,  must  there  pervert  all  the  sentiments  of 
morals,  as  well  as  the  feelings  of  humanity. 
If  the  cruelty  of  Nero  be  allowed  entirely 
voluntary,  and  not  rather  the  effect  of  constant 
fear  and  resentment;  it  is  evident,  that  Tigcl- 
linus,  preferably  to  Seneca  or  Burrhus,  must 
have  possessed  his  steady  and  uniform  appro- 
bation. 

A  statesman  or  patriot,  who  serves  our  own 
country,  in  our  own  time,  has  always  a  more 
passionate  regard  paid  to  him,  than  one  whose 
beneficial  intluence  operated  on  distant  ages 
or  remote  nations;  where  the  good,  resulting 
from  his  generous  humanity,  being  less  con- 
nected with  us,  seems  more  obscure,  and  affects 
us  with  a  less  lively  sympathy.  We  may  own 
the  merit  to  be  equally  great,  tliough  our 
sentiments  are  not  raised  to  an  equal  height, 
in  both  cases.  The  judgment  here  corrects 
the  inequalities  of  our  internal  emotions  and 
perceptions;  in  like  manner,  as  it  preserves 
us  from  error,  in  the  several  variations  of 
images,  presented  to  our  e.xternal  senses.  The 
same  object,  at  a  double  distance,  really  tlirows 
on  the  eye  a  picture  of  but  half  the  bulk;  yet 
we  imagine  that  it  appears  of  the  same  size 
in  both  situations;  because  we  know,  that  on 
our  approach  to  it,  its  image  would  expand 
on  the  eye,  and  that  the  difference  consists  not 
in  the  object  itself,  but  in  our  position  with 
regard  _  to  it.  And,  indeed,  without  such  a 
correction  of  appearances,  both  in  internal  and 


external  sentiment,  men  could  never  think  or 
talk  steadily  on  any  subject;  while  their  lluc- 
tuating  situations  produce  a  continual  varia- 
tion on  objects,  and  throw  them  into  such 
different  and  contrary  lights  and  positions. 

The  more  we  converse  with  mankind,  and 
the  greater  social  intercourse  we  maintain,  the 
more  shall  we  be  familiarised  to  these  general 
preferences  and  distinctions,  without  which  our 
conversation  and  discourse  could  scarcelv  be 
rendered  intelligible  to  each  other.  Every 
man's  interest  is  peculiar  to  himself,  and  the 
aversions  and  desires,  which  result  from  it, 
cannot  be  supposed  to  affect  others  in  a  like 
degree.  General  language,  therefore,  being 
formed  for  general  use,  must  be  moulded  on 
some  more  general  views,  and  must  affix  the 
epithets  of  praise  or  blame,  in  conformity  to 
sentiments,  which  arise  from  the  general  in- 
terests of  the  community.  And  if  these  senti- 
ments, in  most  men,  be  not  so  strong  as  those, 
which  have  a  reference  to  private  good;  yet 
still  they  must  make  some  distinction,  even  in 
persons  the  most  depraved  and  selfish;  and 
must  attach  the  notion  of  good  to  a  beneficent 
conduct,  and  of  evil  to  the  contrary.  Sym- 
pathy, we  shall  allow,  is  much  fainter  than  our 
concern  for  ourselves,  and  sympathy  with  jier- 
sons  remote  from  us,  much  fainter  than  that 
with  persons  near  and  contiguous;  but  for 
this  very  reason,  it  is  necessary  for  us,  in  our 
calm  judgments  and  discourse  concerning 
the  characters  of  men,  to  neglect  all  these 
differences,  and  render  our  sentiments  more 
public  and  social.  Besides,  that  we  ourselves 
often  change  our  situation  in  this  particular, 
we  every  day  meet  with  persons,  who  are 
in  a  situation  different  from  us,  and  who  could 
never  converse  with  us,  were  we  to  remain 
constantly  in  that  position  and  point  of  view, 
which  is  peculiar  to  ourselves.  The  inter- 
course of  sentiments,  therefore,  in  society  and 
conversation,  makes  us  form  some  general 
unalterable  standard,  by  which  we  may  ap- 
prove or  disapprove  of  characters  and  man- 
ners. And  though  the  heart  takes  not  part  with 
those  general  notions,  nor  regulates  all  its  love 
and  hatred,  by  the  universal,  abstract  differ- 
ences of  vice  and  virtue,  without  regard  to  self, 
or  the  persons  with  whom  we  are  more  inti- 
mately connected;  yet  have  these  moral  dif- 
ferences a  considerable  influence,  and  being 
sufficient,  at  least,  for  discourse,  serve  all 
our  purposes  in  company,  in  the  pulpit,  on 
the  theatre  and  in  the  schools. 

Thus,  in  whatever  light  we  take  this  subject, 


LAURENCE    STERNE 


247 


the  merit,  ascribed  to  the  social  virtues,  appears 
still  uniform,  and  arises  chielly  from  that  regard, 
which  the  natural  sentiment  of  benevolence 
engages  us  to  pay  to  the  interests  of  mankind 
and  society.  If  we  consider  the  principles 
of  the  human  make,  such  as  they  appear  to 
daily  experience  and  observation,  we  must, 
a  priori,  conclude  it  impossilile  for  such  a 
creature  as  man  to  be  totally  indifferent  to  the 
well  or  ill  being  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  not 
readily,  of  himself,  to  pronounce,  where  noth- 
ing gives  him  any  particular  bias,  that  what 
promotes  their  happiness  is  good,  what  tends 
to  their  misery  is  evil,  without  any  farther  re- 
gard or  consideration.  Here  then  are  the  faint 
rudiments,  at  least,  or  outlines,  of  a  general 
distinction  between  actions;  and  in  proportion 
as  the  humanity  of  the  person  is  supposed  to 
increase,  his  connection  with  those  who  are 
injured  or  benefited,  and  his  lively  conception 
of  their  misery  or  happiness;  his  consequent 
censure  or  approbation  accjuires  proportionable 
vigour.  There  is  no  necessity,  that  a  generous 
action,  barely  mentioned  in  an  old  history 
or  remote  gazette,  should  communicate  any 
strong  feelings  of  applause  and  admiration. 
Virtue,  placed  at  such  a  distance,  is  like  a 
fixed  star,  which,  though  to  the  eye  of  reason, 
it  may  appear  as  luminous  as  the  sun  in  his 
mericOan,  is  so  infinitely  removed,  as  to  affect 
the  senses,  neither  with  light  nor  heat.  Bring 
this  virtue  nearer,  by  our  acquaintance  or  con- 
nection with  the  persons,  or  even  by  an  eloquent 
recital  of  the  case;  our  hearts  are  immediately 
caught,  our  sympathy  enlivened,  and  our  cool 
approbation  converted  into  the  warmest  senti- 
ments of  friendship  and  regard.  These  seem 
necessary  and  infallible  consequences  of  the 
general  principles  of  human  nature,  as  dis- 
covered in  common  life  and  practice. 

Again;  reverse  these  views  and  reasonings: 
Consider  the  matter  a  posteriori;  and  weighing 
the  conseciuenccs,  inquire  if  the  merit  of  social 
virtue  be  not,  in  a  great  measure,  derived  from 
the  feelings  of  humanity,  with  which  it  affects 
the  spectators.  It  appears  to  be  matter  of  fact, 
that  the  circumstance  of  utility,  in  all  subjects, 
is  a  source  of  praise  and  approbation :  That  it 
is  constantly  appealed  to  in  all  moral  decisions 
concerning  the  merit  and  demerit  of  actions: 
That  it  is  the  sole  source  of  that  high  regard 
paid  to  justice,  fidelity,  honour,  allegiance, 
and  chastity:  That  it  is  inseparable  from  all 
the  other  social  virtues,  humanity,  generosity, 
charity,  affability,  lenity,  mercy,  and  modera- 
tion:   And,  in  a  word,  that  it  is  a  foundation 


of  the  chief  part  of  morals,  which  has  a  ref- 
erence to  mankind  and  our  fellow-creatures. 

It  appears  also,  that,  in  our  general  aj)i)ro- 
bation  of  characters  and  manners,  the  useful 
tendency  of  the  social  virtues  moves  us  not  by 
any  regards  to  self-interest,  but  has  an  influence 
much  more  universal  and  extensive.  It  ap- 
pears, that  a  tendency  to  pul)lic  good,  and  to  the 
promoting  of  peace,  harmony,  and  order  in 
society,  does  always,  by  affecting  the  benevolent 
principles  of  our  frame,  engage  us  on  the  side 
of  the  social  virtues.  And  it  appears,  as  an 
additional  confirmation,  that  these  principles 
of  humanity  and  sympathy  enter  so  deei)ly  into 
all  our  sentiments,  and  have  so  powerful  an 
influence,  as  may  enable  them  to  excite  the 
strongest  censure  and  applause.  The  present 
theory  is  the  simple  result  of  all  these  infer- 
ences, each  of  which  seems  founded  on  uniform 
experience  and  observation. 

Were  it  doubtful,  whether  there  were  any  such 
principle  in  our  nature  as  humanity  or  a  con- 
cern for  others,  yet  when  we  see,  in  number- 
less instances,  that  whatever  has  a  tendency 
to  promote  the  interests  of  society,  is  so  highly 
approved  of,  we  ought  thence  to  learn  the  force 
of  the  benevolent  principle;  since  it  is  impos- 
sible for  anything  to  please  as  means  to  an 
end,  where  the  end  is  totally  indifferent.  On 
the  other  hand,  were  it  doubtful,  whether  there 
were,  implanted  in  our  nature,  any  general 
principle  of  moral  blame  and  approbation,  yet 
when  we  see,  in  numberless  instances,  the  in- 
fluence of  humanity,  we  ought  thence  to  con- 
clude, that  it  is  impossible,  but  that  every- 
thing, which  promotes  the  interest  of  society, 
must  communicate  pleasure,  and  what  is 
pernicious  give  uneasiness.  But  when  these 
different  reflections  and  observations  concur 
in  establishing  the  same  conclusion,  must  they 
not  bestow  an  undisputed  evidence  upon  it? 

It  is  however  hoped,  that  the  progress  of  this 
argument  will  bring  a  farther  confirmation  of 
the  present  theory,  by  showing  the  rise  of  other 
sentiments  of  esteem  and  regard  from  the  same 
or  like  principles. 

LAURENCE   STERNE   (17 13-1768) 

TRISTRAM    SHANDY 

VOL.   VIII 

Ch.'^pter  XXIII 

As  soon  as  the  Corporal  had  finished  the 
story  of  his  amour,  —  or  rather  my  uncle  Toby 


248 


LAURENCE    STERNE 


for  him,  —  Mrs.  Wadman  silently  sallied  forth 
from  her  arbour,  replaced  the  pin  in  her  mob, 
passed  the  wicker-gate,  and  advanced  slowly 
towards  my  uncle  Toby's  sentry-box:  the  dis- 
position which  Trim  had  made  in  my  uncle 
Toby's  mind  was  too  favourable  a  crisis  to  be 
let  slip 

—  The  attack  was  determined  upon:  it  was 
facilitated  still  more  by  my  uncle  Toby's 
having  ordered  the  Corporal  to  wheel  off  the 
pioneer's  shovel,  the  spade,  the  pick -axe,  the 
picquets,  and  other  military  stores  which  lay 
scattered  upon  the  ground  where  Dunkirk 
stood.  —  The  Corporal  had  marched ;  —  the 
field  was  clear. 

Now,  consider,  Sir,  what  nonsense  it  is, 
either  in  fighting,  or  writing,  or  anything  else 
(whether  in  rhyme  to  it  or  not),  which  a  man 
has  occasion  to  do,  —  to  act  by  plan :  for  if 
ever  Plan,  independent  of  all  circumstances, 
deserved  registering  in  letters  of  gold  (I  mean 
in  the  archives  of  Gotham)  —  it  was  certainly 
the  plan  of  Mrs.  Wadman's  attack  of  my  uncle 
Toby  in  his  sentry-box,  by  Plan.  Now,  the 
plan  hanging  up  in  it  at  this  juncture,  being  the 
Plan  of  Dunkirk,  —  and  the  tale  of  Dunkirk 
a  tale  of  relaxation,  it  opposed  every  impression 
she  could  make:  and,  besides,  could  she  have 
gone  upon  it,  ^  the  manoeuvre  of  fingers  and 
hands  in  the  attack  of  the  sentry-box  was  so 
outdone  by  that  of  the  fair  Beguine's,  in  Trim's 
story,  —  that  just  then,  that  particular  attack, 
however  successful  before  —  became  the  most 
heartless  attack  that  could  be  made. 

O !  let  woman  alone  for  this.  Mrs.  Wad- 
man  had  scarce  opened  the  wicker-gate,  when 
her  genius  sported  with  the  change  of  circum- 
stances. 

She  formed  a  new  attack  in  a  moment. 


Chapter  XXIV 

—  I  am  half  distracted.  Captain  Shandy,  said 
Mrs.  Wadman,  holding  up  her  cambric-hand- 
kerchief to  her  left  eye,  as  she  approached  the 
door  of  my  uncle  Toby's  sentry-box;  a  mote, 
—  or  sand,  —  or  something,  —  I  know  not 
what,  has  got  into  this  eye  of  mine;  —  do  look 
into  it:  —  it  is  not  in  the  white.  — • 

In  saying  which,  Mrs.  Wadman  edged  her- 
self close  in  beside  my  uncle  Toby  and  squeezing 
herself  down  upon  the  corner  of  his  bench,  she 
gave  him  an  opportunity  of  doing  it  without 
rising  up.  ...     Do  look  into  it,  said  she. 

Honest  soul !  thou  didst  look  into  it  with  as 
much  innocency  of  heart  as  ever  child  looked 


into  a  raree-show -box;  and  'twere  as  much  a 
sin  to  have  hurt  thee. 

If  a  man  will  be  peeping  of  his  own  accord 
into  things  of  that  nature,  I've  nothing  to  say 
to  it. 

My  uncle  Toby  never  did :  and  I  will  answer 
for  him  that  he  would  have  sat  quietly  upon  a 
sofa  from  June  to  January  (which,  you  know, 
takes  in  both  the  hot  and  cold  months),  with 
an  eye  as  fine  as  the  Thracian  Rhodope's 
beside  him,  without  being  able  to  tell  whether 
it  was  a  black  or  a  blue  one. 

The  difficulty  was  to  get  my  uncle  Toby  to 
look  at  one  at  all. 

'Tis  surmounted.     And 

I  see  him  yonder,  with  his  pipe  pendulous 
in  his  hand,  and  the  ashes  falling  out  of  it,  — 
looking,  —  and  looking,  —  then  rubbing  his 
eyes,  —  and  looking  again,  with  twice  the 
good-nature  that  ever  Galileo  looked  for  a 
spot  in  the  sun. 

In  vain !  for,  by  all  the  powers  which  ani- 
mate the  organ  —  Widow  Wadman's  left  eye 
shines  this  moment  as  lucid  as  her  right ;  — 
there  is  neither  mote,  nor  sand,  nor  dust,  nor 
chaff,  nor  speck,  nor  particle  of  opaque  matter 
floating  in  it.  —  There  is  nothing,  my  dear  pa- 
ternal uncle !  but  one  lambent  delicious  fire, 
furtively  shooting  out  from  every  part  of  it, 
in  all  directions  into  thine. 

If  thou  lookest,  uncle  Toby,  in  search  of  this 
mote  one  moment  longer,  thou  art  undone. 

Chapter  XXV 

An  eye  is,  for  all  the  world,  exactly  like  a 
cannon,  in  this  respect,  that  it  is  not  so  much  the 
eye  or  the  cannon,  in  themselves,  as  it  is  the 
carriage  of  the  eye  —  and  the  carriage  of  the 
cannon ;  by  which  both  the  one  and  the  other 
are  enabled  to  do  so  much  execution.  I  don't 
think  the  comparison  a  bad  one:  however,  as 
'tis  made  and  placed  at  the  head  of  the  chapter, 
as  much  for  use  as  ornament;  all  I  desire  in 
return  is  that,  whenever  I  speak  of  Mrs.  Wad- 
man's eyes  (except  once  in  the  next  period) 
that  you  keep  it  in  your  fancy. 

I  protest.  Madam,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I  can 
see  nothing  whatever  in  your  eye. 

.  .  .  It  is  not  in  the  white,  said  Mrs. Wadman. 
—  My  uncle  Toby  looked  with  might  and  main 
into  the  pupil. 

Now,  of  all  the  eyes  which  ever  were  created, 
from  your  own,  Madam,  up  to  those  of  Venus 
herself,  which  certainly  were  as  venereal 
a  pair  of  eyes  as  ever  stood  in  a  head,  there 
never  was  an  eye  of  them  all  so  fitted  to  rob 


TRISTRAM    SHANDY 


249 


my  uncle  Toby  of  his  repose  as  the  very  eye 
at  which  he  was  looking;  —  it  was  not,  Madam, 
a  rolling  eye,  —  a  romping,  or  a  wanton  one; 

—  nor  was  it  an  eye  sparkling,  petulant,  or 
imperious  —  of  high  claims  and  terrifying 
exactions,  which  would  have  curdled  at  once 
that  milk  of  human  nature  of  which  my  uncle 
Toby  was  made  up;  —  but  'twas  an  eye  full 
of  gentle  salutations,  —  and  soft  responses,  — 
speaking,  —  not  like  the  trumpet-stop  of  some 
ill-made  organ,  in  which  many  an  eye  I  talk 
to,  holds  coarse  converse,  but  whispering  soft, 

—  like  the  last  low  accents  of  an  expiring  saint, 
. —  *'How  can  you  live  comfortless.  Captain 
Shandy,  and  alone,  without  a  bosom  to  lean 
your  head  on,  —  or  trust  your  cares  to?" 

It  was  an  eye  — 

But  I  shall  be  in  love  with  it  myself,  if  I  say 
another  word  about  it. 

It  did  my  uncle  Toby's  business. 

Chapter  XXVI 

There  is  nothing  shows  the  characters  of  my 
father  and  my  uncle  Toby  in  a  more  entertain- 
ing light  than  their  different  manner  of  deport- 
ment under  the  same  accident;  —  for  I  call 
not  love  a  misfortune,  from  a  persuasion  that  a 
man's  heart  is  ever  the  better  for  it.  —  Great 
God !  what  must  my  uncle  Toby's  have  been, 
when  'twas  all  benignity  without  it !  — 

My  father,  as  appears  from  many  of  his 
papers,  was  very  subject  to  this  passion  before 
he  married;  —  l)ut,  from  a  little  subacid  kind 
of  drollish  impatience  in  his  nature,  whenever 
it  befell  him,  he  would  never  submit  to  it  like 
a  Christian;  but  would  pish,  and  huff,  and 
bounce,  and  kick,  and  play  the  Devil,  and  write 
the  bitterest  Philippics  against  the  eye  that 
ever  man  wrote :  —  there  is  one  in  verse  upon 
somebody's  eye  or  other,  that  for  two  or  three 
nights  together,  had  put  him  by  his  rest ;  which, 
in  his  first  transport  of  resentment  against  it, 
he  begins  thus:  — 

"A  Devil  'tis  —  and  mischief  such  doth  work 
As  never  yet  did  Pagan,  Jew,  or  Turk." 

In  short,  during  the  whole  paroxysm,  my 
father  was  all  abuse  and  foul  language,  ap- 
proaching rather  towards  malediction ;  —  only 
he  did  not  do  it  with  as  much  method  as 
Ernulphus;  he  was  too  impetuous;  nor  with 
Ernulphus's  policy;  —  for  tho'  my  father,  with 
the  most  intolerant  spirit,  would  curse  both 
this  and  that,  and  everything  under  Heaven, 


which  was  either  aiding  or  abetting  to  his  love, 
^  yet  he  never  concluded  his  chapter,  curses 
upon  it,  without  cursing  himself  into  the  bar- 
gain, as  one  of  the  most  egregious  fools  and  cox- 
combs, he  would  say,  that  ever  was  let  loose  in 
the  world. 

My  uncle  Toby,  on  the  contrary,  took  it  like 
a  lamb,  —  sat  still,  and  let  the  poison  work  in 
his  veins  without  resistance:  —  in  the  sharpest 
exacerbations  of  his  wound  (like  that  on  his 
groin)  he  never  dropped  one  fretful  or  dis- 
contented word,  —  he  blamed  neither  heaven 
nor  earth,  —  nor  thought,  nor  spoke  an  in- 
jurious thing  of  any  body,  nor  any  part  of  it; 
he  sat  solitar)'  and  pensive  with  his  pipe,  — 
looking  at  his  lame  leg,  —  then  whifiing  out 
a  sentimental  heigh-ho!  which,  mixing,  with 
the  smoke,  incommoded  no  one  mortal. 

He  took  it  like  a  lamb,  I  say. 

In  truth,  he  had  mistook  it  at  first;  for, 
having  taken  a  ride  with  my  father  that  vcr)' 
morning,  to  save,  if  possible,  a  beautiful  wood, 
which  the  dean  and  chapter  were  hewing  down 
to  give  to  the  poor;  which  said  wood  being  in 
full  view  of  my  uncle  Toby's  house,  and  of 
singular  service  to  him  in  his  description  of 
the  battle  of  Wynendale,  —  by  trotting  on  too 
hastily  to  save  it,  upon  an  uneasy  saddle,  worse 
horse,  etc.,  etc.  —  it  had  so  happened  that  the 
serous  part  of  the  blood  had  got  betwixt  the 
two  skins  in  the  nethermost  part  of  my  uncle 
Toby,  —  the  first  shootings  of  which  (as  my 
uncle  Toby  had  no  experience  of  love)  he  had 
taken  for  a  part  of  the  passion,  till  the  blister 
breaking  in  the  one  case,  and  the  other  remain- 
ing, my  uncle  Toby  was  presently  convinced 
that  his  wound  was  not  a  skin-deep  wound,  but 
that  it  had  gone  to  his  heart. 


Ch.apter  XXVII 

The  world  is  ashamed  of  being  virtuous.  — 
My  uncle  Toby  knew  little  of  the  world;  and 
therefore,  when  he  felt  he  was  in  love  with 
Widow  Wadman,  he  had  no  conception  that 
the  thing  was  any  more  to  be  made  a  mystery 
of  than  if  Mrs.  Wadman  had  given  him  a  cut 
with  a  gapp'd  knife  across  his  finger.  Had  it 
been  otherwise,  —  yet,  as  he  ever  looked  upon 
Trim  as  a  humble  friend,  and  saw  fresh  rea- 
sons every  day  of  his  life  to  treat  him  as  such, 
—  it  would  have  made  no  variation  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  informed  him  of  the  afltair. 

"I  am  in  love.  Corporal!"  quoth  my  uncle 
Toby. 


250 


LAURENCE    STERNE 


Chapter  XXVIII 

In  love !  —  said  the  Corporal,  —  your  Honour 
was  very  well  the  day  before  yesterday,  when 
I  was  telling  your  Honour  the  story  of  the  King 
of  Bohemia  .  .  .  Bohemia!  said  my  uncle 
Toby  —  musing  a  long  time  —  What  became 
of  that  story,  Trim? 

.  .  .  We  lost  it,  an'  please  your  Honour, 
somehow  betwixt  us ;  but  your  Honour  was  as 
free  from  love  then  as  I  am.  .  .  .  'Twas  just 
as  thou  went'st  off  with  the  wheelbarrow,  — 
with  Mrs.  Wadman,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby.  — 
She  has  left  a  bail  here,  added  my  uncle  Toby, 
pointing  to  his  breast. 

.  .  .  She  can  no  more,  an'  please  your 
Honour,  stand  a  siege  than  she  could  fly,  cried 
the  Corporal. 

.  .  .  But,  as  we  are  neighbours.  Trim,  the 
best  way,  I  think,  is  to  let  her  know  it  civilly 
at  first,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby. 

.  .  .  Now,  if  I  might  presume,  said  the 
Corporal,  to  differ  from  your  Honour.  .  .  . 

...  Why  else  do  I  talk  to  thee.  Trim?  said 
my  uncle  Toby,  mildly.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Then  I  would  begin,  an'  plea.se  your 
Honour,  making  a  good  thundering  attack  upon 
her,  in  return,  —  and  telling  her  civilly  after- 
wards;—  for  if  she  knows  anything  of  your 
Honour's  being  in  love,  beforehand.  .  .  .  L — d 
help  her !  —  she  knows  no  more  at  present  of 
it.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toljy,  —  than  the  child 
unborn. 

Precious  souls !  — 

Mrs.  Wadman  had  told  it,  with  all  its  cir- 
cumstances, to  Mrs.  Bridget,  twenty-four  hours 
before;  and  was  at  that  very  moment  sitting 
in  council  with  her,  touching  some  slight  mis- 
givings with  regard  to  the  issue  of  the  affairs, 
which  the  Devil,  who  never  lies  dead  in  a  ditch, 
had  put  into  her  head,  —  before  he  would 
allow  half  time  to  get  quietly  through  her  Te 
Deum. 

I  am  terribly  afraid,  said  Widow  Wadman, 
in  case  I  should  marry  him,  Bridget,  —  that 
the  poor  Captain  will  not  enjoy  his  health,  with 
the  monstrous  wound  upon  his  groin. 

...  It  may  not.  Madam,  be  so  very  large, 
replied  Bridget,  as  you  think;  —  and  I  believe, 
besides,  added  she,  —  that  'tis  dried  up. 

...  I  could  like  to  know,  —  merely  for  his 
sake,  said  Mrs.  Wadman. 

.  .  .  We'll  know  the  long  and  the  broad  of 
it  in  ten  days,  answered  Mrs.  Bridget;  for 
whilst  the  Captain  is  paying  his  addresses  to 
you,  I'm  confident  Mr.  Trim  will  be  for  mak- 


ing love  to  me;  —  and  I'll  let  him  as  much  as 
he  will,  added  Bridget,  to  get  it  all  out  of  him. 

The  measures  were  taken  at  once ;  —  and 
my  uncle  Toby  and  the  Corporal  went  on  with 
theirs. 

Now,  quoth  the  Corporal,  setting  his  left 
hand  a-kimbo,  and  giving  such  a  flourish  with 
his  right  as  just  promised  success  —  and  no 
more,  —  if  your  Honour  will  give  me  leave  to 
lay  down  the  plan  of  this  attack.  .  .  . 

Thou  wilt  please  me  by  it.  Trim,  said  my 
uncle  Toby,  exceedingly:  —  and,  as  I  foresee 
thou  must  act  in  it  as  my  aide-de-camp,  here's 
a  crown,  Corporal,  to  begin  with,  to  steep  thy 
commission. 

.  .  .  Then,  an'  please  your  Honour,  said  the 
Corporal  (making  a  bow  first  for  his  commis- 
sion) —  we  will  begin  by  getting  your  Honour's 
laced  clothes  out  of  the  great  campaign-trunk, 
to  be  well  aired,  and  have  the  blue  and  gold 
taken  up  at  the  sleeves;  —  and  I'll  put  your 
white  Ramallie-wig  fresh  into  pipes;  —  and 
send  for  a  tailor  to  have  your  Honour's  thin 
scarlet  breeches  turned.  .  .  . 

I  had  better  take  the  red  plush  ones,  quoth 
my  uncle  Toby.  .  .  .  They  will  be  too  clumsy, 
said  the  Corporal. 

Chapter  XXIX 

.  .  .  Thou  wilt  get  a  brush  and  a  little 
chalk  to  my  sword.  .  .  . 

'Twill  be  only  in  your  Honour's  way,  replied 
Trim. 

Chapter  XXX 

.  .  .  But  your  Honour's  two  razors  shall  be 
new  set  — •  and  I  will  get  my  Montero-cap 
furbished  up,  and  put  on  poor  Lieutenant  Le 
Fevre's  regimental  coat,  which  your  Honour 
gave  me  to  wear  for  his  sake;  —  and  as  soon 
as  your  Honour  is  clean  shaved,  —  and  has  got 
your  clean  shirt  on,  with  your  blue  and  gold  or 
your  fine  scarlet,  —  sometimes  one  and  some- 
times t'other,  —  and  everything  is  ready  for 
the  attack,  —  we'll  march  up  boldly,  as  if  it 
was  to  the  face  of  a  bastion;  and  whilst  your 
Honour  engages  Mrs.  Wadman  in  the  parlour, 
to  the  right,  —  I'll  attack  Mrs.  Bridget  in  the 
kitchen  to  the  left ;  and  having  seized  the  pass, 
I'll  answer  for  it,  said  the  Corporal,  snapping 
his  fingers  over  his  head,  —  that  the  day  is  our 
own. 

...  I  wish  I  may  but  manage  it  right,  said 
my  uncle  Toby;  —  but  I  declare.  Corporal, 
I  had  rather  march  up  to  the  very  edge  of  a 
trench. 


TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 


251 


...  A  woman  is  quite  a  different  thing, 
said  the  Corporal. 

...  I  suppose  so,  quoth  my  uncle  Toiiy. 

TOBIAS   SMOLLETT   (1721-1771) 
From   HUMPHRY   CLINKER 

To  Sir  Watkin  Phillips,  of  Jesus 
College,  Oxon 

Edinl)urgh,  August  8. 
Dear  Phillips, 

If  I  stay  much  longer  at  Edinburgh,  I  shall 
be  changed  into  a  downright  Caledonian.  My 
uncle  oi)serves  that  I  have  already  acquired 
something  of  the  country  accent.  The  people 
here  are  so  social  and  attentive  in  their  civilities 
to  strangers,  that  I  am  insensibly  sucked  into 
the  channel  of  their  manners  and  customs, 
although  they  are  in  fact  much  more  different 
from  ours  than  you  can  imagine.  That  dif- 
ference, however,  which  struck  me  very  much 
at  my  first  arrival,  I  now  hardly  perceive,  and 
my  ear  is  perfectly  reconciled  to  the  Scotch 
accent,  which  I  find  even  agreealjle  in  the  mouth 
of  a  pretty  woman.  It  is  a  sort  of  Doric  dialect, 
which  gives  an  idea  of  amiable  simplicity.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  we  have  been  caressed 
and  feasted  in  the  good  town  of  Edinburgh,  of 
which  we  are  become  free  denizens  and  guild- 
brothers,  by  the  special  favour  of  the  magis- 
tracy. 

I  had  a  whimsical  commission  from  Bath 
to  a  citizen  of  this  metropolis.  Quin,  under- 
standing our  intention  to  visit  Edinburgh, 
pulled  out  a  guinea,  and  desired  the  favour  I 
would  drink  it  at  a  tavern,  with  a  particular 
friend  and  bottle  companion  of  his,  one  Mr. 

R.    C ,  a  lawyer  of  this  city.     I   charged 

myself  with  the  commission,  and  taking  the 
guinea,  "You  see,"  said  I,  "I  have  pocketed 
your  bounty."  —  "Yes,"  replied  Quin,  laugh- 
ing, "and  a  headache  into  the  bargain,  if  you 
drink  fair."     I  made  use  of  this  introduction  to 

Mr.  C ,  who  received  me  with  open  arms, 

and  gave  me  the  rendezvous,  according  to  the 
cartel.  He  had  provided  a  company  of  jolly 
fellows,  among  whom  I  found  myself  extremely 

happy,  and  did  Mr.  C and  Quin  all  the 

justice  in  my  power;  but,  alas !  I  was  no  more 
than  a  tyro  among  a  troop  of  veterans,  who  had 
compassion  on  my  youth,  and  conveyed  me 
home  in  the  morning,  by  what  means  I  know 
not.  Quin  was  mistaken,  however,  as  to  the 
headache ;  the  claret  was  too  good  to  treat  me 
so  roughly. 


While  Mr.  Bramble  holds  conferences  with 
the  graver  literati  of  the  place,  and  our  females 
are  entertained  at  visits  by  the  Scotch  ladies, 
who  are  the  best  and  kindest  creatures  on  earth, 
I  pass  my  time  among  the  bucks  of  Edinburgh, 
who,  with  a  great  share  of  spirit  and  vivacity, 
have  a  certain  shrewdness  and  self-command 
that  is  not  often  found  among  their  neighbours 
in  the  heyday  of  youth  and  exultation.  Not 
a  hint  escapes  a  Scotchman  that  can  be  inter- 
preted into  offence  by  any  individual  of  the 
company;  and  national  reflections  are  never 
heard.  In  this  particular,  I  must  own,  we 
are  both  unjust  and  ungrateful  to  the  Scotch; 
for,  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  judge,  they  have  a 
real  esteem  for  the  natives  of  South  Britain; 
and  never  mention  our  country  but  with  ex- 
pressions of  regard.  Nevertheless,  they  are 
far  from  being  servile  imitators  of  our  modes 
and  fashionable  vices.  All  their  customs  and 
regulations  of  public  and  private  economy,  of 
business  and  diversion,  are  in  their  own  style. 
This  remarkably  predominates  in  their  looks, 
their  dress,  and  manner,  their  music,  and  even 
their  cookery.  Our  squire  declares,  that  he 
knows  not  another  people  on  earth  so  strongly 
marked  with  a  national  character.  Now  we 
are  on  the  article  of  cookery,  I  must  own  some 
of  their  dishes  are  savoury,  and  even  delicate; 
but  I  am  not  yet  Scotchman  enough  to  relish 
their  singed  sheep's-head  and  haggis,  which 
were  provided  at  our  request  one  day  at  Mr. 
Mitchelson's,  where  we  dined.  The  first  put 
me  in  mind  of  the  history  of  Congo,  in  which  I 
read  of  negroes'  heads  sold  publicly  in  the 
markets;  the  last,  being  a  mess  of  minced 
lights,  livers,  suet,  oatmeal,  onions,  and  pepper, 
enclosed  in  a  sheep's  stomach,  had  a  very 
sudden  effect  on  mine,  and  the  delicate  Mrs. 
Tabby  changed  colour;  when  the  cause  of  our 
disgust  was  instantaneously  removed  at  the 
nod  of  our  entertainer.  The  Scotch  in  general 
are  attached  to  this  composition,  with  a  sort 
of  national  fondness,  as  well  as  to  their  oatmeal 
bread;  which  is  presented  at  every  table,  in 
thin  triangular  cakes,  baked  on  a  plate  of  iron, 
called  a  girdle;  and  these  many  of  the  natives, 
even  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life,  prefer  to 
wheaten  bread,  which  they  have  here  in  per- 
fection. You  know  we  used  to  vex  poor 
Murray,  of  Balliol  College,  by  asking,  if  there 
was  really  no  fruit  but  turnips  in  Scotland ! 
Sure  enough  I  have  seen  turnips  make  their 
appearance,  not  as  a  dessert,  but  by  way  of 
hors  d'cvHvres,  or  whets,  as  radishes  are  served 
up  betwixt  more  substantial  dishes  in  France 


252 


TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 


and  Italy;  but  it  must  be  observed,  that  the 
turnips  of  this  country  are  as  much  superior 
in  sweetness,  delicacy,  and  flavour,  to  those 
of  England,  as  a  musk-melon  is  to  the  stock 
of  a  common  cabbage.  They  are  small  and 
conical,  of  a  yellowish  colour,  with  a  very  thin 
skin;  and  over  and  above  their  agreeable 
taste,  are  valuable  for  their  antiscorbutic 
quality.  As  to  the  fruit  now  in  season,  such 
as  cherries,  gooseberries,  and  currants,  there  is 
no  want  of  them  at  Edinburgh;  and  in  the 
gardens  of  some  gentlemen  who  live  in  this 
neighbourhood,  there  is  uow  a  very  favourable 
appearance  of  apricots,  peaches,  nectarines, 
and  even  grapes ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  very  fine 
show  of  pine-apples  within  a  few  miles  of  this 
metropolis.  Indeed,  we  have  no  reason  to  be 
surprised  at  these  particulars,  when  we  con- 
sider how  little  difference  there  is,  in  fact, 
betwixt  this  climate  and  that  of  London. 

All  the  remarkable  places  in  the  city  and  its 
avenues,  for  ten  miles  around,  we  have  visited, 
much  to  our  satisfaction.  In  the  castle  are 
some  royal  apartments,  where  the  sovereign 
occasionally  resided;  and  here  are  carefully 
preserved  the  regalia  of  the  kingdom,  consisting 
of  a  crown,  said  to  be  of  great  value,  a  sceptre, 
and  a  sword  of  state,  adorned  with  jewels. 
Of  these  symbols  of  sovereignty  the  people  are 
exceedingly  jealous.  A  report  being  spread, 
during  the  sitting  of  the  union  parliament,  that 
they  were  removed  to  London,  such  a  tumult 
arose,  that  the  lord  commissioner  would 
have  been  torn  in  pieces  if  he  had  not  pro- 
duced them  for  the  satisfaction  of  the 
populace. 

The  palace  of  Holyrood -house  is  an  elegant 
piece  of  architecture,  but  sunk  in  an  obscure, 
and,  as  I  take  it,  unwholesome  bottom,  where 
one  would  imagine  it  had  been  placed  on  pur- 
pose to  be  concealed.  The  apartments  are 
lofty,  but  unfurnished;  and  as  for  the  pictures 
of  the  Scottish  kings,  from  Fergus  I  to  King 
William,  they  are  paltry  daubings,  mostly  by 
the  same  hand,  painted  either  from  the  imagi- 
nation, or  porters  hired  to  sit  for  the  purpose. 
All  the  diversions  of  London  we  enjoy  at  Edin- 
burgh in  a  small  compass.  Here  is  a  \\e\l- 
conducted  concert,  in  which  several  gentlemen 
perform  on  different  instruments.  The  Scots 
are  all  musicians.  Every  man  you  meet  plays 
on  the  flute,  the  violin,  or  violoncello ;  and  there 
is  one  nobleman  whose  compositions  are  uni- 
versally admired.  Our  company  of  actors  is 
very  tolerable;  and  a  subscription  is  now  on 
foot   for  building  a  new  theatre:    but   their 


assemblies  please  me  above  all  other  public 
exhibitions. 

We  have  been  at  the  hunters'  ball,  where  I 
was  really  astonished  to  see  such  a  number  of 
fine  women.  The  English,  who  have  never 
crossed  the  Tweed,  imagine,  erroneously,  that 
the  Scotch  ladies  are  not  remarkable  for  per- 
sonal attractions ;  but  I  can  declare  with  a  safe 
conscience  I  never  saw  so  many  handsome 
females  together  as  were  assembled  on  this 
occasion.  At  the  Leith  races,  the  best  com- 
pany comes  hither  from  the  remoter  provinces; 
so  that,  I  suppose,  we  had  all  the  beauty  of  the 
kingdom  concentrated  as  it  were  into  one  focus; 
which  was  indeed  so  vehement,  that  my  heart 
could  hardly  resist  its  power.  Between  friends, 
it  has  sustained  some  damage  from  the  bright 

eyes  of  the  charming  Miss  R ,  whom  I  had 

the  honour  to  dance  with  at  the  ball.  The 
countess  of  Melville  attracted  all  eyes,  and 
the  admiration  of  all  present.  She  was  ac- 
companied by  the  agreeable  Miss  Grieve,  who 
made  many  conquests :  nor  did  my  sister  Liddy 
pass  unnoticed  in  the  assembly.  She  is  become 
a  toast  at  Edinburgh,  by  the  name  of  the  Fair 
Cambrian,  and  has  already  been  the  occasion 
of  much  wine-shed;  but  the  poor  girl  met  with 
an  accident  at  the  ball,  which  has  given  us 
great  disturbance. 

A  young  gentleman,  the  express  image  of 
that  rascal  Wilson,  went  up  to  ask  her  to  dance 
a  minuet;  and  his  sudden  appearance  shocked 
her  so  much,  that  she  fainted  away.  I  call 
Wilson  a  rascal,  because  if  he  had  been  really 
a  gentleman,  with  honourable  intentions,  he 
would  have  ere  now  appeared  in  his  own  char- 
acter. I  must  own,  my  blood  boils  with  indig- 
nation when  I  think  of  that  fellow's  pre- 
sumption; and  Heaven  confound  me  if  I  don't 
—  but  I  won't  be  so  womanish  as  to  rail  — 
time  will  perhaps  furnish  occasion  —  thank 
God,  the  cause  of  Liddy's  disorder  remains  a 
secret.  The  lady-directress  of  the  ball,  think- 
ing she  was  overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  place, 
had  her  conveyed  to  another  room,  where  she 
soon  recovered  so  well,  as  to  return  and  join 
in  the  country  dances,  in  which  the  Scotch 
lasses  acquit  themselves  with  such  spirit  and 
agility,  as  put  their  partners  to  the  height  of 
their  mettle.  I  believe  our  aunt,  Mrs.  Tabitha, 
had  entertained  hopes  of  being  able  to  do  some 
execution  among  the  cavaliers  at  this  assembly. 
She  had  been  several  days  in  consultation  with 
milliners  and  mantua-makers,  preparing  for 
the  occasion,  at  which  she  made  her  appearance 
in  a  full  suit  of  damask,  so  thick  and  heavy, 


HUMPHRY    CLINKER 


253 


that  the  sight  of  it  alone,  at  this  season  of  the 
year,  was  sufficient  to  draw  drops  of  sweat 
from  any  man  of  ordinary  imagination.  She 
danced  one  minuet  with  our  friend  Mr.  Alitchel- 
son,  who  favoured  her  so  far,  in  the  spirit  of 
hospitahty  and  politeness;  and  she  was  called 
out  a  second  time  by  the  young  laird  of  Baly- 
mawhap'e,  who,  coming  in  by  accident,  could 
not  readily  find  any  other  partner;  but  as  the 
first  was  a  married  man,  and  the  second  paid 
no  particular  homage  to  her  charms,  which  were 
also  overlooked  by  the  rest  of  the  company, 
she  became  dissatisfied  and  censorious.  At 
supper,  she  observed  that  the  Scotch  gentlemen 
made  a  very  good  figure,  when  they  were  a  little 
improved  by  travelling;  and,  therefore,  it  was 
pity  they  did  not  all  take  the  benefit  of  going 
abroad.  She  said  the  women  were  awkward, 
masculine  creatures;  that,  in  dancing,  they 
lifted  their  legs  like  so  many  colts;  that  they 
had  no  idea  of  graceful  motion ;  and  put  on 
their  clothes  in  a  frightly  manner:  but  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  Tabby  herself  was  the  most 
ridiculous  figure,  and  the  worst  dressed,  of  the 
whole  assembly.  The  neglect  of  the  male  sex 
rendered  her  malcontent  and  peevish ;  she  now 
found  fault  with  everything  at  Edinburgh,  and 
teased  her  brother  to  leave  the  place,  when 
she  was  suddenly  reconciled  to  it  on  a  religious 
consideration.  There  is  a  sect  of  fanatics, 
who  have  separated  themselves  from  the  es- 
tablished kirk,  under  the  name  of  Seceders. 
They  acknowledge  no  earthly  head  of  the 
church,  reject  lay  patronage,  and  maintain  the 
Methodist  doctrines  of  the  new  birth,  the  new 
light,  the  efficacy  of  grace,  the  insufficiency  of 
works,  and  the  operations  of  the  spirit.  Mrs. 
Tabitha,  attended  by  Humphry  Clinker,  was 
introduced  to  one  of  their  conventicles,  where 
they  both  received  much  edification;  and  she 
has  had  the  good  fortune  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  pious  Christian,  called  Mr.  Moffat,  who 
is  very  powerful  in  prayer,  and  often  assists 
her  in  private  exercises  of  devotion. 

I  never  saw  such  a  concourse  of  genteel  com- 
pany at  any  races  in  England,  as  appeared 
on  the  course  of  Leith.  Hard  by,  in  the  fields 
called  the  Links,  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh 
divert  themselves  at  a  game  called  golf,  in 
which  they  use  a  curious  kind  of  bats  tipped 
with  horn,  and  small  elastic  balls  of  leather, 
stuffed  with  feathers,  rather  less  than  tennis- 
balls,  but  of  a  much  harder  consistence.  This 
they  strike  with  such  force  and  dexterity  from 
one  hole  to  another,  that  they  will  fly  to  an 
incredible    distance.     Of    this    diversion    the 


Scots  arc  so  fond,  that  when  the  weather  will 
permit,  you  may  see  a  multitude  of  all  ranks, 
from  the  senator  of  justice  to  the  lowest  trades- 
man, mingled  together,  in  their  shirts,  and 
following  the  balls  with  the  utmost  eagerness. 
Among  others,  I  was  shown  one  particular 
set  of  golfers,  the  youngest  of  whom  was  turned 
of  fourscore.  They  were  all  gentlemen  of  in- 
dependent fortunes,  who  had  amused  them- 
selves with  this  jjastime  for  the  best  part  of  a 
century,  without  having  ever  felt  the  least  alarm 
from  sickness  or  disgust ;  and  they  never  went 
to  bed,  without  having  each  the  best  part  of 
a  gallon  of  claret  in  his  belly.  Such  uninter- 
rupted exercise,  cooperating  with  the  keen  air 
from  the  sea,  must,  without  all  doubt,  keep 
the  appetite  always  on  edge,  and  steel  the  con- 
stitution against  all  the  common  attacks  of 
distemper. 

The  Leith  races  gave  occasion  to  another 
entertainment  of  a  very  singular  nature.  There 
is  at  Edinburgh  a  society  or  corporation  of  er- 
rand-boys called  cawdies,  who  ply  in  the  streets 
at  night  with  paper  lanterns,  and  are  very 
serviceable  in  carrying  messages.  These  fel- 
lows, though  shabby  in  their  appearance,  and 
rudely  familiar  in  their  address,  are  wonder- 
fully acute,  and  so  noted  for  fidelity,  that  there 
is  no  instance  of  a  cawdy's  having  betrayed 
his  trust.  Such  is  their  intelligence,  that  they 
know  not  only  every  individual  of  the  place,  but 
also  every  stranger,  by  the  time  he  has  been 
four-and-twenty  hours  in  Edinburgh;  and  no 
transaction,  even  the  most  private,  can  escape 
their  notice.  They  are  particularly  famous  for 
their  dexterity  in  executing  one  of  the  functions 
of  Mercury;  though,  for  my  own  part,  I  never 
employed  them  in  this  department  of  business. 
Had  I  occasion  for  any  service  of  this  nature, 
my  own  man,  Archy  M'Alpine,  is  as  well  quali- 
fied as  e'er  a  cawdy  in  Edinburgh ;  and  I  am 
much  mistaken,  if  he  has  not  been  heretofore 
of  their  fraternity.  Be  that  as  it  may,  they 
resolved  to  give  a  dinner  and  a  ballat  Leith, 
to  which  they  formally  invited  all  the  young 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  that  were  at  the  races; 
and  this  invitation  was  reinforced  by  an  as- 
surance, that  all  the  celebrated  ladies  of  pleas- 
ure would  grace  the  entertainment  with  their 
company.  I  received  a  card  on  this  occasion, 
and  went  thither  with  half  a  dozen  of  my  ac- 
quaintance. In  a  large  hall,  the  cloth  was  laid 
on  a  long  range  of  tables  joined  together,  and 
here  the  company  seated  themselves,  to  the 
number  of  about  fourscore,  lords  and  lairds 
and  other  gentlemen,  courtesans  and  cawdies, 


254 


TOBIAS    SMOLLETT 


mingled  together,  as  the  slaves  and  their 
masters  were  in  the  time  of  the  Saturnalia  in 
ancient  Rome.  The  toastmaster,  who  sat  at 
the  upper  end,  was  one  cawdy  Fraser,  a  veteran 
pimp,  distinguished  for  his  humour  and  sa- 
gacity, well  known  and  much  respected  in  his 
profession  by  all  the  guests,  male  and  female, 
that  were  here  assembled.  He  had  bespoke 
the  dinner  and  the  wine:  he  had  taken  care 
that  all  his  brethren  should  appear  in  decent 
apparel  and  clean  linen ;  and  he  himself  wore 
a  periwig  with  three  tails,  in  honour  of  the 
festival.  I  assure  you  the  banquet  was  both 
elegant  and  plentiful,  and  seasoned  with  a 
thousand  sallies,  that  promoted  a  general  spirit 
of  mirth  and  good  humour.  After  the  dessert, 
Mr.  Fraser  proposed  the  following  toasts,  which 
I  don't  pretend  to  explain :  "The  best  in  Chris- 
tendom"—  "Gibb's  contract"  —  "The  beg- 
gar's benison"  —  "King  and  kirk"  —  "Great 
Britain  and  Ireland."  Then,  filling  a  bumper, 
and  turning  to  me, —  "Mester  Malford," 
said  he,  "may  a'  unkindness  cease  betwixt 
John  Bull  and  his  sister  Moggy."  The  next 
person  he  singled  out  was  a  nobleman  who  had 
been  long  abroad.  "Ma  lord,"  cried  Fraser, 
"here  is  a  bumper  to  a'  those  noblemen  who 
have  virtue  enough  to  spend  their  rents  in  their 
ain  countray."  He  afterwards  addressed  him- 
self to  a  member  of  parliament  in  these  words: 

"Mester ,  I'm  sure  ye'll  ha'  nae  objection 

to  my  drinking,  Disgrace  and  dool  to  ilka  Scot, 
that  sells  his  conscience  and  his  vote."  He 
discharged  a  third  sarcasm  at  a  person  very 
gaily  dressed,  who  had  risen  from  small  be- 
ginnings and  made  a  considerable  fortune  at 
play.  Filling  his  glass,  and  calling  him  by 
name,  —  "Lang  life,"  said  he,  "to  the  wylie 
loon  that  gangs  a-field  with  the  toom  poke  at 
his  lunzie,  and  comes  hame  with  a  sackful  o' 
siller."  All  these  toasts  being  received  with 
loud  bursts  of  applause,  Mr.  Fraser  called  for 
pint  glasses,  and  filled  his  own  to  the  brim: 
then  standing  up,  and  all  his  brethren  following 
his  example,  —  "Ma  lords  and  gentlemen," 
cried  he,  "here  is  a  cup  of  thanks  for  the  great 
and  undeserved  honour  you  have  done  your 
poor  errand-boys  this  day."  So  saying,  he 
and  they  drank  off  their  glasses  in  a  trice,  and 
quitting  their  seats,  took  their  station  each 
behind  one  of  the  other  guests,  exclaiming  — 
"Noo  we're  your  honours'  cawdies  again." 

The  nobleman  who  had  borne  the  first  brunt 
of  Mr.  Fraser's  satire  objected  to  his  abdica- 
tion. He  said,  as  the  company  was  assembled 
by  invitation  from  the  cawdies,  he  expected 


tliey  were  to  be  entertained  at  their  expense. 
"By  no  means,  my  lord,"  cried  Fraser;  "I 
wad  na  be  guilty  of  sic  presumption  for  the 
wide  warld.  I  never  affronted  a  gentleman 
since  I  was  bom ;  and  sure,  at  this  age,  I  won- 
not  offer  an  indignity  to  sic  an  honourable  con- 
vention."—  "Well,"  said  his  lordship,  "as  you 
have  expended  some  wit,  you  have  a  right 
to  save  your  money.  You  have  given  me  good 
counsel,  and  I  take  it  in  good  part.  As  you 
have  voluntarily  quitted  your  seat,  I  will  take 
your  place,  with  the  leave  of  the  good  com- 
pany, and  think  myself  happy  to  be  hailed, 
'Father  of  the  feast.'"  He  was  forthwith 
elected  into  the  chair,  and  complimented  in  a 
bumper  on  his  new  character. 

The  claret  continued  to  circulate  without 
interruption,  till  the  glasses  seemed  to  dance 
on  the  table;  and  this,  perhaps,  was  a  hint  to 
the  ladies  to  call  for  music.  At  eight  in  the 
evening  the  ball  began  in  another  apartment: 
at  midnight  we  went  to  supper ;  but  it  was  broad 
day  before  I  found  the  way  to  my  lodgings; 
and,  no  doubt,  his  lordship  had  a  swinging 
bill  to  discharge. 

In  short,  I  have  lived  so  riotously  for  some 
weeks,  that  my  uncle  begins  to  be  alarmed  on 
the  score  of  my  constitution,  and  ver}'  seriously 
obser\^es,  that  all  his  own  infirmities  are  owing 
to  such  excesses  indulged  in  his  youth.  Mrs. 
Tabitha  says  it  would  be  more  for  the  advan- 
tage of  my  soul  as  well  as  body,  if,  instead 
of  frequenting  these  scenes  of  debaucher)%  I 
would  accompany  Mr.  Moffat  and  her  to  hear 
a  sermon  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  M'Corkendale. 
Clinker  often  exhorts  me,  with  a  groan,  to  take 
care  of  my  precious  health;  and  even  Archy 
M'Alpine,  when  he  happens  to  be  overtaken 
(which  is  oftener  the  case  than  I  could  wish), 
reads  me  a  long  lecture  on  temperance  and 
sobriety:  and  is  so  very  wise  and  sententious, 
that,  if  I  could  provide  him  with  a  professor's 
chair,  I  would  willingly  give  up  the  benefit  of 
his  admonitions  and  sen'ice  together;  for  I 
was  tutor-sick  at  alma  mater. 

I  am  not,  however,  so  much  engrossed  by  the 
gaieties  of  Edinburgh,  but  that  I  find  time  to 
make  parties  in  the  family  way.  We  have  not 
only  seen  all  the  villas  and  villages  within  ten 
miles  of  the  capital,  but  we  have  also  crossed  the 
Frith,  which  is  an  arm  of  the  sea,  seven  miles 
broad,  that  divides  Lothian  from  the  shire,  or, 
as  the  Scots  call  it,  "the  kingdom  of  Fife." 
There  is  a  number  of  large  open-sea  boats  that 
ply  on  this  passage  from  Leith  to  Kinghom, 
which  is  a  borough  on  the  other  side.     In  one 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


255 


of  these  our  whole  family  embarked  three  clays 
ago,  excepting  my  sister,  who,  being  exceedingly 
fearful  of  the  water,  was  left  to  the  care  of  Mrs. 
Mitchelson.  We  had  an  easy  and  cjuick  pass- 
age into  Fife,  where  we  visited  a  number  of 
poor  towns  on  the  sea-side,  including  St. 
Andrews,  which  is  the  skeleton  of  a  venerable 
city,  but  we  were  much  better  pleased  with 
some  noble  and  elegant  seats  and  castles,  of 
which  there  is  a  great  number  in  that  part  of 
Scotland.  Yesterday  we  took  boat  again,  on 
our  return  to  Leith,  with  a  fair  wind  and  agree- 
able weather;  but  we  had  not  advanced  half 
way,  when  the  sky  was  suddenly  overcast,  and 
the  wind  changing,  blew  directly  in  our  teeth; 
so  that  we  were  obliged  to  turn,  or  tack  the  rest 
of  the  way.  In  a  word,  the  gale  increased  to  a 
storm  of  wind  and  rain,  attended  with  such  a 
fog,  that  we  could  not  see  the  town  of  Leith, 
to  which  we  were  bound,  nor  even  the  castle 
of  Edinburgh,  notwithstanding  its  high  situa- 
tion. It  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  that  we  were 
all  alarmed  on  this  occasion ;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  most  of  the  passengers  were  seized  with  a 
nausea  that  produced  violent  retchings.  My 
aunt  desired  her  brother  to  order  the  boatmen 
to  put  back  to  Kinghorn;  and  this  expedient 
he  actually  proposed;  but  they  assured  him 
there  was  no  danger.  Mrs.  Tabitha,  finding 
them  obstinate,  began  to  scold,  and  insisted  on 
my  uncle's  exerting  his  authority  as  a  justice 
of  the  peace.  Sick  and  peevish  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  help  laughing  at  this  wise  proposal, 
telling  her  that  his  commission  did  not  extend 
so  far,  and  if  it  did,  he  should  let  the  people  take 
their  own  way;  for  he  thought  it  would  be  great 
presumption  in  him  to  direct  them  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  their  own  profession.  Mrs.  Winifred 
Jenkins  made  a  general  clearance,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  Mr.  Humphry  Clinker,  who  joined 
her  both  in  prayer  and  ejaculation.  As  he 
took  it  for  granted  that  we  should  not  be  long 
in  -this  world,  he  offered  some  spiritual  con- 
solation to  Mrs.  Tabitha,  who  rejected  it  with 
great  disgust,  bidding  him  keep  his  sermons 
for  those  who  had  leisure  to  hear  such  non- 
sense. My  uncle  sat,  recollected  in  himself, 
without  speaking.  My  man  Archy  had  re- 
course to  a  brandy-bottle,  with  which  he  made 
so  free,  that  I  imagined  he  had  sworn  to  die 
of  drinking  anything  rather  than  sea-water; 
but  the  brandy  had  no  more  effect  on  him  in 
the  way  of  intoxication,  than  if  it  had  been  sea- 
water  in  good  earnest.  As  for  myself,  I  was 
too  much  engrossed  by  the  sickness  at  my 
stomach  to  think  of  anything  else.     Meanwhile 


the  sea  swelled  mountains  high;  the  boat 
pitched  with  such  violence,  as  if  it  had  been 
going  to  pieces;  the  cordage  rattled,  the  wind 
roared,  the  lightning  flashed,  the  thunder  bel- 
lowed, and  the  rain  descended  in  a  deluge. 
Every  time  the  vessel  was  put  about,  we  shipped 
a  sea  that  drenched  us  all  to  the  skin.  When, 
by  dint  of  turning,  we  thought  to  have  cleared 
the  pier-head,  -we  were  driven  to  leeward,  and 
then  the  boatmen  themselves  began  to  fear  that 
the  tide  would  fail  before  we  should  fetch  up 
our  lee-way;  the  next  trip,  however,  brought  us 
into  smooth  water,  and  we  were  safely  landed 
on  the  quay  about  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
"To  be  sure,"  cried  Tabby,  when  she  found 
herself  on  terra  firma,  "we  must  all  have  per- 
ished, if  we  had  not  been  the  particular  care 
of  Providence."  —  "Yes,"  replied  my  uncle; 
"but  I  am  much  of  the  honest  Highlander's 
mind;  after  he  had  made  such  a  passage  as 
this,  his  friend  told  him  he  was  much  indebted 
to  Providence.  'Certainly,'  said  Donald; 
'but,  by  my  saul,  mon,  Is'e  ne'er  trouble  Provi- 
dence again  so  long  as  the  brig  of  Stirling 
stands.'"  You  must  know  the  brig,  or  bridge, 
of  Stirling  stands  above  twenty  miles  up  the 
river  Forth,  of  which  this  is  the  outlet.  I  don't 
find  that  our  squire  has  suffered  in  his  health 
from  this  adventure:  but  poor  Liddy  is  in 
a  peaking  way.  I'm  afraid  this  unfortunate 
girl  is  uneasy  in  her  mind;  and  this  apprehen- 
sion distracts  me,  for  she  is  really  an  amiable 
creature. 

We  shall  set  out  to-morrow  or  next  day  for 
Stirling  and  Glasgow;  and  we  propose  to 
penetrate  a  little  way  into  the  Highlands  before 
we  turn  our  course  to  the  southward.  In  the 
meantime,  commend  me  to  all  our  friends 
round  Carfax,  and  believe  me  to  be  ever  yours, 

J.  Melford. 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH   (1728-1774) 

LETTERS    FROM    A    CITIZEN   OF    THE 

WORLD  TO   HIS    FRIENDS   IN   THE 

EAST 

LETTER   XXI 

The  Chinese  goes  to  see  a  Pl.\y 

The  English  are  as  fond  of  seeing  plays  acted 
as  the  Chinese;  but  there  is  a  vast  difference 
in  the  manner  of  conducting  them.  We  play 
our  pieces  in  the  open  air,  the  English  theirs 
under  cover;   we  act  by  daylight,  they  by  the 


256 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


blaze  of  torches.  One  of  our  plays  continues 
eight  or  ten  days  successively ;  an  English  piece 
seldom  takes  up  above  four  hours  in  the  rep- 
resentation. 

My  companion  in  black,  vi'ith  whom  I  am 
now  beginning  to  contract  an  intimacy,  intro- 
duced me  a  few  nights  ago  to  the  playhouse, 
where  we  placed  ourselves  conveniently  at  the 
foot  of  the  stage.  As  the  curtain  was  not  drawn 
before  my  arrival,  I  had  an  opportunity  of 
observing  the  behaviour  of  the  spectators,  and 
indulging  those  reflections  which  novelty  gen- 
erally inspires. 

The  rich  in  general  were  placed  in  the  lowest 
seats,  and  the  poor  rose  above  them  in  degrees 
proportioned  to  their  poverty.  The  order  of 
precedence  seemed  here  inverted;  those  who 
were  undermost  all  the  day,  now  enjoyed  a 
temporary  eminence,  and  became  masters  of 
the  ceremonies.  It  was  they  who  called  for 
the  music,  indulging  every  noisy  freedom,  and 
testifying  all  the  insolence  of  beggary  in  exal- 
tation. 

They  who  held  the  middle  region  seemed  not 
so  riotous  as  those  above  them,  nor  yet  so  tame 
as  those  below:  to  judge  by  their  looks,  many 
of  them  seemed  strangers  there  as  well  as  my- 
self. They  were  chiefly  employed,  during  this 
period  of  expectation,  in  eating  oranges,  read- 
ing the  story  of  the  play,  or  making  assignations. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  lowest  rows,  which  are 
called  the  pit,  seemed  to  consider  themselves 
as  judges  of  the  merit  of  the  poet  and  the 
performers;  they  were  assembled  partly  to  be 
amused,  and  partly  to  show  their  taste;  appear- 
ing to  labour  under  that  restraint  which  an 
affectation  of  superior  discernment  generally 
produces.  My  companion,  however,  informed 
me,  that  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  them  knew 
even  the  first  principles  of  criticism ;  that  they 
assumed  the  right  of  being  censors  because 
there  was  none  to  contradict  their  pretensions; 
and  that  every  man  who  now  called  himself 
a  connoisseur,  became  such  to  all  intents  and 
purposes. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  boxes  appeared  in  the 
most  unhappy  situation  of  all.  The  rest  of  the 
audience  came  merely  for  their  own  amusement ; 
these,  rather  to  furnish  out  a  part  of  the  enter- 
tainment themselves.  I  could  not  avoid  con- 
sidering them  as  acting  parts  in  dumb  show  — 
not  a  courtesy  or  nod,  that  was  not  all  the  result 
of  art;  not  a  look  nor  a  smile  that  was  not 
designed  for  murder.  Gentlemen  and  ladies 
ogled  each  other  through  spectacles;  for,  my 
companion    observed,    that   blindness   was   of 


late  become  fashionable;  all  affected  indif- 
ference and  ease,  while  their  hearts  at  the  same 
time  burned  for  conquest.  Upon  the  whole, 
the  lights,  the  music,  the  ladies  in  their  gayest 
dresses,  the  men  with  cheerfulness  and  expec- 
tation in  their  looks,  all  conspired  to  make  a 
most  agreeable  picture,  and  to  fill  a  heart  that 
sympathises  at  human  happiness  with  inex- 
pressible serenity. 

The  expected  time  for  the  play  to  begin  at 
last  arrived;  the  curtain  was  drawn,  and  the 
actors  came  on.  A  woman,  who  personated  a 
queen,  came  in  curtseying  to  the  audience, 
who  clapped  their  hands  upon  her  appearance. 
Clapping  of  hands  is,  it  seems,  the  manner  of 
applauding  in  England;  the  manner  is  absurd, 
but  every  country,  you  know,  has  its  peculiar 
absurdities.  I  was  equally  surprised,  however, 
at  the  submission  of  the  actress,  who  should  have 
considered  herself  as  a  queen,  as  at  the  little 
discernment  of  the  audience  who  gave  her  such 
marks  of  applause  before  she  attempted  to 
deserve  them.  Preliminaries  between  her  and 
the  audience  being  thus  adjusted,  the  dialogue 
was  supported  between  her  and  a  most  hopeful 
youth,  who  acted  the  part  of  her  confidant. 
They  both  appeared  in  extreme  distress,  for  it 
seems  the  queen  had  lost  a  child  some  fifteen 
years  before,  and  still  kept  its  dear  resemblance 
next  her  heart,  while  her  kind  companion  bore 
a  part  in  her  sorrows. 

Her  lamentations  grew  loud;  comfort  is 
offered,  but  she  detests  the  very  sound:  she 
bids  them  preach  comfort  to  the  winds.  Upon 
this  her  husband  comes  in,  who,  seeing  the 
queen  so  much  afflicted,  can  himself  hardly 
refrain  from  tears,  or  avoid  partaking  in  the  soft 
distress.  After  thus  grieving  through  three 
scenes,  the  curtain  dropped  for  the  first  act. 

"Truly,"  said  I  to  my  companion,  "these 
kings  and  queens  are  very  much  disturbed  at 
no  very  great  misfortune:  certain  I  am,  were 
people  of  humbler  stations  to  act  in  this  man- 
ner, they  would  be  thought  divested  of  com- 
mon sense."  I  had  scarcely  finished  this 
observation,  when  the  curtain  rose,  and  the 
king  came  on  in  a  violent  passion.  His  wife 
had,  it  seems,  refused  his  proffered  tenderness, 
had  spumed  his  royal  embrace,  and  he  seemed 
resolved  not  to  survive  her  fierce  disdain. 
After  he  had  thus  fretted,  and  the  queen  had 
fretted  through  the  second  act,  the  curtain  was 
let  down  once  more. 

"Now,"  says  my  companion,  "you  perceive 
the  king  to  be  a  man  of  spirit ;  he  feels  at  every 
pore:    one  of  your  phlegmatic  sons  of  clay 


LETTERS   FROM   A   CITIZEN   OF    THE   WORLD   TO   HIS   FRIENDS     2 


57 


would  have  given  the  queen  her  own  way,  and 
let  her  come  to  herself  by  degrees ;  but  the  king 
is  for  immediate  tenderness,  or  instant  death: 
death  and  tenderness  are  leading  passions  of 
every  modern  buskined  hero;  this  moment 
they  embrace,  and  the  next  stab,  mixing  dag- 
gers and  kisses  in  every  period." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when 
my  attention  was  engrossed  by  a  new  object; 
a  man  came  in  balancing  a  straw  upon  his  nose, 
and  the  audience  were  clapping  their  hands  in 
all  the  raptures  of  applause.  "To  what  pur- 
pose," cried  I,  "does  this  unmeaning  figure 
make  his  appearance  ?  is  he  a  part  of  the  plot  ?  " 
—  "Unmeaning  do  you  call  him?"  replied  my 
friend  in  black;  "this  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant characters  of  the  whole  play;  nothing 
pleases  the  people  more  than  seeing  a  straw 
balanced:  there  is  a  good  deal  of  meaning  in 
the  straw:  there  is  something  suited  to  every 
apprehension  in  the  sight;  and  a  fellow  pos- 
sessed of  talents  like  these  is  sure  of  making  his 
fortune." 

The  third  act  now  began  with  an  actor  who 
came  to  inform  us  that  he  was  the  villain  of  the 
play,  and  intended  to  show  strange  things 
before  all  was  over.  He  was  joined  by  another 
who  seemed  as  much  disposed  for  mischief  as 
he:  their  intrigues  continued  through  this 
whole  division.  "If  that  be  a  villain,"  said  I, 
"he  must  be  a  very  stupid  one  to  tell  his  secrets 
without  being  asked;  such  soliloquies  of  late 
are  never  admitted  in  China." 

The  noise  of  clapping  interrupted  me  once 
more;  a  child  of  six  years  old  was  learning 
to  dance  on  the  stage,  which  gave  the  ladies 
and  mandarines  infinite  satisfaction.  "I  am 
sorry,"  said  I,  "to  see  the  pretty  creature  so 
early  learning  so  very  bad  a  trade;  dancing 
being,  I  presume,  as  contemptible  here  as  in 
China."  —  "Quite  the  reverse,"  interrupted 
my  companion;  "dancing  is  a  very  reputable 
and  genteel  employment  here;  men  have  a 
greater  chance  for  encouragement  from  the 
merit  of  their  heels  than  their  heads.  One 
who  jumps  up  and  flourishes  his  toes  three 
times  before  he  comes  to  the  ground,  may  have 
three  hundred  a  year;  he  who  flourishes  them 
four  times,  gets  four  hundred;  but  he  who 
arrives  at  five  is  inestimable,  and  may  demand 
what  salary  he  thinks  proper.  The  female 
dancers,  too,  are  valued  for  this  sort  of  jumping 
and  crossing;  and  it  is  a  cant  word  amongst 
them,  that  she  deserves  most  who  shows  high- 
est. But  the  fourth  act  is  begun;  let  us  be 
attentive." 


In  the  fourth  act  the  queen  finds  her  long  lost 
child,  now  grown  up  into  a  youth  of  smart 
parts  and  great  qualifications;  wherefore  she 
wisely  considers  that  the  crown  will  fit  his  head 
better  than  that  of  her  husband,  whom  she 
knows  to  be  a  driveller.  The  king  discovers 
her  design,  and  here  comes  on  the  deep  distress: 
he  loves  the  queen,  and  he  loves  the  kingdom ; 
he  resolves,  therefore,  in  order  to  possess  both, 
that  her  son  must  die.  The  queen  exclaims 
at  his  barbarity,  is  frantic  with  rage,  and  at 
length,  overcome  with  sorrow,  falls  into  a  fit; 
upon  which  the  curtain  drops,  and  the  act  is 
concluded. 

"Observe  the  art  of  the  poet,"  cries  my  com- 
panion. "When  the  queen  can  say  no  more, 
she  falls  into  a  fit.  While  thus  her  eyes  are 
shut,  while  she  is  supported  in  the  arms  of 
Abigail,  what  horrors  do  we  not  fancy!  We 
feel  it  in  every  nerve:  take  my  word  for  it, 
that  fits  are  the  true  aposiopcsis  of  modem 
tragedy." 

The  fifth  act  began,  and  a  busy  piece  it  was. 
Scenes  shifting,  trumpets  sounding,  mobs  hal- 
looing, carpets  spreading,  guards  bustling  from 
one  door  to  another;  gods,  demons,  daggers, 
racks,  and  ratsbane.  But  whether  the  king 
was  killed,  or  the  queen  was  drowned,  or  the 
son  was  poisoned,  I  have  absolutely  forgotten. 

When  the  play  was  over,  I  could  not  avoid 
observing,  that  the  persons  of  the  drama  ap- 
peared in  as  much  distress  in  the  first  act  as 
the  last.  "How  is  it  possible,"  said  I,  "to 
sympathise  with  them  through  five  long  acts? 
Pity  is  but  a  short  lived  passion.  I  hate  to  hear 
an  actor  mouthing  trifles.  Neither  startings, 
strainings,  nor  attitudes,  afifect  me,  unless 
there  be  cause :  after  I  have  been  once  or  twice 
deceived  by  those  unmeaning  alarms,  my  heart 
sleeps  in  peace,  probably  unaffected  by  the 
principal  distress.  There  should  be  one  great 
passion  aimed  at  by  the  actor  as  well  as  the 
poet ;  all  the  rest  should  be  subordinate,  and 
only  contribute  to  make  that  the  greater;  if 
the  actor,  therefore,  exclaims  upon  every  occa- 
sion, in  the  tones  of  despair,  he  attempts  to 
move  us  too  soon ;  he  anticipates  the  blow,  he 
ceases  to  affect,  though  he  gains  our  applause." 

I  scarce  perceived  that  the  audience  were 
almost  all  departed;  wherefore,  mixing  with 
the  crowd,  my  companion  and  I  got  into  the 
street,  where,  essaying  a  hundred  obstacles 
from  coach-wheels  and  palaiKjuin  poles,  like 
birds  in  their  flight  through  the  branches  of  a 
forest,  after  various  turnings,  we  both  at  length 
got  home  in  safety.     Adieu. 


258 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


LETTER  XXVI 

The  Character  of  the  Man  in  Black;   with 

Some  Instances  of  his  Inconsistent 

Conduct 

Though  fond  of  many  acquaintances,  I  de- 
sire an  intimacy  only  with  a  few.  The  man 
in  black,  whom  I  have  often  mentioned,  is  one 
whose  friendship  I  could  wish  to  acquire,  be- 
cause he  possesses  my  esteem.  His  manners, 
it  is  true,  are  tinctured  with  some  strange  in- 
consistencies, and  he  may  be  justly  temied  a 
humourist  in  a  nation  of  humourists.  Though 
he  is  generous  even  to  profusion,  he  affects  to 
be  thought  a  prodigy  of  parsimony  and  pru- 
dence; though  his  conversation  be  replete  with 
the  most  sordid  and  selfish  maxims,  his  heart 
is  dilated  with  the  most  unbounded  love.  I 
have  known  him  profess  himself  a  man-hater, 
while  his  cheek  was  glowing  with  compassion ; 
and,  while  his  looks  were  softened  into  pity, 
I  have  heard  him  use  the  language  of  the  most 
unbounded  ill-nature.  Some  affect  humanity 
and  tenderness,  others  boast  of  having  such 
dispositions  from  nature;  but  he  is  the  only 
man  I  ever  knew  who  seemed  ashamed  of  his 
natural  benevolence.  He  takes  as  much  pains 
to  hide  his  feelings,  as  any  hypocrite  would 
to  conceal  his  indifference;  but  on  every  un- 
guarded moment  the  mask  drops  off,  and 
reveals  him  to  the  most  superficial  observer. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country, 
happening  to  discourse  upon  the  provision  that 
was  made  for  the  poor  in  England,  he  seemed 
amazed  how  any  of  his  countrymen  could  be 
so  foolishly  weak  as  to  relieve  occasional  ob- 
jects of  charity,  when  the  laws  had  made  such 
ample  provision  for  their  support.  "In  every 
parish-house,"  says  he,  "the  poor  are  supplied 
with  food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed  to  lie  on ;  they 
want  no  more,  I  desire  no  more  myself;  yet 
still  they  seem  discontented.  I  am  surprised 
at  the  inactivity  of  our  magistrates,  in  not  tak- 
ing up  such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight 
upon  the  industrious;  I  am  surprised  that  the 
people  are  found  to  relieve  them,  when  they 
must  be  at  the  same  time  sensible  that  it,  in 
some  measure,  encourages  idleness,  extrava- 
gance, and  imposture.  Were  I  to  advise  any 
man  for  whom  I  had  the  least  regard,  I  would 
caution  him  by  all  means  not  to  be  imposed 
upon  by  their  false  pretences:  let  me  assure 
you,  Sir,  they  are  impostors,  every  one  of  them, 
and  rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief." 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain,  earnestly  to 
dissuade  me  from  an  imprudence  of  which  I 


am  seldom  guilty,  when  an  old  man,  who  still 
had  about  him  the  remnants  of  tattered  finery, 
implored  our  compassion.  He  assured  us  that 
he  was  no  common  beggar,  but  forced  into  the 
shameful  profession,  to  support  a  dying  wife, 
and  five  hungry  children.  Being  prepossessed 
against  such  falsehoods,  his  story  had  not  the 
least  influence  upon  me;  but  it  was  quite  other- 
wise with  the  man  in  black;  I  could  see  it 
visibly  operate  upon  his  countenance,  and 
effectually  interrupt  his  harangue.  I  could 
easily  perceive,  that  his  heart  burned  to  relieve 
the  five  starving  children,  but  he  seemed 
ashamed  to  discover  his  weakness  to  me. 
While  he  thus  hesitated  between  compassion 
and  pride,  I  pretended  to  look  another  way, 
and  he  seized  this  opportunity  of  giving  the 
poor  petitioner  a  piece  of  silver,  bidding  him 
at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  I  should  hear, 
go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not  tease  passen- 
gers with  such  impertinent  falsehoods  for  the 
future. 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived, 
he  continued,  as  we  proceeded,  to  rail  against 
beggars  with  as  much  animosity  as  before ;  he 
threw  in  some  episodes  on  his  own  amazing 
prudence  and  economy,  with  his  profound  skill 
in  discovering  impostors;  he  explained  the 
manner  in  which  he  would  deal  with  beggars 
were  he  a  magistrate,  hinted  at  enlarging  some 
of  the  prisons  for  their  reception,  and  told  two 
stories  of  ladies  that  were  robbed  by  beggar- 
men.  He  was  beginning  a  third  to  the  same 
purpose,  when  a  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once 
more  crossed  our  walks,  desiring  our  pity,  and 
blessing  our  limbs.  I  was  for  going  on  without 
taking  any  notice,  but  my  friend  looking  wish- 
fully upon  the  poor  petitioner,  bid  me  stop, 
and  he  would  show  me  with  how  much  ease  he 
could  at  any  time  detect  an  impostor. 

He  now,  therefore,  assumed  a  look  of  im- 
portance, and  in  an  angry  tone  began  to  ex- 
amine the  sailor,  demanding  in  what  engage- 
ment he  was  thus  disabled  and  rendered  unfit 
for  service.  The  sailor  replied,  in  a  tone  as 
angrily  as  he,  that  he  had  been  an  officer  on 
board  a  private  ship  of  war,  and  that  he  had 
lost  his  leg  abroad,  in  defence  of  those  who  did 
nothing  at  home.  At  this  reply,  all  my  friend's 
importance  vanished  in  a  moment;  he  had  not 
a  single  question  more  to  ask;  he  now  only 
studied  what  method  he  should  take  to  relieve 
him  unobserved.  He  had,  however,  no  easy 
part  to  act,  as  he  was  obliged  to  preserve  the 
appearance  of  ill-nature  before  me,  and  yet 
relieve  himself  by  relieving  the  sailor.     Cast- 


LETTERS   FROM   A   CITIZEN   OF  THE   WORLD   TO   HIS   FRIENDS     259 


ing,  therefore,  a  furious  look  upon  some 
bundles  of  chips  which  the  fellow  carried  in  a 
string  at  his  back,  my  friend  demanded  how 
he  sold  his  matches;  but,  not  waiting  for  a 
reply,  desired,  in  a  surly  tone,  to  have  a 
shilling's  worth.  The  sailor  seemed  at  first 
surprised  at  his  demand,  but  soon  recollected 
himself,  and  presenting  his  whole  bundle, 
"Here,  master,"  says  he,  "take  all  my  cargo, 
and  a  blessing  into  the  bargain." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  what  an  air 
of  triumph  my  friend  marched  off  with  his  new 
purchase:  he  assured  me,  that  he  was  firmly 
of  opinion  that  those  fellows  must  have  stolen 
their  goods,  who  could  thus  afford  to  sell  them 
for  half  value.  He  informed  me  of  several  dif- 
ferent uses  to  which  those  chips  might  be  ap- 
plied; he  expatiated  largely  upon  the  savings 
that  would  result  from  lighting  candles  with 
a  match,  instead  of  thrusting  them  into  the 
fire.  He  averred,  that  he  would  as  soon  have 
parted  with  a  tooth  as  his  money  to  those  vaga- 
bonds, unless  for  some  valuable  consideration. 
I  cannot  tell  how  long  this  panegyric  upon 
frugality  and  matches  might  have  continued, 
had  not  his  attention  been  called  off  by  another 
object  more  distressful  than  either  of  the 
former.  A  woman  in  rags,  with  one  child 
in  her  arms,  and  another  on  her  back,  was 
attempting  to  sing  ballads,  but  with  such  a 
mournful  voice,  that  it  was  difficult  to  deter- 
mine whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  A 
wretch,  who  in  the  deepest  distress  still  aimed 
at  good-humour,  was  an  object  my  friend 
was  by  no  means  capable  of  withstanding:  his 
vivacity  and  his  discourse  were  instantly  inter- 
rupted; upon  this  occasion,  his  very  dissimu- 
lation had  forsaken  him.  Even  in  my  presence 
he  immediately  applied  his  hands  to  his  pockets, 
in  order  to  relieve  her;  but  guess  his  confusion 
when  he  found  he  had  already  given  away  all 
the  money  he  carried  about  him  to  former 
objects.  The  misery  painted  in  the  woman's 
visage  was  not  half  so  strongly  expressed  as 
the  agony  in  his.  He  continued  to  search  for 
some  time,  but  to  no  purpose,  till,  at  length 
recollecting  himself,  with  a  face  of  ineffable 
good-nature,  as  he  had  no  money,  he  put  into 
her  hands  his  shilling's  worth  of  matches. 

LETTER   XXVII 

The  History  of  the  Man  in  Black 

As  there  appeared  something  reluctantly 
good  in  the  character  of  my  companion,  I  must 
own  it  surprised  me  what  could  be  his  motives 


for  thus  concealing  virtues  which  others  take 
such  pains  to  display.  I  was  unable  to  repress 
my  desire  of  knowing  the  history  of  a  man  who 
thus  seemed  to  act  under  continual  restraint, 
and  whose  benevolence  was  rather  the  effect 
of  appetite  than  reason. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  after  repeated  so- 
licitations he  thought  proper  to  gratify  my 
curiosity.  "If  you  are  fond,"  says  he,  "of 
hearing  hairbreadth  'scapes,  my  history  must 
certainly  please;  for  I  have  been  for  twenty 
years  upon  the  very  verge  of  starving,  without 
ever  being  starved. 

"My  father,  the  younger  son  of  a  good  family, 
was  possessed  of  a  small  living  in  the  church. 
His  education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his 
generosity  greater  than  his  education.  Poor 
as  he  was,  he  had  his  flatterers  still  poorer  than 
himself;  for  every  dinner  he  gave  them,  they 
returned  an  equivalent  in  praise;  and  this 
was  all  he  wanted.  The  same  ambition  that 
actuates  a  monarch  at  the  head  of  an  army, 
influenced  my  father  at  the  head  of  his  table. 
He  told  the  story  of  the  ivy-tree,  and  that  was 
laughed  at;  he  repeated  the  jest  of  the  two 
scholars  and  one  pair  of  breeches,  and  the  com- 
pany laughed  at  that;  but  the  story  of  Taffy 
in  the  sedan-chair,  was  sure  to  set  the  table  in 
a  roar.  Thus  his  pleasure  increased  in  pro- 
portion to  the  pleasure  he  gave;  he  loved  all 
the  world,  and  he  fancied  all  the  world  loved 
him. 

"As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to 
the  very  extent  of  it;  he  had  no  intentions  of 
leaving  his  children  money,  for  that  was  dross; 
he  was  resolved  they  should  have  learning;  for 
learning,  he  used  to  observe,  was  better  than 
silver  or  gold.  For  this  purpose,  he  undertook 
to  instruct  us  himself;  and  took  as  much  pains 
to  form  our  morals,  as  to  improve  our  under- 
standing. We  were  told,  that  universal  be- 
nevolence was  what  first  cemented  society; 
we  were  taught  to  consider  all  the  wants  of 
mankind  as  our  own;  to  regard  the  'human 
face  divine'  with  affection  and  esteem;  he 
wound  us  up  to  be  mere  machines  of  pity,  and 
rendered  us  incapable  of  withstanding  the 
slightest  impulse  made  either  by  real  or  fictitious 
distress :  in  a  word,  we  were  perfectly  instructed 
in  the  art  of  giving  away  thousands,  before  we 
were  taught  the  more  necessary  qualifications 
of  getting  a  farthing. 

"I  cannot  avoid  imagining,  that  thus  refined 
by  his  lessons  out  of  all  my  suspicion,  and 
divested  of  even  all  the  lillle  cunning  which 
nature  had  given  me,  I  resembled,  upon  my 


26o 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


first  entrance  into  the  busy  and  insidious 
world,  one  of  those  gladiators  who  were  ex- 
posed without  armour  in  the  amphitheatre  at 
Rome.  My  father,  however,  who  had  only 
seen  the  world  on  one  side,  seemed  to  triumph 
in  my  superior  discernment ;  though  my  whole 
stock  of  wisdom  consisted  in  being  able  to 
talk  like  himself  upon  subjects  that  once  were 
useful,  because  they  were  then  topics  of  the 
busy  world,  but  that  now  were  utterly  useless, 
because  connected  with  the  busy  world  no 
longer. 

''The  first  opportunity  he  had  of  finding  his 
expectations  disappointed,  was  in  the  very 
middling  figure  I  made  in  the  university;  he 
had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  soon  see 
me  rising  into  the  foremost  rank  in  literary 
reputation,  but  was  mortified  to  find  me 
utterly  unnoticed  and  unknown.  His  dis- 
appointment might  have  been  partly  ascribed 
to  his  having  overrated  my  talents,  and  partly 
to  my  dislike  of  mathematical  reasonings,  at  a 
time  when  my  imagination  and  memory,  yet 
unsatisfied,  were  more  eager  after  new  objects, 
than  desirous  of  reasoning  upon  those  I  knew. 
This  did  not,  however,  please  my  tutor,  who 
observed,  indeed,  that  I  was  a  little  dull;  but 
at  the  same  time  allowed,  that  I  seemed  to  be 
very  good-natured,  and  had  no  harm  in  me. 

"After  I  had  resided  at  college  seven  years, 
my  father  died,  and  left  me  —  his  blessing. 
Thus  shoved  from  shore  without  ill-nature  to 
protect,  or  cunning  to  guide,  or  proper  stores 
to  subsist  me  in  so  dangerous  a  voyage,  I  was 
obliged  to  embark  in  the  wide  world  at  twenty- 
two.  But,  in  order  to  settle  in  life,  my  friends 
advised,  (for  they  always  advise  when  they 
begin  to  despise  us,)  they  advised  me,  I  say, 
to  go  into  orders. 

"To  be  obliged  to  wear  a  long  wig,  when 
I  liked  a  short  one,  or  a  black  coat,  when  I 
generally  dressed  in  brown,  I  thought  was 
such  a  restraint  upon  my  liberty,  that  I  ab- 
solutely rejected  the  proposal.  A  priest  in 
England  is  not  the  same  mortified  creature 
with  a  bonze  in  China.  With  us,  not  he  that 
fasts  best,  but  eats  best,  is  reckoned  the  best 
liver;  yet  I  rejected  a  life  of  luxury,  indo- 
lence, and  ease,  from  no  other  consideration 
but  that  boyish  one  of  dress.  So  that  my 
friends  were  now  perfectly  satisfied  I  was  un- 
done; and  yet  they  thought  it  a  pity  for  one 
who  had  not  the  least  harm  in  him,  and  was 
so  very  good-natured. 

"Poverty  naturally  begets  dependence,  and 
I  was  admitted  as  flatterer  to  a  great  man. 


At  first,  I  was  surprised  that  the  situation  of 
a  flatterer  at  a  great  man's  table  could  be 
thought  disagreeable:  there  was  no  great 
trouble  in  listening  attentively  when  his  lord- 
ship spoke,  and  laughing  when  he  looked 
round  for  applause.  This  even  good  manners 
might  have  obliged  me  to  perform.  I  found, 
however,  too  soon,  that  his  lordship  was  a 
greater  dunce  than  myself;  and  from  that 
very  moment  flattery  was  at  an  end.  I  now 
rather  aimed  at  setting  him  right,  than  at 
receiving  his  absurdities  with  submission.  To 
flatter  those  we  do  not  know  is  an  easy  task; 
but  to  flatter  our  intimate  acquaintances,  all 
whose  foibles  are  strongly  in  our  eye,  is  drudgery 
insupportable.  Every  time  I  now  opened  my 
lips  in  praise,  my  falsehood  went  to  my  con- 
science: his  lordship  soon  perceived  me  to  be 
very  unfit  for  service;  I  was  therefore  dis- 
charged; my  patron  at  the  same  time  being 
graciously  pleased  to  observe,  that  he  believed 
I  was  tolerably  good-natured,  and  not  the 
least  harm  in  me. 

"Disappointed  in  ambition,  I  had  recourse 
to  love.  A  young  lady,  who  lived  with  her 
aunt,  and  was  possessed  of  a  pretty  fortune  in 
her  own  disposal,  had  given  me,  as  I  fancied, 
some  reason  to  expect  success.  The  symp- 
toms by  which  I  was  guided  were  striking. 
She  had  always  laughed  with  me  at  her  awk- 
ward acquaintance,  and  at  her  aunt  among 
the  number;  she  always  observed,  that  a 
man  of  sense  would  make  a  better  husband 
than  a  fool,  and  I  as  constantly  applied  the 
observation  in  my  own  favour.  She  continu- 
ally talked,  in  my  company,  of  friendship  and 
the  beauties  of  the  mind,  and  spoke  of  Mr. 
Shrimp  my  rival's  high-heeled  shoes  with 
detestation.  These  were  circumstances  which 
I  thought  strongly  in  my  favour;  so,  after  re- 
solving, and  re-resolving,  I  had  courage  enough 
to  tell  her  my  mind.  Miss  heard  my  proposal 
with  serenity,  seeming  at  the  same  time  to 
study  the  figures  of  her  fan.  Out  at  last  it 
came:  There  was  but  one  small  objection  to 
complete  our  happiness,  which  was  no  more 
than  —  that  she  was  married  three  months 
before  to  Mr.  Shrimp,  with  high-heeled  shoes! 
By  way  of  consolation,  however,  she  observed, 
that,  though  I  was  disappointed  in  her,  my 
addresses  to  her  aunt  would  probably  kindle 
her  into  sensibility;  as  the  old  lady  always 
allowed  me  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  not 
to  have  the  least  share  of  harm  in  me. 

"Yet  still  I  had  friends,  numerous  friends, 
and   to   them   I   was   resolved   to   apply.     O 


LETTERS   FROM  A   CITIZEN   OF    THE   WORLD  TO   HIS   FRIENDS     261 


friendship !  thou  fond  soother  of  the  human 
breast,  to  thee  the  wretched  seek  for  succour; 
on  thee  the  care-tired  son  of  misery  fondly 
relies;  from  thy  kind  assistance  the  unfor- 
tunate always  hopes  relief,  and  may  be  ever 
sure  of  —  disappointment !  My  first  applica- 
tion was  to  a  city  scrivener,  who  had  fre- 
quently offered  to  lend  me  money,  when  he 
knew  I  did  not  want  it.  I  informed  him,  that 
now  was  the  time  to  put  his  friendship  to  the 
test;  that  I  wanted  to  borrow  a  couple  of 
hundreds  for  a  certain  occasion,  and  was  re- 
solved to  take  it  up  from  him.  'And  pray. 
Sir,'  cried  my  friend,  'do  you  want  all  this 
money  ? '  —  '  Indeed,  I  never  wanted  it  more,' 
returned  I.  'I  am  sorry  for  that,'  cries  the 
scrivener,  'with  all  my  heart;  for  they  who 
want  money  when  they  come  to  borrow,  will 
always  want  money  when  they  should  come  to 
pay.' 

"From  him  I  flew  with  indignation,  to  one 
of  the  best  friends  I  had  in  the  world,  and 
made  the  same  request.  "'Indeed,  Mr.  Dry- 
bone,'  cries  my  friend,  'I  always  thought  it 
would  come  to  this.  You  know,  Sir,  I  would 
not  advise  you  but  for  your  own  good;  but 
your  conduct  has  hitherto  been  ridiculous  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  some  of  your  acquaint- 
ance always  thought  you  a  very  silly  fellow. 
Let  me  see  —  you  want  two  hundred  pounds. 
Do  you  only  want  two  hundred,  Sir,  exactly?' 
- — 'To  confess  a  truth,'  returned  I,  'I  shall 
want  three  hundred;  but  then  I  have  another 
friend,  from  whom  I  can  borrow  the  rest.'  — 
'Why,  then,'  replied  my  friend,  'if  you  would 
take  my  advice  (and  you  know  I  should  not 
presume  to  advise  you  but  for  your  own  good,) 
I  would  recommend  it  to  you  to  borrow  the 
whole  sum  from  that  other  friend,  and  then 
one  note  will  serve  for  all,  you  know.' 

"Poverty  now  began  to  come  fast  upon  me; 
yet  instead  of  growing  more  provident  or 
cautious  as  I  grew  poor,  I  became  every  day 
more  indolent  and  simple.  A  friend  was 
arrested  for  fifty  pounds;  I  was  unable  to 
extricate  him,  except  by  becoming  his  bail. 
When  at  liberty,  he  fled  from  his  creditors, 
and  left  me  to  take  his  place.  In  prison  I 
expected  greater  satisfactions  than  I  had  en- 
joyed at  large.  I  hoped  to  converse  with 
men  in  this  new  world,  simple  and  believing 
like  myself;  but  I  found  them  as  cunning 
and  as  cautious  as  those  in  the  world  I  had 
left  behind.  They  spunged  up  my  money 
while  it  lasted,  borrowed  my  coals  and  never 
paid  for  them,  and  cheated  me  when  I  played 


at  cribl)age.  All  this  was  done  because  they 
believed  me  to  be  very  good-natured,  and 
knew  that  I  had  no  harm  in  me. 

"Upon  my  first  entrance  into  this  mansion, 
which  is  to  some  the  abode  of  despair,  I  felt 
no  sensations  different  from  those  I  experi- 
enced abroad.  I  was  now  on  one  side  the 
door,  and  those  who  were  unconfined  were  on 
the  other:  this  was  all  the  difference  between 
us.  At  first,  indeed,  I  felt  some  uneasiness, 
in  considering  how  I  should  be  able  to  pro- 
vide this  week  for  the  wants  of  the  week  en- 
suing; but,  after  some  time,  if  I  found  myself 
sure  of  eating  one  day,  I  never  troubled  my 
head  how  I  was  to  be  supy)lied  another.  I 
seized  every  precarious  meal  with  the  utmost 
good-humour;  indulged  no  rants  of  spleen  at 
my  situation;  never  called  down  heaven  and 
all  the  stars  to  behold  me  dining  upon  a  half- 
penny worth  of  radishes;  my  very  companions 
were  taught  to  believe  that  1  liked  salad  belter 
than  mutton.  I  contented  myself  with  think- 
ing, that  all  my  life  I  should  either  eat  white 
bread  or  brown;  considered  that  all  that 
happened  was  best;  laughed  when  I  was  not 
in  pain,  took  the  world  as  it  went,  and  read 
Tacitus  often,  for  want  of  more  books  and 
company. 

"How  long  I  might  have  continued  in  this 
torpid  state  of  simplicity  I  cannot  tell,  had  I 
not  been  roused  by  seeing  an  old  acquaintance, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  a  prudent  blockhead, 
preferred  to  a  place  in  the  government.  I 
now  found  that  I  had  pursued  a  wrong  track, 
and  that  the  true  way  of  being  able  to  relieve 
others,  was  first  to  aim  at  independence  my- 
self. My  immediate  care,  therefore,  was  to 
leave  my  present  habitation,  and  make  an 
entire  reformation  in  my  conduct  and  be- 
haviour. For  a  free,  open,  undesigning  de- 
portment, I  put  on  that  of  closeness,  prudence, 
and  economy.  One  of  the  most  heroic  actions 
I  ever  performed,  and  for  which  I  shall  j)raise 
myself  as  long  as  I  live,  was  the  refusing  half- 
a-crown  to  an  old  acquaintance,  at  the  time 
when  he  wanted  it,  and  I  had  it  to  spare:  for 
this  alone  I  deserve  to  be  decreed  an  ovation. 

"I  now  therefore  pursued  a  course  of  un- 
interrupted frugality,  seldom  wanted  a  dinner, 
and  was  consequently  invited  to  twenty.  I 
soon  began  to  get  the  character  of  a  saving 
hunks  that  had  money,  and  insensibly  grew 
into  esteem.  Neighbours  have  asked  my  advice 
in  the  disposal  of  their  daughters;  and  I  have 
always  taken  care  not  to  give  any.  I  have 
contracted    a    friendship    with    an    alderman. 


262 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


only  by  observing,  that  if  we  take  a  farthing 
from  a'  thousand  pounds,  it  will  be  a  thousand 
pounds  no  longer.  I  have  been  invited  to  a 
pawnbroker's  table,  by  pretending  to  hate 
gravy;  and  am  now  actually  upon  treaty  of 
marriage  with  a  rich  widow,  for  only  having 
observed  that  the  bread  was  rising.  If  ever 
I  am  asked  a  question,  whether  I  know  it  or 
not,  instead  of  answering,  I  only  smile  and 
look  wise.  If  a  charity  is  proposed,  I  go 
about  with  the  hat,  but  put  nothing  in  myself. 
If  a  wretch  solicits  my  pity,  I  observe  that  the 
world  is  filled  with  impostors,  and  take  a 
certain  method  of  not  being  deceived,  by  never 
relieving.  In  short,  I  now  find  the  truest 
way  of  finding  esteem,  even  from  the  indigent, 
is  —  to  give  away  nothing,  and  thus  have 
much  in  our  power  to  give." 

LETTER  XXVIII 

On  the  Great  Number  of  Old  M.mds  and 

Bachelors  in   London  —  Some  of 

THE  Causes 

Lately,  in  company  with  my  friend  in 
black,  whose  conversation  is  now  both  my 
amusement  and  instruction,  I  could  not  avoid 
observing  the  great  numl^ers  of  old  bachelors 
and  maiden  ladies  with  which  this  city  seems 
to  be  overrun.  "Sure,  marriage,"  said  I,  "is 
not  sufficiently  encouraged,  or  we  should  never 
behold  such  crowds  of  battered  beaux  and 
decayed  coquettes,  still  attempting  to  drive  a 
trade  they  have  been  so  long  unfit  for,  and 
swarming  upon  the  gaiety  of  the  age.  I  be- 
hold an  old  bachelor  in  the  most  contemptible 
light,  as  an  animal  that  lives  upon  the  common 
stock  without  contributing  his  share:  he  is  a 
beast  of  prey,  and  the  laws  should  make  use 
of  as  many  stratagems,  and  as  much  force,  to 
drive  the  reluctant  savage  into  the  toils,  as 
the  Indians  when  they  hunt  the  rhinoceros. 
The  mob  should  be  permitted  to  halloo  after 
him,  boys  might  play  tricks  on  him  with  im- 
punity, every  well-bred  company  should  laugh 
at  him;  and  if,  when  turned  of  sixty,  he 
offered  to  make  love,  his  mistress  might  spit 
in  his  face,  or,  what  would  be  perhaps  a 
greater  punishment,  should  fairly  grant  the 
favour. 

"As  for  old  maids,"  continued  I,  "they 
should  not  be  treated  with  so  much  severity, 
because  I  suppose  none  would  be  so  if  they 
could.  No  lady  in  her  senses  would  choose 
to  make  a  subordinate  figure  at  christenings 
or  lyings-in,  when  she  might  be  the  principal 


herself;  nor  curry  favour  with  a  sister-in-law, 
when  she  might  command  a  husband;  nor 
toil  in  preparing  custards,  when  she  might  lie 
a-bed,  and  give  directions  how  they  ought  to 
be  made;  nor  stifle  all  her  sensations  in 
demure  formality,  when  she  might,  with  mat- 
rimonial freedom,  shake  her  acquaintance  by 
the  hand,  and  wink  at  a  double  entendre.  No 
lady  could  be  so  very  silly  as  to  live  single,  if 
she  could  help  it.  I  consider  an  unmarried 
lady,  declining  into  the  vale  of  years,  as  one 
of  those  charming  countries  bordering  on 
China,  that  lies  waste  for  want  of  proper  in- 
habitants. We  are  not  to  accuse  the  coun- 
try, but  the  ignorance  of  its  neighbours, 
who  are  insensible  of  its  beauties,  though  at 
liberty  to  enter  and  cultivate  the  soil." 

"Indeed,  Sir,"  replied  my  companion,  "you 
are  very  little  acquainted  with  the  English 
ladies,  to  think  they  are  old  maids  against 
their  will.  I  dare  venture  to  affirm,  that  you 
can  hardly  select  one  of  them  all,  but  has  had 
frequent  offers  of  marriage,  which  either  pride 
or  avarice  has  not  made  her  reject.  Instead 
of  thinking  it  a  disgrace,  they  take  every  occa- 
sion to  boast  of  their  former  cruelty;  a  soldier 
does  not  exult  more  when  he  counts  over  the 
wounds  he  has  received,  than  a  female  veteran 
when  she  relates  the  wounds  she  has  formerly 
given:  exhaustlcss  when  she  begins  a  narra- 
tive of  the  former  death-dealing  power  of  her 
eyes,  she  tells  of  the  kniglit  in  gold  lace,  who 
died  with  a  single  frown,  and  never  rose  again 
till  —  he  was  married  to  his  maid;  of  the 
squire  who,  being  cruelly  denied,  in  a  rage 
flew  to  the  window,  and  lifting  up  the  sash, 
threw  himself,  in  an  agony  —  into  his  arm- 
chair; of  the  parson,  who,  crossed  in  love, 
resolutely  swallowed  opium,  which  banished 
the  stings  of  despised  love  by  —  making  him 
sleep.  In  short,  she  talks  over  her  former 
losses  with  pleasure,  and,  like  some  trades- 
men, finds  consolation  in  the  many  bank- 
ruptcies she  has  suffered. 

"For  this  reason,  whenever  I  see  a  super- 
annuated beauty  still  unmarried,  I  tacitly 
accuse  her  either  of  pride,  avarice,  coquetry, 
or  affectation.  There's  Miss  Jenny  Tinder- 
box:  I  once  remember  her  to  have  had  some 
beauty,  and  a  moderate  fortune.  Her  elder 
sister  happened  to  marry  a  man  of  quality, 
and  this  seemed  as  a  statute  of  virginity  against 
poor  Jane.  Because  there  was  one  lucky  hit 
in  the  family,  she  was  resolved  not  to  dis- 
grace it  by  introducing  a  tradesman;  thus, 
rejecting    her    equals,    and    neglected    or    de- 


LETTERS   FROM   A    CITIZEN   OF   THE   WORLD    TO    HIS    FRIENDS      263 


spised  by  her  superiors,  she  now  acts  in  the 
capacity  of  tutoress  to  her  sister's  children, 
and  undergoes  the  drudgery  of  three  servants 
without  receiving  the  wages  of  one. 

"Miss  Squeeze  was  a  pawnbroker's  daugh- 
ter; her  father  had  early  taught  her  that 
money  was  a  very  good  thing,  and  left  lier  a 
moderate  fortune  at  his  death.  She  was  so 
perfectly  sensible  of  the  value  of  what  she  had 
got,  that  she  was  resolved  never  to  part  with 
a  farthing  without  an  equality  on  the  part  of 
her  suitor;  she  thus  refused  several  offers 
made  her  by  people  who  wanted  to  better 
themselves,  as  the  saying  is,  and  grew  old 
and  ill-natured,  without  ever  considering  that 
she  should  have  made  an  abatement  in  her 
pretensions,  from  her  face  being  pale,  and 
marked  with  the  small-pox. 

"Lady  Betty  Tempest,  on  the  contrary,  had 
beauty,  with  fortune  and  family.  But,  fond 
of  conquest,  she  passed  from  triumph  to 
triumph:  she  had  read  plays  and  romances, 
and  there  had  learned,  that  a  plain  man  of 
common  sense  was  no  better  than  a  fool. 
Such  she  refused,  and  sighed  only  for  the  gay, 
giddy,  inconstant,  and  thoughtless.  After  she 
had  thus  rejected  hundreds  who  liked  her,  and 
sighed  for  hundreds  who  despised  her,  she 
found  herself  insensibly  deserted.  At  present 
she  is  company  only  for  her  aunts  and  cousins, 
and  sometimes  makes  one  in  a  country-dance, 
with  only  one  of  the  chairs  for  a  partner, 
casts  ofif  round  a  joint-stool,  and  sets  to  a 
corner  cupboard.  In  a  word,  she  is  treated 
with  civil  contempt  from  every  quarter,  and 
placed,  like  a  piece  of  old-fashioned  lumber, 
merely  to  fill  up  a  corner. 

"But  Sophronia,  the  sagacious  Sophronia! 
how  shall  I  mention  her?  She  was  taught  to 
love  Greek,  and  hate  the  men  from  her  very 
infancy.  She  has  rejected  fine  gentlemen  be- 
cause they  were  not  pedants,  and  pedants  be- 
cause they  were  not  fine  gentlemen;  her  ex- 
quisite sensibility  has  taught  her  to  discover 
every  fault  in  every  lover,  and  her  inflexible 
justice  has  prevented  her  pardoning  them: 
thus  she  rejected  several  offers,  till  the  wrinkles 
of  age  had  overtaken  her;  and  now,  without 
one  good  feature  in  her  face,  she  talks  inces- 
santly of  the  beauties  of  the  mind."  —  Farewell. 

LETTER   XXIX 

A  Description  of  a  Club  of  Authors 

Were  we  to  estimate  the  learning  of  the 
English    by    the    number   of    books    that    are 


every  day  published  among  them,  perhaps  no 
country,  not  even  China  itself,  could  equal 
them  in  this  particular.  I  have  reckoned  not 
less  than  twenty-three  new  books  published 
in  one  day,  which,  upon  computation,  makes 
eight  thousand  three  hundred  and  ninety-five 
in  one  year.  Most  of  these  are  not  confined 
to  one  single  science,  but  embrace  the  whole 
circle.  History,  politics,  poetry,  mathematics, 
metaphysics,  and  the  philosophy  of  nature, 
are  all  comprised  in  a  manual  not  larger  than 
that  in  which  our  children  are  taught  the 
letters.  If,  then,  we  suppose  the  learned  of 
England  to  read  but  an  eighth  part  of  the 
works  which  daily  come  from  the  press  (and 
surely  none  can  pretend  to  learning  upon  less 
easy  terms),  at  this  rate  every  scholar  will 
read  a  thousand  books  in  one  year.  From 
such  a  calculation,  you  may  conjecture  what 
an  amazing  fund  of  literature  a  man  must  be 
possessed  of,  who  thus  reads  three  new  books 
every  day,  not  one  of  which  but  contains  all 
the  good  things  that  ever  were  said  or  written. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  it  happens,  but  the 
English  are  not,  in  reality,  so  learned  as  would 
seem  from  this  calculation.  We  meet  but  few 
who  know  all  arts  and  sciences  to  perfection; 
w^hether  it  is  that  the  generality  are  incapa- 
ble of  such  extensive  knowledge,  or  that  the 
authors  of  those  books  are  not  adequate  in- 
structors. In  China,  the  Emperor  himself 
takes  cognisance  of  all  the  doctors  in  the 
kingdom  who  profess  authorship.  In  Eng- 
land, every  man  may  be  an  author,  that  can 
write;  for  they  have  by  law  a  liberty,  not 
only  of  saying  what  they  please,  but  of  being 
also  as  dull  as  they  please. 

Yesterday,  I  testified  my  surprise,  to  the 
man  in  black,  where  writers  could  be  found 
in  sufticient  number  to  throw  off  the  books  I 
daily  saw  crowding  from  the  press.  I  at  first 
imagined  that  their  learned  seminaries  might 
take  this  method  of  instructing  the  world. 
But  to  obviate  this  objection,  my  companion 
assured  me,  that  the  doctors  of  colleges  never 
wrote,  and  that  some  of  them  had  actually 
forgot  their  reading;  "but  if  you  desire,"  con- 
tinued he,  "to  see  a  collection  of  authors,  I 
fancy  I  can  introduce  you  this  evening  to  a 
club,  which  assembles  every  Saturday  at  seven, 
at  the  sign  of  The  Broom,  near  Islington,  to 
talk  over  the  business  of  the  last,  and  the 
entertainment  of  the  week  ensuing."  I  ac- 
cepted his  invitation ;  we  walked  together,  and 
entered  the  house  some  time  before  the  usual 
hour  for  the  company  assembling. 


264 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


My  friend  took  this  opportunity  of  letting 
me  into  the  characters  of  the  principal  mem- 
bers of  the  club,  not  even  the  host  excepted, 
who,  it  seems,  was  once  an  author  himself, 
but  preferred  by  a  bookseller  to  this  situation 
as  a  reward  for  his  former  services. 

"The  first  person,"  said  he,  "of  our  society, 
is  Doctor  Nonentity,  a  metaphysician.  Most 
people  think  him  a  profound  scholar;  but,  as 
he  seldom  speaks,  I  cannot  be  positive  in  that 
particular;  he  generally  spreads  himself  be- 
fore the  fire,  sucks  his  pipe,  talks  little,  drinks 
much,  and  is  reckoned  very  good  company. 
I'm  told  he  writes  indexes  to  perfection:  he 
makes  essays  on  the  origin  of  evil,  philosophical 
inquiries  upon  any  subject,  and  draws  up  an 
answer  to  any  book  upon  twenty-four  hours' 
warning.  You  may  distinguish  him  from  the 
rest  of  the  company  by  his  long  gray  wig,  and 
the  blue  handkerchief  round  his  neck. 

"The  next  to  him  in  merit  and  esteem  is 
Tim  Syllabub,  a  droll  creature:  he  sometimes 
shines  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  among 
the  choice  spirits  of  the  age:  he  is  reckoned 
equally  excellent  at  a  rebus,  a  riddle,  a  bawdy 
song,  and  a  hymn  for  the  Tabernacle.  You 
will  know  him  by  his  shabby  finery,  his  pow- 
dered wig,  dirty  shirt,  and  broken  silk  stockings. 

"After  him  succeeds  ^Mr.  Tibs,  a  very  useful 
hand:  he  writes  receipts  for  the  bite  of  a 
mad  dog,  and  throws  off  an  Eastern  tale  to 
perfection;  he  understands  the  business  of  an 
author  as  well  as  any  man;  for  no  bookseller 
alive  can  cheat  him.  You  may  distinguish 
him  by  the  peculiar  clumsiness  of  his  figure, 
and  the  coarseness  of  his  coat;  however, 
though  it  be  coarse  (as  he  frequently  tells  the 
company),  he  has  paid  for  it. 

"Lawyer  Squint  is  the  politician  of  the 
society:  he  makes  speeches  for  Parliament, 
writes  addresses  to  his  fellow-subjects,  and 
letters  to  noble  commanders;  he  gives  the 
history  of  every  new  play,  and  finds  season- 
able thouglits  upon  every  occasion."  My  com- 
panion was  proceeding  in  his  description, 
when  the  host  came  running  in,  with  terror 
on  his  countenance,  to  tell  us  that  the  door 
was  beset  with  bailiffs.  "If  that  be  the  case, 
then,"  says  my  companion,  "we  had  as  good 
be  going;  for  I  am  positive  we  shall  not  see 
one  of  the  company  this  night."  Wherefore, 
disappointed,  we  were  both  obliged  to  return 
home  —  he  to  enjoy  the  oddities  which  com- 
pose his  character  alone,  and  I  to  write  as 
usual  to  my  friend  the  occurrences  of  the 
day.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXX 
The  Proceedings  of  the  Club  of  Authors 

By  my  last  advices  from  Moscow,  I  find  the 
caravan  has  not  yet  departed  for  China:  I 
still  continue  to  write,  expecting  that  you  may 
receive  a  large  number  of  letters  at  once.  In 
them  you  will  find  rather  a  minute  detail  of 
English  peculiarities,  than  a  general  picture 
of  their  manners  or  disposition.  Happy  it 
were  for  mankind,  if  all  travellers  would  thus, 
instead  of  characterising  a  people  in  general 
terms,  lead  us  into  a  detail  of  those  minute 
circumstances  which  first  influenced  their 
opinion.  The  genius  of  a  country  should  be 
investigated  with  a  kind  of  experimental  in- 
quiry: by  this  means,  we  should  have  more 
precise  and  just  notions  of  foreign  nations, 
and  detect  travellers  themselves  when  they 
happened  to  form  wrong  conclusions. 

My  friend  and  I  repeated  our  visit  to  the 
club  of  authors;  where,  upon  our  entrance, 
we  found  the  members  all  assembled,  and  en- 
gaged in  a  loud  debate. 

The  poet,  in  shabby  finery,  holding  a  manu- 
script in  his  hand,  was  earnestly  endeavouring 
to  persuade  the  company  to  hear  him  read  the 
first  book  of  an  heroic  poem,  which  he  had 
composed  the  day  before.  But  against  this 
all  the  members  very  warmly  objected.  They 
knew  no  reason  why  any  member  of  the  club 
should  be  indulged  with  a  particular  hearing, 
when  many  of  them  had  published  whole 
volumes  which  had  never  been  looked  into. 
They  insisted  that  the  law  should  be  observed, 
where  reading  in  company  was  expressly 
noticed.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  plaintiff 
pleaded  the  peculiar  merit  of  his  piece;  he 
spoke  to  an  assembly  insensible  to  all  his 
remonstrances:  the  book  of  laws  was  opened, 
and  read  by  the  secretary,  where  it  was  ex- 
pressly enacted,  "That  whatsoever  poet, 
speech-maker,  critic,  or  historian,  should  pre- 
sume to  engage  the  company  by  reading  his 
own  works,  he  was  to  lay  down  sixpence  pre- 
vious to  opening  the  manuscript,  and  should 
be  charged  one  shilling  an  hour  while  he  con- 
tinued reading:  the  said  shilling  to  be  equally 
distributed  among  the  company,  as  a  recom- 
pense for  their  trouble." 

Our  poet  seemed  at  first  to  shrink  at  the 
penalty,  hesitating  for  some  time  whether  he 
should  deposit  the  fine,  or  shut  up  the  poem; 
but,  looking  round,  and  perceiving  two  strangers 
in  the  room,  his  love  of  fame  outweighed  his 


LETTERS   FROM   A    CITIZEN   OF    THE   WORLD   TO   HIS   FRIENDS      26: 


prudence,  and,  laying  down  the  sum  by  law 
established,  he  insisted  on  his  prerogative. 

A  profound  silence  ensuing,  he  began  by 
explaining  his  design.  "Gentlemen,"  says 
he,  "the  present  piece  is  not  one  of  your  com- 
mon epic  poems,  which  come  from  the  press 
like  paper-kites  in  summer:  there  are  none  of 
your  Turnuses  or  Didos  in  it;  it  is  an  heroical 
description  of  nature.  I  only  beg  you'll  en- 
deavour to  make  your  souls  unison  with  mine, 
and  hear  with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which 
I  have  written.  The  poem  begins  with  the 
description  of  an  author's  bed-chamber:  the 
picture  was  sketched  in  my  own  apartment; 
for  you  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  I  am 
myself  the  hero."  Then  putting  himself  into 
the  attitude  of  an  orator,  with  all  the  emphasis 
of  voice  and  action,  he  proceeded: 

"Where  the  Red  Lion,  flaring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay; 
Where    Calvert's    butt,   and    Parson's    black    cham- 
pagne, 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane  : 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug. 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretched  beneath  a  rug. 
A  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread  — 
The  Royal  Game  of  Goose  was  there  in  view 
And  the  Twelve  Rules  the  Royal  Martyr  drew  ; 
The  Seasons,  framed  with  Hsting,  found  a  place, 
And  brave    Prince    William  showed   his  lamp-black 

face. 
The  morn  was  cold  :  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate,  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  Ave  cracked  teacups  dressed  the  chimney  board  ; 
A  night-cap  decked  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night  —  a  stocking  all  the  day  !  " 

With  this  last  line  he  seemed  so  much  elated, 
that  he  was  unable  to  proceed.  "There, 
gentlemen,"  cries  he,  "there  is  a  description 
for  you;  Rabelais's  bed-chamber  is  but  a 
fool  to  it: 

'  A  cap  by  night  —  a  stocking  all  the  day  ! ' 

There  is  sound,  and  sense,  and  truth,  and 
nature  in  the  trifling  compass  of  ten  little 
syllables." 

He  was  too  much  employed  in  self-admira- 
tion to  observe  the  company;  who,  by  nods, 
winks,  shrugs,  and  stifled  laughter,  testified 
every  mark  of  contempt.  He  turned  severally 
to  each  for  their  opinion,  and  found  all,  how- 


ever, ready  to  applaud.  One  swore  it  was 
inimitable;  another  said  it  was  damned  fine; 
and  a  third  cried  out  in  a  rapture,  "Carissimo/" 
At  last,  addressing  himself  to  the  president, 
"And  pray,  Mr.  Squint,"  says  he,  "let  us 
have  your  opinion."  —  "Mine!"  answered 
the  president  (taking  the  manuscript  out  of 
the  author's  hand);  "may  this  glass  suffocate 
me,  but  I  think  it  equal  to  anything  I  have 
seen;  and  I  fancy"  (continued  he,  doubling 
up  the  poem  and  forcing  it  into  the  author's 
pocket)  "that  you  will  get  great  honour  when 
it  comes  out;  so  I  shall  beg  leave  to  put  it  in. 
We  will  not  intrude  upon  your  good-nature,  in 
desiring  to  hear  more  of  it  at  present;  ex 
ungiie  Hcrculcm,  we  are  satisfied,  perfectly 
satisfied."  The  author  made  two  or  three 
attempts  to  pull  it  out  a  second  time,  and  the 
president  made  as  many  to  prevent  him. 
Thus,  though  with  reluctance,  he  was  at  last 
obliged  to  sit  down,  contented  with  the  com- 
mendations for  which  he  had  paid. 

When  this  tempest  of  poetry  and  praise  was 
blown  over,  one  of  the  company  changed  the 
subject,  by  wondering  how  any  man  could  be 
so  dull  as  to  write  poetry  at  present,  since 
prose  itself  would  hardly  pay.  "Would  you 
think  it,  gentlemen,"  continued  he,  "I  have 
actually  written,  last  week,  sixteen  prayers, 
twelve  bawdy  jests,  and  three  sermons,  all  at 
the  rate  of  sixpence  a-piece;  and,  what  is  still 
more  extraordinary,  the  bookseller  has  lost  by 
the  bargain.  Such  sermons  would  once  have 
gained  me  a  prebend's  stall;  but  now,  alas! 
we  have  neither  piety,  taste,  nor  humour 
among  us !  Positively,  if  this  season  does  not 
turn  out  better  than  it  has  begun,  unless  the 
ministry  commit  some  blunders  to  furnish  us 
with  a  new  topic  of  abuse,  I  shall  resume  my 
old  business  of  working  at  the  press,  instead 
of  finding  it  employment." 

The  whole  club  seemed  to  join  in  condemn- 
ing the  season,  as  one  of  the  worst  that  had 
come  for  some  time:  a  gentleman  particularly 
observed  that  the  nobility  were  never  known 
to  subscribe  worse  than  at  present.  "I  know 
not  how  it  happens,"  said  he,  "though  I  follow 
them  up  as  close  as  possible,  yet  I  can  hardly 
get  a  single  subscription  in  a  week.  The 
houses  of  the  great  are  as  inaccessible  as  a 
frontier  garrison  at  midnight.  I  never  see  a 
nobleman's  door  half  opened,  that  some  surly 
porter  or  footman  does  not  stand  full  in  the 
breach.  I  was  yesterday  to  wait  with  a  sub- 
scription proposal  upon  my  Lord  Squash,  the 
Creolian.     I   had  posted  myself  at   his  door 


266 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


the  whole  morning,  and,  just  as  he  was  getting 
into  his  coach,  thrust  my  proposal  snug  into 
his  hand,  folded  up  in  the  form  of  a  letter 
from  myself.  He  just  glanced  at  the  super- 
scription, and  not  knowing  the  hand,  con- 
signed it  to  his  valet-de-chambre;  this  respect- 
able personage  treated  it  as  his  master,  and 
put  it  into  the  hands  of  the  porter;  the  porter 
grasped  my  proposal  frowning;  and,  measur- 
ing my  figure  from  top  to  toe,  put  it  back  into 
my  own  hands  unopened." 

'"To  the  devil  I  pitch  all  the  nobility!" 
cries  a  little  man,  in  a  peculiar  accent;  "  I  am 
sure  they  have  of  late  used  me  most  scurvily. 
You  must  know,  gentlemen,  some  time  ago, 
upon  the  arrival  of  a  certain  noble  duke  from 
his  travels,  I  sat  myself  down,  and  vamped  up 
a  fine  flaunting  poetical  panegyric,  which  I 
had  written  in  such  a  strain,  that  I  fancied  it 
would  have  even  wheedled  milk  from  a  mouse. 
In  this  I  represented  the  whole  kingdom  wel- 
coming his  grace  to  his  native  soil,  not  for- 
getting the  loss  France  and  Italy  would  sustain 
in  their  arts  by  his  departure.  I  expected  to 
touch  for  a  bank-bill  at  least;  so,  folding  up 
my  verses  in  gilt  paper,  I  gave  my  last  half- 
crown  to  a  genteel  servant  to  be  the  bearer. 
My  letter  was  safely  conveyed  to  his  grace, 
and  the  servant,  after  four  hours'  absence, 
during  which  time  I  led  the  life  of  a  fiend, 
returned  with  a  letter  four  times  as  big  as  mine. 
Guess  my  ecstacy  at  the  prospect  of  so  fine  a 
return.  I  eagerly  took  the  packet  into  my 
hands,  that  trembled  to  receive  it.  I  kept  it 
some  time  unopened  before  me,  brooding  over 
the  expected  treasure  it  contained;  when  open- 
ing it,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  gentlemen, 
his  grace  had  sent  me  in  payment  for  my 
poem,  no  bank-bills,  but  six  copies  of  verses, 
each  longer  than  mine,  addressed  to  him  upon 
the  same  occasion." 

"A  nobleman,"  cries  a  member,  who  had 
hitherto  been  silent,  "is  created  as  much  for 
the  confusion  of  us  authors,  as  the  catch-pole. 
I'll  tell  you  a  story,  gentlemen,  which  is  as 
true  as  that  this  pipe  is  made  of  clay :  —  When 
I  was  delivered  of  my  first  book,  I  owed  my 
tailor  for  a  suit  of  clothes;  but  that  is  nothing 
new,  you  know,  and  may  be  any  man's  case 
as  well  as  mine.  Well,  owing  him  for  a  suit 
of  clothes,  and  hearing  that  my  book  took  very 
well,  he  sent  for  his  money  and  insisted  upon 
being  paid  immediately.  Though  I  was  at 
that  time  rich  in  fame  —  for  my  book  ran  like 
wild-fire  —  yet  I  was  very  short  in  money, 
and,  being  unable  to  satisfy  his  demand,  pru- 


dently resolved  to  keep  my  chamber,  pre- 
ferring a  prison  of  my  own  choosing  at  home, 
to  one  of  my  tailor's  choosing  abroad.  In 
vain  the  bailiffs  used  all  their  arts  to  decoy 
me  from  my  citadel;  in  vain  they  sent  to  let 
me  know  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  speak 
with  me  at  the  next  tavern ;  in  vain  they  came 
with  an  urgent  message  from  my  aunt  in  the 
country;  in  vain  I  was  told  that  a  particular 
friend  was  at  the  point  of  death,  and  desired 
to  take  his  last  farewell:  — I  was  deaf,  insen- 
sible, rock,  adamant;  the  bailiffs  could  make 
no  impression  on  my  hard  heart,  for  I  effectu- 
ally kept  my  liberty  by  never  stirring  out  of  the 
room. 

"This  was  very  well  for  a  fortnight;  when 
one  morning  I  received  a  most  splendid  mes- 
sage from  the  Earl  of  Doomsday,  importing, 
that  he  had  read  my  book,  and  was  in  raptures 
with  every  line  of  it;  he  impatiently  longed 
to  see  the  author,  and  had  some  designs  W'hich 
might  turn  out  greatly  to  my  advantage.  I 
paused  upon  the  contents  of  this  message,  and 
found  there  could  be  no  deceit,  for  the  card 
w-as  gilt  at  the  edges,  and  the  bearer,  I  was 
told,  had  quite  the  looks  of  a  gentleman. 
Witness,  ye  powers,  how  my  heart  triumphed 
at  my  own  importance !  I  saw  a  long  per- 
spective of  felicity  before  me;  I  applauded 
the  taste  of  the  times  which  never  saw  genius 
forsaken:  I  had  prepared  a  set  introductory 
speech  for  the  occasion;  five  glaring  compli- 
ments for  his  lordship,  and  two  more  modest 
for  myself.  The  next  morning,  therefore,  in 
order  to  be  punctual  to  my  appointment,  I 
took  coach,  and  ordered  the  fellow  to  drive 
to  the  street  and  house  mentioned  in  his  lord- 
ship's address.  I  had  the  precaution  to  pull 
up  the  windows  as  I  went  along,  to  keep  off 
the  busy  part  of  mankind,  and,  big  with  ex- 
pectation, fancied  the  coach  never  went  fast 
enough.  At  length,  however,  the  wished  for 
moment  of  its  stopping  arrived:  this  for  some 
time  I  impatiently  expected,  and  letting  down 
the  window  in  a  transport,  in  order  to  take  a 
previous  view  of  his  lordship's  magnificent 
palace  and  situation,  I  found  —  poison  to  my 
sight !  —  I  found  myself  not  in  an  elegant 
street,  but  a  paltry  lane ;  not  at  a  nobleman's 
door,  but  the  door  of  a  spunging-house:  I 
found  the  coachman  had  all  this  while  been 
just  driving  me  to  jail;  and  I  saw  the  bailifT, 
with  a  devil's  face,  coming  out  to  secure  me." 

To  a  philosopher,  no  circumstance,  how- 
ever trifling,  is  too  minute;  he  finds  instruc- 
tion and  entertainment  in  occurrences,  which 


EDMUND    BURKE 


267 


are  passed  over  by  the  rest  of  mankind,  as  low, 
trite,  and  indifferent;  it  is  from  the  number  of 
these  {)articulars,  which  to  many  appear  in- 
significant, that  he  is  at  last  enabled  to  form 
general  conclusions;  this,  therefore,  must  be 
my  excuse  for  sending  so  far  as  China,  accounts 
of  manners  and  follies,  which,  though  minute 
in  their  own  nature,  serve  more  truly  to  char- 
acterise this  people,  than  histories  of  their 
public  treaties,  courts,  ministers,  negotiations, 
and  ambassadors.     Adieu. 


EDMUND  BURKE   (1729-1797) 

From   SPEECH   ON   THE   NABOB    OF 
ARCOT'S   DEBTS 

The  great  fortunes  made  in  India,  in  the 
beginnings  of  conquest,  naturally  excited  an 
emulation  in  all  the  parts  and  through  the  whole 
succession  of  the  Company's  service.  But  in 
the  Company  it  gave  rise  to  other  sentiments. 
They  did  not  find  the  new  channels  of  acquisi- 
tion flow  with  equal  riches  to  them.  On  the 
contrary,  the  high  flood-tide  of  private  emolu- 
ment was  generally  in  the  lowest  ebb  of  their 
affairs.  They  began  also  to  fear  that  the  for- 
tune of  war  might  take  away  what  the  fortune 
of  war  had  given.  Wars  were  accordingly 
discouraged  by  repeated  injunctions  and 
menaces:  and  that  the  servants  might  not  be 
bribed  into  them  by  the  native  princes,  they 
were  strictly  forbidden  to  take  any  money 
whatsoever  from  their  hands.  But  vehement 
passion  is  ingenious  in  resources.  The  Com- 
pany's servants  were  not  only  stimulated,  but 
better  instructed  by  the  prohibition.  They 
soon  fell  upon  a  contrivance  which  answered 
their  purposes  far  better  than  the  methods  which 
were  forbidden:  though  in  this  also  they  vio- 
lated an  ancient,  but  they  thought,  an  ab- 
rogated order.  They  reversed  their  proceed- 
ings. Instead  of  receiving  presents,  they  made 
loans.  Instead  of  carrying  on  wars  in  their 
own  name,  they  contrived  an  authority,  at  once 
irresistible  and  irresponsible,  in  whose  name 
they  might  ravage  at  pleasure;  and  being  thus 
freed  from  all  restraint,  they  indulged  them- 
selves in  the  most  extravagant  speculations  of 
plunder.  The  cabal  of  creditors  who  have  been 
the  object  of  the  late  bountiful  grant  from  his 
Majesty's  ministers,  in  order  to  possess  them- 
selves, under  the  name  of  creditors  and  assign- 
ees, of  every  country  in  India,  as  fast  as  it 
should  be  conquered,  inspired  into  the  mind  of 
the  Nabob  of  Arcot  (then  a  dependent  on  the 


Company  of  the  humblest  order)  a  scheme  of 
the  most  wild  and  desperate  ambition  that  I 
believe  ever  was  admitted  into  the  thoughts  of 
a  man  so  situated.  First,  they  persuaded  him 
to  consider  himself  as  a  principal  member  in 
the  political  system  of  Europe.  In  the  next 
place,  they  held  out  to  him,  and  he  readily 
imbibed,  the  idea  of  the  general  empire  of 
Hindostan.  As  a  preliminary  to  this  under- 
taking, they  prevailed  on  him  to  propose  a 
tripartite  division  of  that  vast  country:  one 
part  to  the  Company;  another  to  the  Mahrat- 
tas;  and  the  third  to  himself.  To  himself  he 
reserved  all  the  southern  part  of  the  great 
peninsula,  comprehended  under  the  general 
name  of  the  Deccan. 

On  this  scheme  of  their  servants,  the  Com- 
pany was  to  appear  in  the  Carnatic  in  no  other 
light  than  as  a  contractor  for  the  provision  of 
armies,  and  the  hire  of  mercenaries  for  his  use 
and  under  his  direction.  This  disposition  was 
to  be  secured  by  the  Nabob's  putting  himself 
under  the  guaranty  of  France,  and,  by  the 
means  of  that  rival  nation,  preventing  the 
P^nglish  forever  from  assuming  an  equality, 
much  less  a  superiority,  in  the  Carnatic.  In 
pursuance  of  this  treasonable  project,  (treason- 
able on  the  part  of  the  English,)  they  extin- 
guished the  Company  as  a  sovereign  power  in 
that  part  of  India;  they  withdrew  the  Com- 
pany's garrisons  out  of  all  the  forts  and  strong- 
holds of  the  Carnatic;  they  declined  to  receive 
the  ambassadors  from  foreign  courts,  and  re- 
mitted them  to  the  Nabob  of  Arcot;  they  fell 
upon,  and  totally  destroyed,  the  oldest  ally 
of  the  Company,  the  king  of  Tanjore,  and 
plundered  the  country  to  the  amount  of  near 
five  millions  sterling;  one  after  another,  in 
the  Nabob's  name,  but  with  English  force, 
they  brought  into  a  miserable  servitude  all  the 
princes  and  great  independent  nobility  of  a  vast 
country.  In  proportion  to  these  treasons  and 
violences,  which  ruined  the  people,  the  fund 
of  the  Nabob's  debt  grew  and  flourished. 

Among  the  victims  to  this  magnificent  plan 
of  universal  plunder,  worthy  of  the  heroic 
avarice  of  the  projectors,  you  have  all  heard 
(and  he  has  made  himself  to  be  well  remem- 
bered) of  an  Indian  chief  called  Hyder  Ali 
Khan.  This  man  possessed  the  western,  as 
the  Company,  under  the  name  of  the  Nabob 
of  Arcot,  does  the  eastern  division  of  the 
Carnatic.  It  was  among  the  leading  measures 
in  the  design  of  this  cabal  (according  to  their 
own  emphatic  language)  to  extirpate  this  Hyder 
Ali.     They  declared  the  Nabob  of  Arcot  to  be 


268 


EDMUND    BURKE 


his  sovereign,  and  himself  to  be  a  rebel,  and 
publicly  invested  their  instrument  with  the 
sovereignty  of  the  kingdom  of  Mysore.  But 
their  victim  was  not  of  the  passive  kind.  They 
were  soon  obliged  to  conclude  a  treaty  of  peace 
and  close  alliance  with  this  rebel,  at  the  gates 
of  Madras.  Both  before  and  since  that  treaty, 
every  principle  of  policy  pointed  out  this  power 
as  a  natural  alliance;  and  on  his  part  it  was 
courted  by  every  sort  of  amicable  office.  But 
the  cabinet  council  of  English  creditors  would 
not  suffer  their  Nabob  of  Arcot  to  sign  the 
treaty,  nor  even  to  give  to  a  prince  at  least  his 
equal  the  ordinary  titles  of  respect  and  courtesy. 
From  that  time  forward,  a  continued  plot  was 
carried  on  within  the  divan,  black  and  white, 
of  the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  for  the  destruction 
of  Hyder  Ali.  As  to  the  outward  members  of 
the  double,  or  rather  treble  government  of 
Madras,  which  had  signed  the  treaty,  they  were 
always  prevented  by  some  overruling  influence 
(which  they  do  not  describe,  but  which  cannot 
be  misunderstood)  from  performing  what  jus- 
tice and  interest  combined  so  evidently  to 
enforce. 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had 
to  do  with  men  who  either  would  sign  no  con- 
vention, or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature 
could  bind,  and  who  were  the  determined 
enemies  of  human  intercourse  itself,  he  decreed 
to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these  in- 
corrigible and  predestinated  criminals  a  mem- 
orable example  to  mankind.  He  resolved,  in 
the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of 
such  things,  to  leave  the  whole  Carnatic  an 
everlasting  monument  of  vengeance,  and  to 
put  perpetual  desolation  as  a  barrier  between 
him  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which 
holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together 
was  no  protection.  He  became  at  length  so 
confident  of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his  might, 
that  he  made  no  secret  whatsoever  of  his 
dreadful  resolution.  Having  terminated  his 
disputes  with  every  enemy  and  every  rival, 
who  buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their 
common  detestation  against  the  creditors  of 
the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every 
quarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity  could  add 
to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction ; 
and  compounding  all  the  materials  of  fury, 
havoc,  and  desolation  into  one  black  cloud, 
he  hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the 
mountains.  Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these 
evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  this 
menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  all  their 
horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and  poured  down 


the  whole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of  the 
Carnatic.  Then  ensued  a  scene  of  woe,  the 
like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heart  con- 
ceived, and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately 
tell.  All  the  horrors  of  war  before  known  or 
heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A 
storm  of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  con- 
sumed every  house,  destroyed  every  temple. 
The  miserable  inhabitants,  flying  from  their 
flaming  villages,  in  part  were  slaughtered; 
others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the 
respect  of  rank  or  sacredness  of  function, 
fathers  torn  from  children,  husbands  from 
wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of  cavalry, 
and  amidst  the  goading  spears  of  drivers,  and 
the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept 
into  captivity  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land. 
Those  who  were  able  to  evade  this  tempest 
fled  to  the  walled  cities;  but  escaping  from  fire, 
sword,  and  exile,  they  fell  into  the  jaws  of 
famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful 
exigency,  were  certainly  liberal;  and  all  was 
done  by  charity  that  private  charity  could  do: 
but  it  was  a  people  in  beggary ;  it  was  a  nation 
which  stretched  out  its  hands  for  food.  For 
months  together,  these  creatures  of  sufferance, 
whose  very  excess  and  luxury  in  their  most 
plenteous  days  had  fallen  short  of  the  allow- 
ance of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient, 
resigned,  without  sedition  or  disturbance, 
almost  without  complaint,  perished  by  an  hun- 
dred a  day  in  the  streets  of  Madras;  every  day 
seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies  in  the  streets 
or  on  the  glacis  of  Tan j  ore,  and  expired  of 
famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I  was  going 
to  awake  yoiu-  justice  towards  this  unhappy 
part  of  our  fellow-citizens,  by  bringing  before 
you  some  of  the  circumstances  of  this  plague 
of  hunger:  of  all  the  calamities  which  beset 
and  waylay  the  life  of  man,  this  comes  the 
nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein  the 
proudest  of  us  all  feels  himself  to  be  nothing 
more  than  he  is:  but  I  find  m3'self  unable  to 
manage  it  with  decorum ;  these  details  are  of  a 
species  of  horror  so  nauseous  and  disgusting, 
they  are  so  degrading  to  the  sufferers  and  to  the 
hearers,  they  are  so  humiliating  to  human 
nature  itself,  that,  on  better  thoughts,  I  find 
it  more  advisable  to  throw  a  pall  over  this 
hideous  object,  and  to  leave  it  to  your  general 
conceptions. 

For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission, 
this  destruction  raged  from  the  gates  of  Madras 
to  the  gates  of  Tanjore  ;  and  so  completely 
did  these  masters  in  their  art,  Hyder  Ali  and 


SPEECH    ON    THE    NABOB    OF    ARGOT'S    DEBTS 


269 


his  more  ferocious  son,  absolve  themselves 
of  their  impious  vow,  that,  when  the  British 
armies  traversed,  as  they  did,  the  Carnatic 
for  hundreds  of  miles  in  all  directions,  through 
the  whole  line  of  their  march  they  did  not  see 
one  man,  not  one  woman,  not  one  child,  not 
one  four-footed  beast  of  any  description  what- 
ever. One  dead,  uniform  silence  reigned  over 
the  whole  region.  With  the  inconsiderable 
exceptions  of  the  narrow  vicinage  of  some  few 
forts,  I  wish  to  be  understood  as  speaking 
litferally.  I  mean  to  produce  to  you  more 
than  three  witnesses,  above  all  exception,  who 
will  support  this  assertion  in  its  full  extent. 
That  hurricane  of  war  passed  through  every 
part  of  the  central  provinces  of  the  Carnatic. 
Six  or  seven  districts  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south  (and  these  not  wholly  untouched)  es- 
caped the  general  ravage. 

The  Carnatic  is  a  country  not  much  infe- 
rior in  extent  to  England.  Figure  to  yourself, 
Mr.  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  representative 
chair  you  sit;  figure  to  yourself  the  form  and 
fashion  of  your  sweet  and  cheerful  country 
from  Thames  to  Trent,  north  and  south,  and 
from  the  Irish  to  the  German  Sea,  east  and  west, 
emptied  and  embowelled  (may  God  avert  the 
omen  of  our  crimes !)  by  so  accomplished  a 
desolation.  Extend  your  imagination  a  little 
further,  and  then  suppose  your  ministers  taking 
a  survey  of  this  scene  of  waste  and  desolation. 
What  would  be  your  thoughts,  if  you  should  be 
informed  that  they  were  computing  how  much 
had  been  the  amount  of  the  excises,  how  much 
the  customs,  how  much  the  land  and  malt  tax, 
in  order  that  they  should  charge  (take  it  in  the 
most  favourable  light)  for  public  service,  upon 
the  relics  of  the  satiated  vengeance  of  relent- 
less enemies,  the  whole  of  what  England  had 
yielded  in  the  most  exuberant  seasons  of  peace 
and  abundance  ?  What  would  you  call  it  ? 
To  call  it  tyranny  sublimed  into  madness  would 
be  too  faint  an  image ;  yet  this  very  madness  is 
the  principle  upon  which  the  ministers  at  your 
right  hand  have  proceeded  in  their  estimate 
of  the  revenues  of  the  Carnatic,  when  they  were 
providing,  not  supply  for  the  establishments  of 
its  protection,  but  rewards  for  the  authors  of 
its  ruin. 

Every  day  you  are  fatigued  and  disgusted 
with  this  cant,  "The  Carnatic  is  a  country  that 
will  soon  recover,  and  become  instantly  as 
prosperous  as  ever."  They  think  they  are 
talking  to  innocents,  who  will  believe,  that,  by 
sowing  of  dragons'  teeth,  men  may  come  up 
ready  grown  and  ready  armed.     They  who  will 


give  them.selves  the  trouble  of  considering  (for 
it  requires  no  great  reach  of  thought,  no  very 
j)rofound  knowledge)  the  manner  in  which  man- 
kind are  increased,  and  countries  cultivated, 
will  regard  all  this  raving  as  it  ought  to  be  re- 
garded. In  order  that  the  people,  after  a  long 
period  of  vexation  and  plunder,  may  be  in  a 
condition  to  maintain  government,  government 
must  begin  by  maintaining  them.  Here  the 
road  to  economy  lies  not  through  receipt, 
but  through  expense;  and  in  that  country 
Nature  has  given  no  short  cut  to  your  object. 
Men  must  propagate,  like  other  animals,  by 
the  mouth.  Never  did  oppression  light  the 
nuptial  torch;  never  did  extortion  and  usury 
spread  out  the  genial  bed.  Does  any  of  you 
think  that  England,  so  wasted,  would,  under 
such  a  nursing  attendance,  so  rapidly  and 
cheaply  recover?  But  he  is  meanly  acquainted 
with  either  England  or  India  who  docs  not  know 
that  England  would  a  thousand  times  sooner 
resume  population,  fertility,  and  what  ought  to 
be  the  ultimate  secretion  from  both,  revenue, 
than  such  a  country  as  the  Carnatic. 

The  Carnatic  is  not  by  the  bounty  of  Nature 
a  fertile  soil.  The  general  size  of  its  cattle  is 
proof  enough  that  it  is  much  otherwise.  It  is 
some  days  since  I  moved  that  a  curious  and 
interesting  map,  kept  in  the  India  House,  should 
be  laid  before  you.  The  India  House  is  not  yet 
in  readiness  to  send  it ;  I  have  therefore  brought 
down  my  own  copy,  and  there  it  lies  for  the  use 
of  any  gentleman  who  may  think  such  a  matter 
worthy  of  his  attention.  It  is,  indeed,  a  noble 
map,  and  of  noble  things;  but  it  is  decisive 
against  the  golden  dreams  and  sanguine  specu- 
lations of  avarice  run  mad.  In  addition  to  what 
you  know  must  be  the  case  in  every  part  of  the 
world,  (the  necessity  of  a  previous  provision 
of  habitation,  seed,  stock,  capital,)  that  map 
will  show  you  that  the  uses  of  the  influences  of 
Heaven  itself  are  in  that  country  a  work  of 
art.  The  Carnatic  is  refreshed  by  few  or  no 
living  brooks  or  running  streams,  and  it  has 
rain  only  at  a  season ;  but  its  product  of  rice 
exacts  the  use  of  water  subject  to  perpetual 
command.  This  is  the  national  bank  of  the 
Carnatic,  on  which  it  must  have  a  perpetual 
credit,  or  it  perishes  irretrievably.  For  that 
reason,  in  the  happier  times  of  India,  a  number, 
almost  incredible,  of  reservoirs  have  been  made 
in  chosen  places  throughout  the  whole  country: 
they  are  formed,  for  the  greater  part,  of  mounds 
of  earth  and  stones,  with  sluices  of  solid  masonry ; 
the  whole  constructed  with  admirable  skill  and 
labour,  and  maintained  at  a  mighty  charge.     In 


270 


EDMUND    BURKE 


the  territory  contained  in  that  map  alone,  I 
have  been  at  the  trouble  of  reckoning  the  res- 
er\'oirs,  and  they  amount  to  upwards  of  eleven 
hundred,  from  the  extent  of  two  or  three  acres 
to  five  miles  in  circuit.  From  these  reser\'oirs 
currents  are  occasionally  drawn  over  the  fields, 
and  these  watercourses  again  call  for  a  consid- 
erable expense  to  keep  them  properly  scoured 
and  duly  levelled.  Taking  the  district  in  that 
map  as  a  measure,  there  cannot  be  in  the  Car- 
natic  and  Tanjore  fewer  than  ten  thousand  of 
these  reser\^oirs  of  the  larger  and  middling  di- 
mensions, to  say  nothing  of  those  for  domestic 
services,  and  the  use  of  religious  purification. 
These  are  not  the  enterprises  of  your  power,  nor 
in  a  style  of  magnificence  suited  to  the  taste  of 
your  minister.  These  are  the  monuments  of 
real  kings,  who  were  the  fathers  of  their  people, 
—  testators  to  a  posterity  which  they  embraced 
as  their  own.  These  are  the  grand  sepulchres 
built  by  ambition,  —  but  by  the  ambition  of  an 
insatiable  benevolence,  which,  not  contented 
with  reigning  in  the  dispensation  of  happiness 
during  the  contracted  term  of  human  life,  had 
strained,  with  all  the  reachings  and  graspings 
of  a  vivacious  mind,  to  extend  the  dominion 
of  their  bounty  beyond  the  limits  of  Nature, 
and  to  perpetuate  themselves  through  genera- 
tions of  generations,  the  guardians,  the  pro- 
tectors, the  nourishers  of  mankind. 

Long  before  the  late  invasion,  the  persons 
who  are  objects  of  the  grant  of  public  money 
now  before  you  had  so  diverted  the  supply 
of  the  pious  funds  of  culture  and  papulation, 
that  everywhere  the  reservoirs  were  fallen  into 
a  miserable  decay.  But  after  those  domestic 
enemies  had  provoked  the  entry  of  a  cruel 
foreign  foe  into  the  country,  he  did  not  leave 
it,  until  his  revenge  had  completed  the  de- 
struction begun  by  their  avarice.  Few,  very 
few  indeed,  of  these  magazines  of  water  that  are 
not  either  totally  destroyed,  or  cut  through  with 
such  gaps  as  to  require  a  serious  attention  and 
much  cost  to  reestablish  them,  as  the  means  of 
present  subsistence  to  the  people  and  of  future 
revenue  to  the  state. 

What,  Sir,  would  a  virtuous  and  enlightened 
ministry  do,  on  the  view  of  the  ruins  of  such 
works  before  them  ?  —  on  the  view  of  such 
a  chasm  of  desolation  as  that  which  yawned  in 
the  midst  of  those  countries,  to  the  north  and 
south,  which  still  bore  some  vestiges  of  culti- 
vation? They  would  have  reduced  all  their 
most  necessary  establishments;  they  would  have 
suspended  the  justest  payments;  they  would 
have  employed  every  shilling  derived  from  the 


producing  to  reanimate  the  powers  of  the 
unproductive  parts.  While  they  were  perform- 
ing this  fundamental  duty,  whilst  they  were 
celebrating  these  mysteries  of  justice  and 
humanity,  they  would  have  told  the  corps  of 
fictitious  creditors,  whose  crimes  were  their 
claims,  that  they  must  keep  an  awful  distance, 
—  that  they  must  silence  their  inauspicious 
tongues, —  that  they  must  hold  off  their  profane, 
unhallowed  paws  from  this  holy  work;  they 
would  have  proclaimed,  with  a  voice  that 
should  make  itself  heard,  that  on  every  coun- 
try the  first  creditor  is  the  plough,  —  that  this 
original,  indefeasible  claim  supersedes  every 
other  demand. 

This  is  what  a  wise  and  virtuous  ministry 
would  have  done  and  said.  This,  therefore, 
is  what  our  minister  could  never  think  of 
saying  or  doing.  A  ministry  of  another  kind 
would  have  first  improved  the  country,  and  have 
thus  laid  a  solid  foundation  for  future  opulence 
and  future  force.  But  on  this  grand  point  of 
the  restoration  of  the  country  there  is  not  one 
syllable  to  be  found  in  the  correspondence  of 
our  ministers,  from  the  first  to  the  last;  they 
felt  nothing  for  a  land  desolated  by  fire,  sword, 
and  famine:  their  sympathies  took  another 
direction;  they  were  touched  with  pity  for 
briber)',  so  long  tormented  with  a  fruitless 
itching  of  its  palms;  their  bowels  yearned 
for  usury,  that  had  long  missed  the  har\'est  of 
its  returning  months;  they  felt  for  peculation, 
which  had  been  for  so  many  years  raking  in  the 
dust  of  an  empty  treasury;  they  were  melted 
into  compassion  for  rapine  and  oppression, 
licking  their  dry,  parched,  unbloody  jaws. 
These  were  the  objects  of  their  solicitude. 
These  were  the  necessities  for  which  they 
were  studious  to  provide.    ***** 

From   REFLECTIONS   ON   THE   REVOLU- 
TION  IN   FRANCE 

This,  my  dear  Sir,  was  not  the  triumph  of 
France.  I  must  believe,  that,  as  a  nation,  it 
overwhelmed  you  with  shame  and  horror. 
I  must  believe  that  the  National  Assembly 
find  themselves  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  humilia- 
tion in  not  being  able  to  punish  the  authors  of 
this  triumph  or  the  actors  in  it,  and  that  they 
are  in  a  situation  in  which  any  inquiry  they  may 
make  upon  the  subject  must  be  destitute  even 
of  the  appearance  of  liberty  or  impartiality. 
The  apology  of  that  assembly  is  found  in  their 
situation;    but  when  we  approve  what  they 


REFLECTIONS    ON    THE    REVOLUTION    IN    FRANCE 


271 


must  bear,  it  is  in  us  the  degenerate  choice  of 
a  vitiated  mind. 

With  a  compelled  appearance  of  deliberation, 
they  vote  under  the  dominion  of  a  stern  neces- 
sity. They  sit  in  the  heart,  as  it  were,  of  a 
foreign  republic:  they  have  their  residence  in 
a  city  whose  constitution  has  emanated  neither 
from  the  charter  of  their  king  nor  from  their 
legislative  power.  There  they  are  surrounded 
by  an  army  not  raised  either  by  the  authority 
of  their  crown  or  by  their  command,  and  which, 
if  they  should  order  to  dissolve  itself,  would 
instantly  dissolve  them.  There  they  sit,  after 
a  gang  of  assassins  had  driven  away  some 
hundreds  of  the  members;  v/hilst  those  who 
held  the  same  moderate  principles,  with  more 
patience  or  better  hope,  continued  every  day 
exposed  to  outrageous  insults  and  murderous 
threats.  There  a  majority,  sometimes  real, 
sometimes  pretended,  captive  itself,  compels 
a  captive  king  to  issue  as  royal  edicts,  at  third 
hand,  the  polluted  nonsense  of  their  most 
licentious  and  giddy  coffee-houses.  It  is  no- 
torious that  all  their  measures  are  decided 
before  they  are  debated.  It  is  beyond  doubt, 
that,  under  the  terror  of  the  bayonet,  and  the 
lamp-post,  and  the  torch  to  their  houses,  they 
are  obliged  to  adopt  all  the  crude  and  desper- 
ate measures  suggested  by  clubs  composed  of 
a  monstrous  medley  of  all  conditions,  tongues, 
and  nations.  Among  these  are  found  persons 
in  comparison  of  whom  Catiline  would  be 
thought  scrupulous,  and  Cethegus  a  man  of 
sobriety  and  moderation.  Nor  is  it  in  these 
clubs  alone  that  the  public  measures  are  de- 
formed into  monsters.  They  undergo  a  pre- 
vious distortion  in  academies,  intended  as  so 
many  seminaries  for  these  clubs,  which  are  set 
up  in  all  the  places  of  public  resort.  In  these 
meetings  of  all  sorts,  every  counsel,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  is  daring  and  violent  and  perfidious, 
is  taken  for  the  mark  of  superior  genius. 
Humanity  and  compassion  are  ridiculed  as 
the  fruits  of  superstition  and  ignorance.  Ten- 
derness to  individuals  is  considered  as  treason 
to  the  public.  Liberty  is  always  to  be  esti- 
mated perfect  as  property  is  rendered  insecure. 
Amidst  assassination,  massacre,  and  confisca- 
tion, perpetrated  or  meditated,  they  are  form- 
ing plans  for  the  good  order  of  future  society. 
Embracing  in  their  arms  the  carcasses  of  base 
criminals,  and  promoting  their  relations  on  the 
title  of  their  offences,  they  drive  hundreds  of 
virtuous  persons  to  the  same  end,  by  forcing 
them  to  subsist  by  beggary  or  by  crime. 

The  Assembly,  their  organ,  acts  before  them 


the  farce  of  deliberation  with  as  little  decency 
as  liberty.  They  act  like  the  comedians  of 
a  fair,  before  a  riotous  audience;  they  act 
amidst  the  tumultuous  cries  of  a  mi.xed  mob 
of  ferocious  men,  and  of  women  lost  to  shame, 
who,  according  to  their  insolent  fancies,  direct, 
control,  applaud,  explode  them,  and  sometimes 
mix  and  take  their  seats  amongst  them,  — 
domineering  over  them  with  a  strange  mixture 
of  servile  petulance  and  proud,  presumptuous 
authority.  As  they  have  inverted  order  in  all 
things,  the  gallery  is  in  the  place  of  the  house. 
This  Assembly,  which  overthrows  kings  and 
kingdoms,  has  not  even  the  physiognomy 
and  aspect  of  a  grave  legislative  body,  —  nee 
color  imperii,  nee  frons  erat  ulla  senatus. 
They  have  a  power  given  to  them,  like  that  of 
the  Evil  Principle,  to  subvert  and  destroy,  — 
but  none  to  construct,  except  such  machines  as 
may  be  fitted  for  further  subversion  and  further 
destruction. 

Who  is  it  that  admires,  and  from  the  heart  is 
attached  to  national  representative  assemblies, 
but  must  turn  with  horror  and  disgust  from 
such  a  profane  burlesque  and  abominable 
perversion  of  that  sacred  institute?  Lovers 
of  monarchy,  lovers  of  republics,  must  alike 
abhor  it.  The  members  of  your  Assembly 
must  themselves  groan  under  the  tyranny  of 
which  they  have  all  the  shame,  none  of  the 
direction,  and  little  of  the  profit.  I  am  sure 
many  of  the  members  who  compose  even  the 
majority  of  that  body  must  feel  as  I  do,  not- 
withstanding the  applauses  of  the  Revolution 
Society.  Miserable  king !  miserable  Assembly ! 
How  must  that  Assembly  be  silently  scan- 
dalised with  those  of  their  members  who  could 
call  a  day  which  seemed  to  blot  the  sun  out  of 
heaven  "wt  hedu  jour!"  How  must  they  be 
inwardly  indignant  at  hearing  others  who 
thought  fit  to  declare  to  them,  "that  the  vessel 
of  the  state  would  fly  forward  in  her  course 
towards  regeneration  with  more  speed  than 
ever,"  from  the  stiff  gale  of  treason  and  mur- 
der which  preceded  our  preacher's  triumph! 
What  must  they  have  felt,  whilst,  with  outward 
patience  and  inward  indignation,  they  heard  of 
the  slaughter  of  innocent  gentlemen  in  their 
houses,  that  "the  blood  spilled  was  not  the  most 
pure!"  What  must  they  have  felt,  when  they 
were  besieged  by  complaints  of  disorders  which 
shook  their  country  to  its  foundations,  at  being 
compelled  coolly  to  tell  the  complainants  that 
they  were  under  the  protection  of  the  law,  and 
that  they  would  address  the  king  (the  captive 
king)  to  cause  the  laws  to  be  enforced  for  their 


27^ 


EDMUND    BURKE 


protection,  when  the  enslaved  ministers  of  that 
captive  king  had  formally  notified  to  them  that 
there  were  neither  law  nor  authority  nor  power 
left  to  protect!  What  must  they  have  felt  at 
being  obliged,  as  a  felicitation  on  the  present  new 
year,  to  request  their  captive  king  to  forget  the 
stormy  period  of  the  last,  on  account  of  the 
great  good  which  lie  was  likely  to  produce  to  his 
people,  —  to  the  complete  attainment  of  which 
good  they  adjourned  the  practical  demon- 
strations of  their  loyalty,  assuring  him  of  their 
obedience  when  he  should  no  longer  possess 
anv  authority  to  command ! 

This  address  was  made  with  much  good- 
nature and  affection,  to  be  sure.  But  among 
the  revolutions  in  France  must  be  reckoned 
a  considerable  revolution  in  their  ideas  of 
politeness.  In  England  we  are  said  to  learn 
manners  at  second-hand  from  your  side  of  the 
water,  and  that  we  dress  our  behaviour  in  the 
frippery  of  France.  If  so,  we  are  still  in 
the  old  cut,  and  have  not  so  far  conformed  to 
the  new  Parisian  mode  of  good  breeding  as  to 
think  it  quite  in  the  most  refined  strain  of 
delicate  compliment  (whether  in  condolence  or 
congratulation)  to  say,  to  the  most  humiliated 
creature  that  crawls  upon  the  earth,  that  great 
public  benefits  are  derived  from  the  murder 
of  his  servants,  the  attempted  assassination  of 
himself  and  of  his  wife,  and  the  mortification, 
disgrace,  and  degradation  that  he  has  personally 
suffered.  It  is  a  topic  of  consolation  which  our 
ordinar)'  of  Newgate  would  be  too  humane  to 
use  to  a  criminal  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows. 
I  should  have  thought  that  the  hangman  of 
Paris,  now  that  he  is  liberalised  by  the  vote  of 
the  National  Assembly,  and  is  allowed  his  rank 
and  arms  in  the  Heralds'  College  of  the  rights 
of  men,  would  be  too  generous,  too  gallant  a 
man,  too  full  of  the  sense  of  his  new  dignity, 
to  employ  that  cutting  consolation  to  any  of  the 
persons  whom  the  leze-nation  might  bring  under 
the  administration  of  his  executive  powers. 

A  man  is  fallen  indeed,  when  he  is  thus 
flattered.  The  anodyne  draught  of  oblivion, 
thus  drugged,  is  well  calculated  to  preserve  a 
galling  wakefulness,  and  to  feed  the  living 
ulcer  of  a  corroding  memory.  Thus  to  ad- 
minister the  opiate  potion  of  amnesty,  powdered 
with  all  the  ingredients  of  scorn  and  contempt, 
is  to  hold  to  his  lips,  instead  of  "the  balm  of  hurt 
minds,"  the  cup  of  human  misery  full  to  the 
brim,  and  to  force  him  to  drink  it  to  the  dregs. 

Yielding  to  reasons  at  least  as  forcible  as  those 
which  were  so  delicately  urged  in  the  compli- 
ment on  the  new  year,  the  king  of  France  will 


probably  endeavour  to  forget  these  events  and 
that  compliment.  But  History,  who  keeps  a 
durable  record  of  all  our  acts,  and  exercises 
her  awful  censure  over  the  proceedings  of  all 
sorts  of  sovereigns,  will  not  forget  either  those 
events,  or  the  era  of  this  liberal  refinement 
in  the  intercourse  of  mankind.  History  will 
record,  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth  of 
October,  1789,  the  king  and  queen  of  France, 
after  a  day  of  confusion,  alarm,  dismay,  and 
slaughter,  lay  down,  under  the  pledged  security 
of  public  faith,  to  indulge  nature  in  a  few  hours 
of  respite,  and  troubled,  melancholy  repose. 
From  this  sleep  the  queen  was  first  startled  by 
the  voice  of  the  sentinel  at  her  door,  who  cried 
out  to  her  to  save  herself  by  flight,  —  that  this 
was  the  last  proof  of  fidelity  he  could  give,  — 
that  they  were  upon  him,  and  he  was  dead. 
Instantly  he  was  cut  down.  A  band  of  cruel 
rufhans  and  assassins,  reeking  with  his  blood, 
rushed  into  the  chamber  of  the  queen,  and 
pierced  with  a  hundred  strokes  of  bayonets 
and  poniards  the  bed,  from  whence  this  per- 
secuted woman  had  but  just  time  to  fly  almost 
naked,  and,  through  ways  unknown  to  the 
murderers,  had  escaped  to  seek  refuge  at  the 
feet  of  a  king  and  husband  not  secure  of  his 
own  life  for  a  moment. 

This  king,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  and  this 
queen,  and  their  infant  children,  (who  once 
would  have  been  the  pride  and  hope  of  a  great 
and  generous  people,)  were  then  forced  to  aban- 
don the  sanctuary  of  the  most  splendid  palace  in 
the  world,  which  they  left  swimming  in  blood, 
polluted  by  massacre,  and  strewed  with  scat- 
tered limbs  and  mutilated  carcasses.  Thence 
they  were  conducted  into  the  capital  of  their 
kingdom.  Two  had  been  selected  from  the  un- 
provoked, unresisted,  promiscuous  slaughter 
which  was  made  of  the  gentlemen  of  birth  and 
family  who  composed  the  king's  body-guard. 
These  two  gentlemen,  with  all  the  parade  of  an 
execution  of  justice,  were  cruelly  and  pubhcly 
dragged  to  the  block,  and  beheaded  in  the  great 
court  of  the  palace.  Their  heads  were  stuck 
upon  spears,  and  led  the  procession ;  whilst  the 
royal  captives  who  followed  in  the  train  were 
slowly  moved  along,  amidst  the  horrid  yells, 
and  shrilling  screams,  and  frantic  dances, 
and  infamous  contumelies,  and  all  the  unutter- 
able abominations  of  the  furies  of  hell,  in  the 
abused  shape  of  the  vilest  of  women.  After 
they  had  been  made  to  taste,  drop  by  drop, 
more  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  in  the  slow 
torture  of  a  journey  of  twelve  miles,  protracted 
to  six  hours,  they  were,  under  a  guard  com- 


REFLECTIONS    ON   THE    REVOLUTION    IN    FRANCE 


273 


posed  of  those  very  soldiers  who  had  thus  con- 
ducted them  through  this  famous  triumj)h, 
lodged  in  one  of  the  old  ])alaccs  of  Paris,  now 
converted  into  a  Bastile  for  kings. 

Is  this  a  triumph  to  be  consecrated  at  altars, 
to  be  commemorated  with  grateful  thanks- 
giving, to  be  offered  to  the  Divine  Humanity 
with  fervent  prayer  and  enthusiastic  ejacula- 
tion?—  These  Theban  and  Thracian  orgies, 
acted  in  France,  and  applauded  only  in  the 
Old  Jewry,  I  assure  you,  kindle  prophetic 
enthusiasm  in  the  minds  but  of  very  few  people 
in  this  kingdom:  although  a  saint  and  apostle, 
who  may  have  revelations  of  his  own,  and  who 
has  so  completely  vanquished  all  the  mean 
superstitions  of  the  heart,  may  incline  to 
think  it  pious  and  decorous  to  compare  it  with 
the  entrance  into  the  world  of  the  Prince  of 
Peace,  proclaimed  in  an  holy  temple  by  a 
venerable  sage,  and  not  long  before  not  worse 
announced  by  the  voice  of  angels  to  the  quiet 
innocence  of  shepherds. 

At  first  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  fit 
of  unguarded  transport.  I  knew,  indeed,  that 
the  sufferings  of  monarchs  make  a  delicious 
repast  to  some  sort  of  palates.  There  were 
reflections  which  might  serve  to  keep  this 
appetite  within  some  bounds  of  temperance. 
But  when  I  took  one  circumstance  into  my 
consideration,  I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  much 
allowance  ouglit  to  be  made  for  the  society, 
and  that  the  temptation  was  too  strong  for 
common  discretion:  I  mean,  the  circumstance 
of  the  lo  Paean  of  the  triumph,  the  animating 
cry  which  called  for  "  a//  the  bishops  to  be  hanged 
on  the  lamp-posts,"  might  well  have  brought 
forth  a  burst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  foreseen 
consequences  of  this  happy  day.  I  allow  to  so 
much  enthusiasm  some  little  deviation  from 
prudence.  I  allow  this  prophet  to  break  forth 
into  hymns  of  joy  and  thanksgiving  on  an  event 
which  ai)pears  like  the  precursor  of  the  Millen- 
nium, and  the  projected  Fifth  Monarchy,  in 
the  destruction  of  all  Church  establishments. 
There  was,  however,  (as  in  all  human  affairs 
there  is,)  in  the  midst  of  this  joy,  something  to 
exercise  the  patience  of  these  worthy  gentle- 
men, and  to  try  the  long-suffering  of  their 
faith.  The  actual  murder  of  the  king  and 
queen,  and  their  child,  was  wanting  to  the 
other  auspicious  circumstances  of  this  '"bcatt- 
tiful  day."  The  actual  murder  of  the  bishops, 
though  called  for  l)y  so  many  holy  ejaculations, 
was  also  wanting.  A  group  of  regicide  and 
sacrilegious  slaughter  was,  indeed,  boldly 
sketched,  but  it  was  only  sketched.     It  unhap- 


pily was  left  unfinished,  in  this  great  history- 
])iece  of  the  massacre  of  innocents.  What 
hardy  pencil  of  a  great  master,  from  the  school 
of  the  rights  of  men,  will  finish  it,  is  to  be  seen 
hereafter.  The  age  has  not  yet  the  complete 
benefit  of  that  diffusion  of  knowledge  that  has 
undermined  superstition  and  error;  and  the 
king  of  France  wants  another  object  or  two  to 
consign  to  oblivion,  in  consideration  of  all  the 
good  which  is  to  arise  from  his  own  sufferings, 
and  the  patriotic  crimes  of  an  enlightened  age. 

Although  this  work  of  our  new  light  and 
knowledge  did  not  go  to  the  length  that  in  all 
probability  it  was  intended  it  should  be  car- 
ried, yet  I  must  think  that  such  treatment  of 
any  human  creatures  must  be  shocking  to  any 
but  those  who  are  made  for  accomplishing 
revolutions.  But  I  cannot  stop  here.  Influ- 
enced by  the  inborn  feelings  of  my  nature,  and 
not  being  illuminated  by  a  single  ray  of  this 
new-sprung  modern  light,  I  confess  to  you.  Sir, 
that  the  exalted  rank  of  the  persons  suffering, 
and  particularly  the  sex,  the  beauty,  and  the 
amiable  qualities  of  the  descendant  of  so  many 
kings  and  em]:)erors,  with  the  tender  age  of 
royal  infants,  insensible  only  through  infancy 
and  innocence  of  the  cruel  outrages  to  which 
their  parents  were  exposed,  instead  of  being 
a  subject  of  exultation,  adds  not  a  little  to  my 
sensibility  on  that  most  melancholy  occasion. 

I  hear  that  the  august  person  wdio  was  the 
principal  object  of  our  preacher's  triumph, 
though  he  supported  himself,  felt  much  on  that 
shameful  occasion.  As  a  man,  it  became  him 
to  feel  for  his  wife  and  his  children,  and  the 
faithful  guards  of  his  person  that  were  mas- 
sacred in  cold  blood  about  him;  as  a  y)rince, 
it  became  him  to  feel  for  the  strange  and  fright- 
ful transformation  of  his  civilised  subjects, 
and  to  be  more  grieved  for  them  than  solicitous 
for  himself.  It  derogates  little  from  his  forti- 
tude, while  it  adds  infinitely  to  the  honour  of 
his  humanity.  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  it,  very 
sorry  indeed,  that  such  personages  are  in  a 
situation  in  which  it  is  not  unbecoming  in  us 
to  praise  the  virtues  of  the  great. 

I  hear,  and  I  rejoice  to  hear,  that  the  great 
lady,  the  other  object  of  the  triumph,  has  borne 
that  day,  (one  is  interested  that  beings  made  for 
suffering  should  sulTer  well,)  and  that  she  bears 
all  the  succeeding  days,  that  she  bears  the  im- 
prisonment of  her  husband,  and  her  own  cap- 
tivity, and  the  exile  of  her  friends,  and  the  in- 
sulting adulation  of  addresses,  and  the  whole 
weight  of  her  accumulated  wrongs,  with  a  serene 
patience,  in  a  manner  suited  to  her  rank  and 


274 


EDMUND    BURKE 


race,  and  becoming  the  offspring  of  a  sovereign 
distinguished  for  her  piety  and  her  courage; 
that,  Hkc  her,  she  has  lofty  sentiments;  that 
she  feels  with  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  matron; 
that  in  the  last  extremity  she  will  save  herself 
from  the  last  disgrace;  and  that,  if  she  must 
fall,  she  will  fall  by  no  ignoble  hand. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I 
saw  the  queen  of  France,  then  the  Dauphin- 
ess,  at  Versailles;  and  surely  never  lighted 
on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to 
touch,  a  more  delightful  vision.  I  saw  her 
just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering 
the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in, 
—  glittering  like  the  morning-star,  full  of  life 
and  splendour  and  joy.  Oh !  what  a  revolution  ! 
and  what  an  heart  must  I  have,  to  contemplate 
without  emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall ! 
Little  did  I  dream,  when  she  added  titles  of 
veneration  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant, 
respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged 
to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace 
concealed  in  that  bosom!  little  did  I  dream 
that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters 
fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a 
nation  of  men  of  honour,  and  of  cavaliers !  I 
thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped 
from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look 
that  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the  age 
of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  econo- 
mists, and  calculators  has  succeeded;  and  the 
glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever.  Never, 
never  more,  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty 
to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that 
dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of  the 
heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude 
itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom!  The 
unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of 
nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic 
enterprise,  is  gone !  It  is  gone,  that  sensibility 
of  principle,  that  chastity  of  honour,  which  felt 
a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired  courage 
whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled 
whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which  vice 
itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing  all  its  grossness ! 

The  mi.xed  system  of  opinion  and  sentiment 
had  its  origin  in  the  ancient  chivalry;  and  the 
principle,  though  varied  in  its  appearance  by 
the  varying  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted 
and  influenced  through  a  long  succession  of 
generations,  even  to  the  time  we  live  in.  If  it 
should  ever  be  totally  extinguished,  the  loss, 
I  fear,  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which  has  given 
its  character  to  modem  Europe.  It  is  this 
which  has  distinguished  it  under  all  its  forms 
of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to  its  ad- 


vantage, from  the  states  of  Asia,  and  possibly 
from  those  states  which  flourished  in  the  most 
brilliant  periods  of  the  antique  world.  It  was 
this,  which,  without  confounding  ranks,  had 
produced  a  noble  equality,  and  handed  it 
down  through  all  the  gradations  of  social  life. 
It  was  this  opinion  which  mitigated  kings  into 
companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be 
fellows  with  kings.  Without  force  or  opposi- 
tion, it  subdued  the  fierceness  of  pride  and 
power;  it  obliged  sovereigns  to  submit  to  the 
soft  collar  of  social  esteem,  compelled  stern 
authority  to  submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a 
domination,  vanquisher  of  laws,  to  be  subdued 
by  manners. 

But  now  all  is  to  be  changed.  All  the  pleas- 
ing illusions  which  made  power  gentle  and 
obedience  liberal,  which  harmonised  the  dif- 
ferent shades  of  life,  and  which  by  a  bland 
assimilation  incorporated  into  politics  the 
sentiments  which  Iseautify  and  soften  private 
society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  con- 
quering empire  of  light  and  reason.  All  the 
decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  off. 
All  the  superadded  ideas,  furnished  from  the 
wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the 
heart  owns  and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as 
necessary  to  cover  the  defects  of  our  naked, 
shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in 
our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  a 
ridiculous,  absurd,  and  antiquated  fashion. 

On  this  scheme  of  things,  a  king  is  but  a 
man,  a  cjueen  is  but  a  woman,  a  woman  is  but 
an  animal,  —  and  an  animal  not  of  the  highest 
order.  All  homage  paid  to  the  sex  in  general 
as  such,  and  without  distinct  views,  is  to 
be  regarded  as  romance  and  folly.  Regicide, 
and  parricide,  and  sacrilege,  are  but  fictions  of 
superstition,  corrupting  jurisprudence  by  de- 
stroying its  simplicity.  The  murder  of  a  king, 
or  a  queen,  or  a  bishop,  or  a  father,  are  only 
common  homicide,  —  and  if  the  people  are  by 
any  chance  or  in  any  way  gainers  by  it,  a  sort 
of  homicide  much  the  most  pardonable  and 
into  which  we  ought  not  to  make  too  severe  a 
scrutiny. 

On  the  scheme  of  this  barbarous  philosophy, 
which  is  the  offspring  of  cold  hearts  and  muddy 
understandings,  and  which  is  as  void  of  solid 
wisdom  as  it  is  destitute  of  all  taste  and  ele- 
gance, laws  are  to  be  supported  only  by  their 
own  terrors,  and  by  the  concern  which  each 
individual  may  find  in  them  from  his  own 
private  speculations,  or  can  spare  to  them  from 
his  own  private  interests.  In  the  groves 
of  their  academy,  at  the  end  of  every  visto, 


THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAN 


275 


you  see  nothing  but  the  gallows.  Nothing  is 
left  which  engages  the  affections  on  the  i)art 
of  the  commonwealth.  On  the  principles 
of  this  mechanic  philosophy,  our  institutions 
can  never  be  embodied,  if  I  may  use  the  ex- 
pression, in  persons,  —  so  as  to  create  in  us 
love,  veneration,  admiration,  or  attachment. 
But  that  sort  of  reason  which  banishes  the 
affections  is  incapable  of  hlling  their  place. 
These  public  affections,  coml^incd  with  man- 
ners, are  required  sometimes  as  supplements, 
sometimes  as  correctives,  always  as  aids  to 
law.  The  precept  given  by  a  wise  man,  as 
well  as  a  great  critic,  for  the  construction  of 
poems,  is  equally  true  as  to  states:  —  "Nan 
satis  est  pulcJira  esse  poemata,  dulcia  sunto." 
There  ought  to  be  a  system  of  manners  in 
every  nation  which  a  well-formed  mind  would 
be  disposed  to  relish.  To  make  us  love  our 
country,  our  country  ought  to  be  lovely. 

But  power,  of  some  kind  or  other,  will  sur- 
vive the  shock  in  which  manners  and  opinions 
perish ;  and  it  will  find  other  and  worse  means 
for  its  support.  The  usurpation,  which,  in 
order  to  subvert  ancient  institutions,  has  de- 
stroyed ancient  principles,  will  hold  power  Ijy 
arts  similar  to  those  by  which  it  has  acquired 
it.  When  the  old  feudal  and  chivalrous  spirit 
of  fealty,  which,  by  freeing  kings  from  fear, 
freed  both  kings  and  sul>jccts  from  the  pre- 
cautions of  tyranny,  shall  be  extinct  in  the 
minds  of  men,  plots  and  assassinations  will  be 
anticipated  by  preventive  tnurder  and  pre- 
ventive confiscation,  and  that  long  roll  of  grim 
and  bloody  maxims  which  form  the  political 
code  of  all  power  not  standing  on  its  own  hon- 
our and  the  honour  of  those  who  are  to  obey 
it.  Kings  will  be  tyrants  from  policy,  when 
subjects  are  rebels  from  principle. 

When  ancient  opinions  and  rules  of  life  are 
taken  away,  the  loss  cannot  possibly  be  esti- 
mated. From  that  moment  we  have  no  com- 
pass to  govern  us,  nor  can  we  know  distinctly 
to  what  port  we  steer.  Europe,  undoubtedly, 
taken  in  a  mass,  was  in  a  flourishing  condition 
the  day  on  which  your  Revolution  was  com- 
pleted. How  much  of  that  prosperous  state 
was  owing  to  the  spirit  of  our  old  manners  and 
opinions  is  not  easy  to  say;  but  as  such  causes 
cannot  be  indifferent  in  their  operation,  we  must 
presume,  that,  on  the  whole,  their  operation 
was  beneficial. 

We  are  but  too  apt  to  consider  things  in 
the  state  in  which  we  find  them,  without 
sufficiently  adverting  to  the  causes  by  which 
they  have  been  produced,  and  possibly  may  be 


upheld.  Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that 
our  manners,  our  civilisation,  and  all  the  good 
things  which  are  connected  with  manners  and 
with  civilisation,  have,  in  this  European  world 
of  ours,  depended  for  ages  upon  two  j)rinciples, 
and  were,  indeed,  the  result  of  both  combined : 
I  mean  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  spirit 
of  religion.  The  nobility  and  the  clergy,  the 
one  by  profession,  the  other  by  patronage, 
kej>t  learning  in  existence,  even  in  the  midst 
of  arms  and  confusions,  and  whilst  govern- 
ments were  rather  in  their  causes  than  formed. 
Learning  paid  back  what  it  received  to  nobility 
and  to  priesthood,  and  paid  it  with  usury, 
by  enlarging  their  ideas,  and  by  furnishing 
their  minds.  Happy,  if  they  had  all  continued 
to  know  their  indissoluble  union,  and  their 
proper  place !  JIa})py,  if  learning,  not  de- 
bauched by  ambition,  had  been  satisfied  to 
continue  the  instructor,  and  not  aspired  to  be 
the  master!  Along  with  its  natural  protectors 
and  guardians,  learning  will  be  cast  into  the 
mire  and  trodden  down  under  the  hoofs  of  a 
swinish  multitude.     *     *     *     *     * 

JAMES  MACPHERSON(?)  (1736-1796) 

THE   POEMS    OE    OSSIAN 

CATH-LODA 

DUAN   III 

Whence  is  the  stream  of  years?  Whither 
do  they  roll  along?  Where  have  they  hid,  in 
mist,  their  many  coloured  sides? 

I  look  unto  the  times  of  old,  but  they  seem 
dim  to  Ossian's  eyes,  like  reflected  moonbeams 
on  a  distant  lake.  Here  rise  the  red  beams 
of  war !  There,  silent,  dwells  a  feeble  race ! 
They  mark  no  years  with  their  deeds,  as  slow 
they  pass  along.  Dweller  between  the 
shields!  thou  that  awakest  the  failing  .soul! 
descend  from  thy  wall,  harp  of  Cona,  with  thy 
voices  three !  Come  with  that  which  kindles 
the  past :  rear  the  forms  of  old,  on  their  own 
dark-brown  years ! 

U-thorno,  hill  of  storms,  I  behold  my  race 
on  thy  side.  Fingal  is  bending  in  night  over 
Duth-maruno's  tomb.  Near  him  are  the  steps 
of  his  heroes,  hunters  of  the  boar.  By  Tur- 
thor's  stream  the  host  of  Lochlin  is  deep  in 
shades.  The  wrathful  kings  stood  on  two 
hills:  they  looked  forward  from  their  bossy 
shields.  They  looked  forward  to  the  stars 
of  night,  red  wandering  in  the  west.     Cruth- 


>76 


THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAN 


loda  Ijciids  from  high,  Hkc  a  formless  meteor 
in  clouds.  He  sends  abroad  the  winds,  and 
marks  them  with  his  signs.  Starno  foresaw 
that  Morven's  king  was  not  to  yield  in  war. 

He  twice  struck  the  tree  in  wrath.  He 
rushed  before  his  son.  He  hummed  a  surly 
song,  and  heard  his  hair  in  wind.  Turned  from 
one  another,  they  stood,  like  two  oaks,  which 
different  winds  had  bent;  each  hangs  over  his 
own  loud  rill,  and  shakes  his  boughs  in  the 
course  of  blasts. 

"Annir,"  saifl  Starno  of  lakes,  "was  a  fire 
that  consumed  of  old.  He  poured  death  from 
his  eyes  along  the  striving  fields.  His  joy  was 
in  the  fall  of  men.  Blood  to  him  was  a  sum- 
mer stream,  that  'brings  joy  to  the  withered 
vales,  from  its  own  mossy  rock.  He  came 
forth  to  the  lake  Luth-cormo,  to  meet  the  tall 
Corman-trunar,  he  from  Urlor  of  streams, 
dweller  of  battle's  wing." 

The  chief  of  Urlor  had  come  to  Gormal 
with  his  dark-bosomed  ships.  He  saw  the 
daughter  of  Annir,  white-armed  Foina-bragal. 
He  saw  her!  Nor  careless  rolled  her  eyes  on 
the  rider  of  stormy  waves.  She  fled  to  his  ship 
in  darkness,  like  a  moonbeam  through  a  nightly 
veil.  Annir  pursued  along  the  deep;  he  called 
the  winds  of  heaven.  Nor  alone  was  the  king ! 
Starno  was  by  his  side.  Like  U-thorno's 
young  eagle,  I  turned  my  eyes  on  my  father. 

We  rushed  into  roaring  Urlor.  With  his 
people  came  tall  Corman-trunar.  We  fought; 
but  the  foe  prevailed.  In  his  wrath  my 
father  stood.  He  lopped  the  young  trees  with 
his  sword.  His  eyes  rolled  red  in  his  rage. 
I  marked  the  soul  of  the  king,  and  1  retired 
in  night.  From  the  field  I  took  a  broken  hel- 
met; a  shield  that  was  pierced  with  steel; 
pointless  was  the  spear  in  my  hand.  I  went  to 
find  the  foe. 

On  a  rock  sat  tall  Corman-trunar  beside  his 
burning  oak;  and  near  him  beneath  a  tree, 
sat  deep-bosomed  Foina-bragal.  I  threw  my 
broken  shield  before  her.  I  spoke  the  words  of 
peace.  "Beside  his  rolling  sea  lies  Annir  of 
many  lakes.  The  king  was  pierced  in  battle; 
and  Starno  is  to  raise  his  tomb.  Me,  a  son  of 
Loda,  he  sends  to  white-handed  Foina,  to  bid 
her  send  a  lock  from  her  hair,  to  rest  with  her 
father  in  earth.  And  thou,  king  of  roaring 
Urlor,  let  the  battle  cease,  till  Annir  receive 
the  shell  from  fiery-eyed  Cruth-loda." 

Bursting  into  tears,  she  rose,  and  tore  a  lock 
from  her  hair;  a  lock,  which  wandered  in  the 
blast,  along  her  heaving  breast.  Corman- 
trunar  gave  the  shell,  and  bade  me  rejoice  before 


him.  I  rested  in  the  shade  of  night,  and  hid 
my  face  in  my  helmet  deep.  Sleep  descended 
on  the  foe.  I  rose,  like  a  stalking  ghost.  I 
pierced  the  side  of  Corman-trunar.  Nor  did 
Foina-bragal  escape.  She  rolled  her  white 
bosom  in  blood. 

Wliy,  then,  daughter  of  heroes,  didst  thou 
wake  my  rage? 

Morning  rose.  The  foe  were  fled,  like  the 
departure  of  mist.  Annir  struck  his  bossy 
shield.  He  called  his  dark-haired  son.  I 
came,  streaked  with  wandering  blood:  thrice 
rose  the  shout  of  the  king,  like  the  bursting 
forth  of  a  squall  of  wind  from  a  cloud  by  night. 
We  rejoiced  three  days  above  the  dead,  and 
called  the  hawks  of  heaven.  They  came  from 
all  their  winds  to  feast  on  Annir's  foes.  Swaran, 
Fingal  is  alone  in  his  hill  of  night.  Let  thy 
spear  pierce  the  king  in  secret;  like  Annir, 
my  soul  shall  rejoice. 

"Son  of  Annir,"  said  Swaran,  "I  shall  not 
slay  in  shades:  I  move  forth  in  light:  the 
hawks  rush  from  all  their  winds.  They  are 
wont  to  trace  my  course:  it  is  not  harmless 
through  war." 

Burning  rose  the  rage  of  the  king.  He  thrice 
raised  his  gleaming  spear.  But,  starting,  he 
spared  his  son,  and  rushed  into  the  night. 
By  Turthor's  stream,  a  cave  is  dark,  the  dwell- 
ing of  Corban-cargla.  There  he  laid  the 
helmet  of  kings,  and  called  the  maid  of  Lulan; 
but  she  was  distant  far  in  Loda's  resounding 
hall. 

Swelling  in  his  rage,  he  strode  to  where 
Fingal  lay  alone.  The  king  was  laid  on  his 
shield,  on  his  own  secret  hill. 

Stern  hunter  of  shaggy  boars !  no  feeble 
maid  is  laid  before  thee.  No  boy  on  his  ferny 
bed,  by  Turthor's  murmuring  stream.  Here 
is  spread  the  couch  of  the  mighty,  from  which 
they  rise  to  deeds  of  death !  Hunter  of  shaggy 
boars,  awaken  not  the  terrible ! 

Starno  came  murmuring  on.  Fingal  arose 
in  arms.  "Who  art  thou,  son  of  night!" 
Silent  he  threw  the  spear.  They  mixed  their 
gloomy  strife.  The  shield  of  Starno  fell,  cleft 
in  twain.  He  is  bound  to  an  oak.  The  early 
beam  arose.  It  was  then  Fingal  beheld  the 
king.  He  rolled  awhile  his  silent  eyes.  He 
thought  of  other  days,  when  white-bosomed 
Agandecca  moved  like  the  music  of  songs.  He 
loosed  the  thong  from  his  hands.  "  Son  of 
Annir,"  he  said,  "retire.  Retire  to  Gormal  of 
shells ;  a  beam  that  was  set  returns.  I  remember 
thy  white-bosomed  daughter;  dreadful  king, 
away!     Go  to  thy  troubled  dwelling,  cloudy 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


277 


foe  of  llic  lovely.     Let  llie  stranger  slum  thee, 
thou  gloomy  in  ihe  hall !  " 
A  tale  of  the  times  of  old  ! 

JAMES   BOSWELL    (i 740-1 795) 

THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D. 

CHAPTER   Xin   (1763) 

As    Dr.    Oliver    Goldsmith   will    frequently 
appear  in  this  narrative,  I  shall  endeavour  to 
make  my  readers  in  some  degree  acquainted 
with  his  singular  character.     He  was  a  native 
of    Ireland,    and    a    contemporary    with    Mr. 
Burke,  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  l)Ut  did  not 
then  give  much   promise  of  future  celebrity. 
He,  however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that 
"though  he  made  no  great  figure  in  mathe- 
matics,  which   was  a  study   in   much   rc\n\{c 
there,  he  could  turn  an  Ode  of  Horace  into 
English  better  than  any  of  them."     He  after- 
wards studied  physic  at  Edinburgh,  and  upon 
the  Continent:    and,  I    have    been  informed, 
was  enabled   to   pursue   his   travels   on    foot, 
partly  by  demanding,  at  Universities,  to  enter 
the  lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according  to 
the  custom  of  many  of  them,  he  was  entitled 
to  the  premium  of  a  crown,  when,  luckily  for 
him,  his  challenge  was  not  accepted;    so  that, 
as  I  once  observed  to  Dr.   Johnson,  he  dis- 
puted his  passage  through  Europe.     He  then 
came  to  England,  and  was  employed  succes- 
sively   in    the    capacities   of   an    usher   to    an 
academy,  a  corrector  of  the  press,  a  reviewer, 
and  a  writer  for  a  newspaper.     He  had  sagacity 
enough  to  cultivate  assiduously  the  acquaint- 
ance   of    Johnson,     and     his     faculties    were 
gradually    enlarged  by  the   contemplation   of 
such   a   model.     To  me  and  many  others  it 
appeared  that  he  studiously  copied  the  man- 
ner   of    Johnson,    though,    indeed,     upon    a 
smaller  scale. 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  puljlished  nothing 
with  his  name,  though  it  was  pretty  generally 
known  that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the  author 
of  "An  Inquiry  into  the  present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe,"  and  of  "The  Citizen 
of  the  World,"  a  series  of  letters  supposed  to  be 
written  from  London  by  a  Chinese.  No  man 
had  the  art  of  displaying  with  more  advantage, 
as  a  writer,  whatever  literary  acquisitions  he 
made.  "Nihil  quod  trtigitnonornavit.'"^  His 
mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil.     There 

'  There  was  nothing  he  touched  that  he  did  not 
adorn. 


was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong,  vegetation,  of 
whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown  upon  it.     No 
deep  root  could  be   struck.     The  oak  of   the 
forest  did  not  grow  there ;  but  the  elegant  .shrub- 
bery and  the  fragrant  parterre  ap[)eared  in  gay 
succession.     It  has  been  generally  circulated 
and  believed  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  con- 
versation;  but,  in  truth,  this  has  been  greatly 
exaggerated.     He  had,  no  doubt,  a  more  than 
common  share  of  that  hurry  of  itleas  which  we 
often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which  some- 
times produces  a  laughal:>le  confusion   in  ex- 
pressing them.     He  was  very  much  what  the 
French'^call  un  elourdi,  and  from  vanity  and 
an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever 
he  was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly  without 
knowledge   of    the    subject,   or  even   without 
thought.      His  person  was    short,  his  counte- 
nance coarse  and  vulgar,  his  deportment  that  of 
a  scholar  awkwardly  affecting  the  easy  gentle- 
man.     Those  who   were    in    any  way  distm- 
guishcd,  excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridiculous  an 
excess,  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly  credible. 
When  accompanying  two  beautiful  young  ladies, 
with  their  mother,  on  a  tour  in  France,  he  was 
seriously  angry  that  more  attention  was  paid 
to  them  than  to  him;    and  once  at  the  exhibi- 
tion of  the  Fantoccini  in  London,  when  those 
who  sat  next  him  observed  with  what  dexterity 
a  puppet  was  made  to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not 
bear  that  it  should  have  such  praise,  and  ex- 
claimed, with  some  warmth,  "Pshaw!    I  can 
do  it  better  myself." 

He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system  of  any 
sort,  so  that  his  conduct  must  not  be  strictly 
scrutinised;  but  his  affections  were  social  and 
generous,  and  when  he  had  money  he  gave  it 
away  very  liberally.  His  desire  of  imaginary 
consequence  predominated  over  his  attention 
to  truth.  When  he  began  to  rise  into  notice, 
he  said  he  had  a  brother  who  was  Dean  of 
Durham,  a  fiction  so  easily  detected,  that  it  is 
wonderful  how  he  should  have  been  so  incon- 
siderate as  to  hazard  it.  He  Ijoastcd  to  me  at 
this  time  of  the  power  of  his  pen  in  commanding 
money,  which  I  believe  was  true  in  a  certain 
degree,  though  in  the  instance  he  gave  he  was 
by  no  means  correct.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
sold  a  novel  for  four  hundred  ])ounds.  This 
was  his  "Vicar  of  Wakefield."  But  Johnson 
informed  me  that  he  had  made  the  bargain  for 
Goldsmith,  and  the  price  was  sixty  pounds. 
"And,  Sir,"  said  he,  "a  sufficient  price  too, 
when  it  was  sold ;  for  then  the  fame  of  Gold- 
smith had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards 
was,   by  his  'Traveller';  and  the  bookseller 


278 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit  by  his  bargain, 
that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a  long 
time,  and  did  not  publish  it  till  after  the 
♦  Traveller  '  had  appeared.  Then,  to  be  sure, 
it  was  accidentally  worth  more  money." 

Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have 
strangely  mis-stated  the  history  of  Goldsmith's 
situation  and  Johnson's  friendly  interference, 
when  this  novel  was  sold.  I  shall  give  it 
authentically  from  Johnson's  own  exact  nar- 
ration : 

"I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor 
Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and, 
as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  beg- 
ging that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to 
come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as 
soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  land- 
lady had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which 
he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that 
he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had 
got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before 
him.  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired 
he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of 
the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated. 
He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for 
the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I  looked 
into  it,  and  saw  its  merit;  told  the  landlady 
I  should  soon  return;  and,  having  gone  to  a 
bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought 
Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  his 
rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high 
tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

My  next  meeting  with  Johnson  was  on  Fri- 
day, the  ist  of  July,  when  he  and  I  and  Dr. 
Goldsmith  supped  at  the  Mitre.  I  was  before 
this  time  pretty  well  acquainted  with  Gold- 
smith, who  was  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments 
of  the  Johnsonian  school.  Goldsmith's  re- 
spectful attachment  to  Johnson  was  then  at  its 
height ;  for  his  own  literary  reputation  had  not 
yet  distinguished  him  so  much  as  to  excite  a 
vain  desire  of  competition  with  his  great  Master. 
He  had  increased  my  admiration  of  the  good- 
ness of  Johnson's  heart,  by  incidental  remarks 
in  the  course  of  conversation,  such  as,  when  I 
mentioned  Mr.  Levett,  whom  he  entertained 
under  his  roof,  "He  is  poor  and  honest,  which 
is  recommendation  enough  to  Johnson;"  and 
when  I  wondered  that  he  was  very  kind  to  a 
man  of  whom  I  had  heard  a  very  bad  character, 
"He  is  now  become  miserable,  and  that  insures 
the  protection  of  Johnson." 

Goldsmith  attempting  this  evening  to  main- 
tain, I  suppose  from  an  affectation  of  paradox, 
"  that  knowledge  was  not  desirable  on  its  own 


account,  for  it  often  was  a  source  of  unhappi- 
ness:"  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  that  knowledge 
may,  in  some  cases,  produce  unhappiness,  I 
allow.  But,  upon  the  whole,  knowledge,  per 
se,  is  certainly  an  object  which  every  man 
would  wish  to  attain,  although,  perhaps,  he 
may  not  take  the  trouble  necessary  for  attain- 
ing it." 

Dr.  John  Campbell,  the  celebrated  political 
and  biographical  writer,  being  mentioned, 
Johnson  said,  "Campbell  is  a  man  of  much 
knowledge,  and  has  a  good  share  of  imagi- 
nation. His  'Hermippus  Redivivus'  is  very 
entertaining,  as  an  account  of  the  Hermetic 
philosophy,  and  as  furnishing  a  curious  history 
of  the  extravagancies  of  the  human  mind. 
If  it  were  merely  imaginary,  it  would  be  nothing 
at  all.  Campbell  is  not  always  rigidly  careful 
of  truth  in  his  conversation ;  but  I  do  not  be- 
lieve there  is  an)i;hing  of  this  carelessness  in 
his  books.  Campbell  is  a  good  man,  a  pious 
man.  I  am  afraid  he  has  not  been  in  the  in- 
side of  a  church  for  many  years ;  but  he  never 
passes  a  church  without  pulling  off  his  hat. 
This  shows  that  he  has  good  principles.  I 
used  to  go  pretty  often  to  Campbell's  on  a 
Sunday  evening,  till  I  began  to  consider  that 
the  shoals  of  Scotchmen  who  flocked  about 
him  might  probably  say,  when  anything  of 
mine  was  well  done,  '  Ay,  ay,  he  has  learned 
this  of  Cawmell ! '" 

He  talked  very  contemptuously  of  Churchill's 
poetr>',  obser\'ing,  that  "it  had  a  temporary 
currency,  only  from  its  audacity  of  abuse,  and 
being  filled  with  living  names,  and  that  it  would 
sink  into  oblivion."  I  ventured  to  hint  that 
he  was  not  quite  a  fair  judge,  as  Churchill 
had  attacked  him  violently.  Johnson:  "Nay, 
Sir,  I  am  a  very  fair  judge.  He  did  not  attack 
me  violently  till  he  found  I  did  not  like  his 
poetry;  and  his  attack  on  me  shall  not  prevent 
me  from  continuing  to  say  what  I  think  of  him, 
from  an  apprehension  that  it  may  be  ascribed 
to  resentment.  No,  Sir,  I  called  the  fellow  a 
blockhead  at  first,  and  I  will  call  him  a  block- 
head still.  However,  I  will  acknowledge  that 
I  have  a  better  opinion  of  him  now  than  I 
once  had;  for  he  has  shown  more  fertility 
than  I  expected.  To  be  sure,  he  is  a  tree  that 
cannot  produce  good  fruit:  he  only  bears 
crabs.  But,  Sir,  a  tree  that  produces  a  great 
many  crabs,  is  better  than  a  tree  which  pro- 
duces only  a  few." 

In  this  depreciation  of  Churchill's  poetry, 
I  could  not  agree  with  him.  It  is  very  true 
that  the  greatest  part  of  it  is  upon  the  topics 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


279 


of  the  day,  on  which  account,  as  it  brought  him 
great  fame  and  profit  at  the  time,  it  must 
proportionably  slide  out  of  the  public  atten- 
tion, as  other  occasional  objects  succeed.  But 
Churchill  had  extraordinary  vigour  both  of 
thought  and  expression.  His  portraits  of  the 
players  will  ever  be  valuable  to  the  true  lovers 
of  the  drama;  and  his  strong  caricatures  of 
several  eminent  men  of  his  age,  will  not  Ije 
forgotten  by  the  curious.  Let  me  add,  that 
there  are  in  his  works  many  passages  which  are 
of  a  general  nature;  and  his  "Prophecy  of 
Famine"  is  a  poem  of  no  ordinary  merit.  It 
is,  indeed,  falsely  injurious  to  Scotland;  but 
therefore,  may  be  allowed  a  greater  share  of 
invention. 

Bonnell  Thornton  had  just  published  a  bur- 
lesque "Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  day,"  adapted 
to  the  ancient  British  music,  viz.,  the  salt-box, 
the  Jew's-harp,  the  marrow-bones  and  cleaver, 
the  hum-strum,  or  hurdy-gurdy,  etc.  John- 
son praised  its  humour,  and  seemed  much 
diverted  with  it.  He  repeated  the  following 
passage : 

"  In  strains  more  exalted  the  salt-box  shall  join, 
And  clattering  and  battering  and  clapping  combine  ; 
With  a  rap  and  a  tap,  while  the  hollow  side  sounds, 
Up  and  down  leaps  the  flap,   and  with  rattling  re- 
bounds." 

I  mentioned  the  periodical  paper  called 
"The  Connoisseur."  He  said  it  wanted  mat- 
ter. —  No  doubt  it  had  not  the  deep  think- 
ing of  Johnson's  writings.  But  surely  it  has 
just  views  of  the  surface  of  life,  and  a  very 
sprightly  manner.  —  His  opinion  of  "The 
World,"  was  not  much  higher  than  of  "The 
Connoisseur." 

Let  me  here  apologise  for  the  imperfect 
manner  in  which  I  am  obliged  to  exhibit 
Johnson's  conversation  at  this  period.  In  the 
early  part  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  I 
was  so  wrapt  in  admiration  of  his  extraordinary 
colloquial  talents,  and  so  little  accustomed 
to  his  peculiar  mode  of  expression,  that  I 
found  it  extremely  difiicult  to  recollect  and 
record  his  conversation  with  its  genuine 
vigour  and  vivacity.  In  progress  of  time,  when 
my  mind  was,  as  it  were,  strongly  impregnated 
with  the  Johnsonian  cether,  I  could  with  much 
more  facility  and  exactness,  carry  in  my  mem- 
ory and  commit  to  paper  the  exuberant  variety 
of  his  wisdom  and  wit. 

At  this  time  Miss  Williams,  as  she  was  then 
called,  though  she  did  not  reside  with  him  in 
the  Temple  under  his  roof,  but  had  lodgings 


in  Bolt-court,  Fleet-street,  had  so  much  of  his 
attention,  that  he  every  night  drank  tea  with 
her  before  he  went  home,  however  late  it 
might  be,  and  she  always  sat  up  for  him. 
This  it  may  be  fairly  conjectured,  was  not 
alone  a  proof  of  his  regard  for  her,  but  of  his 
own  unwillingness  to  go  into  solitude,  before 
that  unseasonable  hour  at  which  he  had  habitu- 
ated himself  to  expect  the  oblivion  of  repo.se. 
Dr.  Goldsmith,  being  a  privileged  man,  went 
with  him  this  night,  strutting  away,  and  call- 
ing to  me  with  an  air  of  superiority,  like  that 
of  an  esoteric  over  an  exoteric  disciple  of  a 
sage  of  antiquity,  "I  go  to  Miss  Williams." 
I  confess,  I  then  envied  him  this  mighty  privi- 
lege, of  which  he  seemed  so  proud;  but  it  was 
not  long  before  I  obtained  the  same  mark  of 
distinction. 

On  Tuesday,  the  5th  of  July,  I  again  visited 
Johnson.  He  told  me  he  had  looked  into  the 
poems  of  a  pretty  voluminous  writer,  Mr. 
(now  Dr.)  John  Ogilvie,  one  of  the  Presby- 
terian ministers  of  Scotland,  which  had  lately 
come  out,  but  could  find  no  thinking  in  them. 
Boswell:  "Is  there  not  imagination  in  them. 
Sir?"  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  there  is  in  them 
what  was  imagination,  but  it  is  no  more 
imagination  in  hivi,  than  sound  is  sound  in 
the  echo.  And  his  diction  loo  is  not  his  own. 
We  have  long  ago  seen  white-robed  innocence 
and  flower-bcs panglcd  meads." 

Talking  of  London,  he  observed,  "Sir,  if 
you  wish  to  have  a  just  notion  of  the  magni- 
tude of  this  city,  you  must  not  be  satisfied 
with  seeing  its  great  streets  and  squares,  but 
must  survey  the  innumerable  little  lanes  and 
courts.  It  is  not  in  the  showy  evolutions  of 
buildings,  but  in  the  multiplicity  of  human 
habitations  which  are  crowded  together,  that 
the  wonderfid  immensity  of  London  consists." 
—  I  have  often  amused  myself  with  thinking 
how  different  a  place  London  is  to  different 
people.  They,  whose  narrow  minds  are  con- 
tracted to  the  consideration  of  some  one  par- 
ticular pursuit,  view  it  only  through  that 
medium.  A  politician  thinks  of  it  merely  as 
the  seat  of  government  in  its  different  depart- 
ments; a  grazier,  as  a  vast  market  for  cattle; 
a  mercantile  man,  as  a  place  where  a  y^ro- 
digious  deal  of  business  is  done  upon  'Change; 
a  dramatic  enthusiast,  as  the  grand  scene  of 
theatrical  entertainments;  a  man  of  pleasure, 
as  an  assemblage  of  taverns,  and  the  great 
emporium  for  ladies  of  easy  virtue.  But  the 
intellectual  man  is  struck  with  it,  as  compre- 
hending the  whole  of  human   life   in   all   its 


28o 


JAMES    BOS  WELL 


variety,  the  contemplation  of  wliich   is  incx- 
hausliljle. 

On  Wednesday,  July  6,  he  was  engaged  to 
sup  with  me  at  my  lodgings  in  Uowning-street, 
Westminster.     But  on  the  preceding  night  my 
landlord  having  behaved  very  rudely  to  me 
and  some  company  who  were  with  me,  I  had 
resolved  not  to  remain   another  night  in  his 
house.     I  was  exceedingly  uneasy  at  the  awk- 
ward appearance  I  supposed  I  should  make  to 
Johnson  and  the  other  gentlemen  whom  I  had 
invited,    not    being   able    to   receive   them    at 
home,  and  being  obliged  to  order  supper  at 
the  Mitre.     I  went  to  Johnson  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  talked  of  it  as  of  a  serious  distress. 
He  laughed,   and  said,    "Consider,   Sir,   how 
insignificant  this  will   appear  a  twelvemonth 
hence."     Were  this  consideration  to  be  applied 
to  most  of  the  little  vexatious  incidents  of  life, 
by  which  our  quiet  is  too  often  disturbed,  it 
would    prevent    many    painful    sensations.     I 
have    tried    it    frequently    with    good    effect. 
"There   is  nothing,"   continued  he,   "in   this 
mighty  misfortune;    nay,  we  shall  be  better  at 
the  Mitre."     I  told  him  that  I  had  been  at 
Sir  John  Fielding's  oflice,  complaining  of  my 
landlord,  and  had  been  informed  that  though 
I  had  taken  my  lodgings  for  a  year,  I  might, 
upon  proof  of  his  bad  behaviour,  quit  them 
when  I  pleased,  without  being  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  pay  rent  for  any  longer  time  than  while 
I  possessed  them.     The  fertility  of  Johnson's 
mind  could  show  itself  even  upon  so  small  a 
matter  as  this.     "Why,  Sir,"  said  he,  "I  sup- 
pose this  must  be  the  law,  since  you  have  been 
told  so  in  Bow-street.     But  if  your  landlord 
could    hold    you    to    your    bargain,    and    the 
lodgings  should  be  yours  for  a  year,  you  may 
certainly  use  them  as  you  think  fit.     So,  Sir, 
you    may    quarter    two    life-guardsmen    upon 
him;   or  you  may  send  the  greatest  scoundrel 
you  can  find  into  your  apartments;    or  you 
may  say  that  you  want  to  make  some  experi- 
ments in  natural  philosophy,  and  may  burn  a 
large  quantity  of  asafoetida  in  his  house." 

I  had  as  my  guests  this  evening  at  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  Dr.  Johnson,  Djr.  Goldsmith, 
Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  Mr.  Eccles,  an  Irish 
gentleman,  for  whose  agreeable  company  I 
was  obliged  to  Mr.  Davies,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
John  Ogilvie,  who  was  desirous  of  being  in 
company  with  my  illustrious  friend,  while  I, 
in  my  turn,  was  proud  to  have  the  honour  of 
showing  one  of  my  countrymen  upon  what 
easy  terms  Johnson  permitted  me  to  live  with 
him. 


Goldsmith,  as  usual,  endeavoured  with  too 
much  eagerness  to  shine  and  disputed  very 
warmly  with  Johnson  against  the  well-known 
maxim  of  the  British  constitution,  "the  king 
can  do  no  wrong;"  afhrming,  that  "what  was 
morally  false  could  not  be  politically  true; 
and  as  the  king  might,  in  the  exercise  of  his 
regal  power,  command  and  cause  the  doing  of 
what  was  wrong,  it  certainly  might  be  said, 
in  sense  and  in  reason,  that  he  could  do  wrong." 
Johnson:  "Sir,  you  are  to  consider  that  in 
our  constitution,  according  to  its  true  princi- 
ples, the  king  is  the  head,  he  is  supreme;  he 
is  above  everything,  and  there  is  no  power 
by  which  he  can  be  tried.  Therefore,  it  is. 
Sir,  that  we  hold  the  king  can  do  no  wrong; 
that  whatever  may  happen  to  be  wrong  in 
government  may  not  be  above  our  reach  by 
being  ascribed  to  majesty.  Redress  is  always 
to  be  had  against  oppression  by  punishing 
the  immediate  agents.  The  king,  though  he 
should  command,  cannot  force  a  judge  to 
condemn  a  man  unjustly;  therefore  it  is  the 
judge  whom  we  prosecute  and  punish.  Po- 
litical institutions  are  formed  upon  the  con- 
sideration of  what  will  most  frequently  tend 
to  the  good  of  the  whole,  although  now  and 
then  exceptions  may  occur.  Thus  it  is  better 
in  general  that  a  nation  should  have  a  supreme 
legislative  power,  although  it  may  at  times  be 
abused.  And  then,  Sir,  there  is  this  considera- 
tion, that  if  the  abuse  he  enormous  nature  will 
rise  up,  and  claiming  her  original  rights,  over- 
turn a  corrupt  political  system."  I  mark  this 
animated  sentence  with  peculiar  pleasure,  as 
a  noble  instance  of  that  truly  dignified  spirit 
of  freedom  which  ever  glowed  in  his  heart, 
though  he  was  charged  with  slavish  tenets  by 
superficial  observers,  because  he  was  at  all 
times  indignant  against  that  false  patriotism, 
that  pretended  love  of  freedom,  that  unruly 
restlessness  which  is  inconsistent  with  the 
stable  authority  of  any  good  government. 

This  generous  sentiment,  which  he  uttered 
with  great  fervour,  struck  me  exceedingly,  and 
stirred  my  blood  to  that  pitch  of  fancied  re- 
sistance, the  possibility  of  which  I  am  glad  to 
keep  in  mind,  but  to  which  I  trust  I  never 
shall  be  forced. 

"Great  abilities,"  said  he,  "are  not  requisite 
for  an  historian;  for  in  historical  composition 
all  the  greatest  powers  of  the  human  mind  are 
quiescent.  He  has  facts  ready  to  his  hand, 
so  there  is  no  exercise  of  invention.  Imagina- 
tion is  not  required  in  any  high  degree;  only 
about  as  much  as  is  used  in  the  lower  kinds 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


2«I 


of  poetry.  Some  penetration,  accuracy,  and 
colouring,  will  fit  a  man  for  the  task,  if  he 
can  give  the  application  which  is  necessary." 

"'Bayle's  Dictionary'  is  a  very  useful  work 
for  tTiose  to  consult  who  love  the  biographical 
part  of  literature,  which  is  what  I  love  most." 

Talking  of  the  eminent  writers  in  Queen 
Anne's  reign,  he  observed,  "I  think  Dr. 
Arbuthnot  the  first  man  among  them.  He 
was  the  most  universal  genius,  being  an  excel- 
lent physician,  a  man  of  deep  learning,  and  a 
man  of  much  humour.  Mr.  Addison  was,  to 
be  sure,  a  great  man;  his  learning  was  not 
profound,  but  his  morality,  his  humour,  and 
his  elegance  of  writing  set  him  very  high." 

Mr.  Ogilvie  was  unlucky  enough  to  choose 
for  the  topic  of  his  conversation  the  praises  of 
his  native  country.  He  began  with  saying, 
that  there  was  very  rich  land  around  Edin- 
burgh. Goldsmith,  who  had  studied  physic 
there,  contradicted  this,  very  untruly,  with  a 
sneering  laugh.  Disconcerted  a  little  by  this, 
Mr.  Ogilvie  then  took  a  new  ground,  where, 
I  suppose,  he  thought  himself  perfectly  safe; 
for  he  observed,  that  Scotland  had  a  great 
many  noble  wild  prospects.  Johnson:  "I 
believe,  Sir,  you  have  a  great  many.  Norway, 
too,  has  noble  wild  prospects;  and  Lapland 
is  remarkable  for  prodigious  noble  wild  pros- 
pects. But,  Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  noblest 
prospect  which  a  Scotchman  ever  sees,  is  the 
high-road  that  leads  him  to  England!"  This 
unexpected  and  pointed  sally  produced  a  roar 
of  applause.  After  all,  however,  those  who 
admire  the  rude  grandeur  of  nature  cannot 
deny  it  to  Caledonia. 

On  Saturday,  July  9,  I  found  Johnson  sur- 
rounded with  a  numerous  levee,  but  have  not 
preserved  any  part  of  his  conversation.  On 
the  14th  we  had  another  evening  by  ourselves 
at  the  Mitre.  It  happened  to  be  a  very  rainy 
night;  I  made  some  commonplace  observations 
on  the  relaxation  of  nerves  and  depression  of 
spirits  which  such  weather  occasioned;  add- 
ing, however,  that  it  was  good  for  the  vege- 
table creation.  Johnson,  who,  as  we  have 
already  seen,  denied  that  the  temperature  of 
the  air  had  any  influence  on  the  human  frame, 
answered,  with  a  smile  of  ridicule,  "Why,  yes, 
Sir,  it  is  good  for  vegetables,  and  for  the 
animals  who  eat  those  vegetables,  and  for  the 
animals  who  eat  those  animals."  This  obser- 
vation of  his,  aptly  enough  introduced  a  good 
supper  and  I  soon  forgot,  in  Johnson's  com- 
pany, the  influence  of  a  moist  atmosphere. 

Feeling  myself  now  quite  at  ease  as  his  com- 


panion, though  I  had  all  possible  reverence 
for  him,  I  expressed  a  regret  that  I  could  not 
be  so  easy  with  my  father,  though  he  was  not 
much  older  than  Johnson,  and  certainly,  how- 
ever respectable,  had  not  more  learning  and 
greater  abilities  to  depress  me.  I  asked  him 
the  reason  of  this.  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  I 
am  a  man  of  the  world.  I  live  in  the  world, 
and  I  take,  in  some  degree,  the  colour  of  the 
world  as  it  moves  along.  Your  father  is  a 
judge  in  a  remote  part  of  the  island,  and  all 
his  notions  are  taken  from  the  old  world. 
Besides,  Sir,  there  must  always  be  a  struggle 
between  a  father  and  son,  while  one  aims  at 
power  and  the  other  at  independence."  I 
said,  I  was  afraid  my  father  would  force  me 
to  be  a  lawyer.  Johnson:  "Sir,  you  need 
not  be  afraid  of  his  forcing  you  to  be  a  laborious 
practising  lawyer;  that  is  not  in  his  power. 
For,  as  the  proverb  says,  'One  man  may  lead 
a  horse  to  the  water,  but  twenty  cannot  make 
him  drink.'  He  may  be  displeased  that  you 
are  not  what  he  wishes  you  to  be;  but  that 
displeasure  will  not  go  far.  If  he  insists  only 
on  your  having  as  much  law  as  is  necessary 
for  a  man  of  property,  and  then  endeavours 
to  get  you  into  parliament,  he  is  quite  in  the 
right." 

He  enlarged  very  convincingly  upon  the 
excellence  of  rhyme  over  blank  verse  in  Eng- 
lish poetry.  I  mentioned  to  him  that  Dr. 
Adam  Smith,  in  his  lectures  upon  composition, 
when  I  studied  under  him  in  the  College  of 
Glasgow,  had  maintained  the  same  opinion 
strenuously,  and  I  repeated  some  of  his  argu- 
ments. Johnson:  "Sir,  I  was  once  in  com- 
pany with  Smith,  and  we  did  not  take  to  each 
other;  but  had  I  known  that  he  loved  rhyme 
as  much  as  you  tell  me  he  does,  I  should  have 
hugged  him." 

Talking  of  those  who  denied  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  he  said,  "It  is  always  easy  to  be 
on  the  negative  side.  If  a  man  were  now  to 
deny  that  there  is  salt  upon  the  table,  you 
could  not  reduce  him  to  an  absurdity.  Come, 
let  us  try  this  a  little  further.  I  deny  that 
Canada  is  taken,  and  I  can  support  my  denial 
by  pretty  good  arguments.  The  French  are  a 
much  more  numerous  people  than  we;  and  it 
is  not  likely  that  they  would  allow  us  to  take 
it.  'But  the  ministry  have  assured  us,  in  all 
the  formality  of  the  Gazette,  that  it  is  taken.' 
—  Very  true.  But  the  ministry  have  put  us 
to  an  enormous  expense  by  the  war  in  America, 
and  it  is  their  interest  to  persuade  us  that  we 
have  got  something   for  our  money.  —  '  But 


282 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


the  fact  is  confirmed  by  thousands  of  men 
who  were  at  the  taking  of  it'  —  Ay,  but  these 
men  have  still  more  interest  in  deceiving  us. 
They  don't  want  that  you  should  think  the 
French  have  beat  them,  but  that  they  have 
beat  the  French.  Now  suppose  you  should 
go  over  and  find  that  it  really  is  taken,  that 
would  only  satisfy  yourself;  for  when  you 
come  home  we  will  not  believe  you.  We  will 
say,  you  have  been  bribed.  —  Yet,  Sir,  not- 
withstanding all  these  plausible  objections,  we 
have  no  doubt  that  Canada  is  really  ours. 
Such  is  the  weight  of  common  testimony. 
How  much  stronger  are  the  evidences  of  the 
Christian  religion?" 

"Idleness  is  a  disease  which  must  be  com- 
bated; but  I  would  not  advise  a  rigid  ad- 
herence to  a  particular  plan  of  study.  I  my- 
self have  never  persisted  in  any  plan  for  two 
days  together.  A  man  ought  to  read  just  as 
inclination  leads  him ;  for  what  he  reads  as  a 
task  will  do  him  little  good.  A  young  man 
should  read  five  hours  in  a  day,  and  so  may 
acquire  a  great  deal  of  knowledge." 

To  a  man  of  vigorous  intellect  and  ardent 
curiosity  like  his  own,  reading  without  a  regu- 
lar plan  may  be  beneficial;  though  even  such 
a  man  must  submit  to  it,  if  he  would  attain  a 
full  understanding  of  any  of  the  sciences. 

To  such  a  degree  of  unrestrained  frankness 
had  he  now  accustomed  me  that  in  the  course 
of  this  evening  I  talked  of  the  numerous 
reflections  which  had  been  thrown  out  against 
him,  on  account  of  his  having  accepted  a  pen- 
sion from  his  present  Majesty.  "Why,  Sir," 
said  he,  with  a  hearty  laugh,  "it  is  a  mighty 
foolish  noise  that  they  make.  I  have  accepted 
of  a  pension  as  a  reward  which  has  been 
thought  due  to  my  literary  merit;  and  now 
that  I  have  this  pension,  I  am  the  same  man 
in  every  respect  that  I  have  ever  been;  I  re- 
tain the  same  principles.  It  is  true,  that  I 
cannot  now  curse  (smiling)  the  house  of  Han- 
over; nor  would  it  be  decent  for  me  to  drink 
King  James's  health  in  the  wine  that  King 
George  gives  me  money  to  pay  for.  But,  Sir, 
I  think  that  the  pleasure  of  cursing  the  house 
of  Hanover,  and  drinking  King  James's 
health,  are  amply  overbalanced  by  three  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year." 

_  There  was  here,  most  certainly,  an  aflFecta- 
tion  of  more  Jacobitism  than  he  really  had; 
and  indeed  an  intention  of  admitting,  for  the 
moment,  in  a  much  greater  extent  than  it 
really  existed,  the  charge  of  disaffection  im- 
puted to  him  by  the  world,  merely  for  the  pur- 


pose of  showing  how  dexterously  he  could 
repel  an  attack,  even  though  he  were  placed 
in  the  most  disadvantageous  position;  for  I 
have  heard  him  declare,  that  if  holding  up  his 
right  hand  would  have  secured  victory  at 
Culloden  to  Prince  Charles's  army,  he  was 
not  sure  he  would  have  held  it  up;  so  little 
confidence  had  he  in  the  right  claimed  by  the 
house  of  Stuart,  and  so  fearful  was  he  of 
the  consequences  of  another  revolution  on  the 
throne  of  Great  Britain;  and  Mr.  Topham 
Beauclerk  assured  me,  he  had  heard  him  say 
this  before  he  had  his  pension.  At  another 
time  he  said  to  Mr.  Langton,  "Nothing  has 
ever  offered,  that  has  made  it  worth  my  while 
to  consider  the  question  fully."  He,  however, 
also  said  to  the  same  gentleman,  talking  of 
King  James  the  Second,  "It  was  become  im- 
possible for  him  to  reign  any  longer  in  this 
country."  He  no  doubt  had  an  early  attach- 
ment to  the  house  of  Stuart;  but  his  zeal  had 
cooled  as  his  reason  strengthened.  Indeed  I 
heard  him  once  say,  "that  after  the  death  of  a 
violent  Whig,  with  whom  he  used  to  contend 
with  great  eagerness,  he  felt  his  Toryism  much 
abated."     I  suppose  he  meant  Mr.  Walmesley. 

Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  at  earlier  periods 
he  was  wont  often  to  exercise  both  his  pleas- 
antry and  ingenuity  in  talking  Jacobitism. 
My  much  respected  friend.  Dr.  Douglas,  now 
Bishop  of  Salisbury,  has  favoured  me  with 
the  following  admirable  instance  from  his 
lordship's  own  recollection :  —  One  day  when 
dining  at  old  Mr.  Langton's,  where  Miss 
Roberts,  his  niece,  was  one  of  the  company, 
Johnson,  with  his  usual  complacent  attention 
to  the  fair  sex,  took  her  by  the  hand  and  said, 
"My  dear,  I  hope  you  are  a  Jacobite."  Old 
Mr.  Langton,  who,  though  a  high  and  steady 
Tory,  was  attached  to  the  present  royal  family, 
seemed  offended,  and  asked  Johnson,  with 
great  warmth,  what  he  could  mean  by  put- 
ting such  a  question  to  his  niece?  "Why,  Sir," 
said  Johnson,  "I  meant  no  offence  to  your 
niece,  I  meant  her  a  great  compliment.  A 
Jacobite,  Sir,  believes  in  the  divine  right  of 
kings.  He  that  believes  in  the  divine  right  of 
kings  believes  in  a  Divinity.  A  Jacobite  be- 
lieves in  the  divine  right  of  bishops.  He  that 
believes  in  the  divine  right  of  bishops,  believes 
in  the  divine  authority  of  the  Christian  religion. 
Therefore,  Sir,  a  Jacobite  is  neither  an  Atheist 
nor  a  Deist.  That  cannot  be  said  of  a  Whig; 
for  Whiggism  is  a  negation  of  all  principle." 

He  advised  me,  when  abroad,  to  be  as 
much  as  I  could  with  the  professors  in  the 


THE   LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


283 


Universities,  and  with  the  clergy;  for  from 
their  conversation  I  might  expect  the  best 
accounts  of  everything  in  whatever  country  I 
should  be,  with  the  additional  advantage  of 
keeping  my  learning  alive. 

It  will  be  observed,  that  when  givmg  me 
advice  as  to  my  travels.  Dr.  Johnson  did  not 
dwell  upon  cities,  and  palaces,  and  pictures, 
and  shows,  and  Arcadian  scenes.  He  was  of 
Lord  Essex's  opinion,  who  advises  his  kins- 
man, Roger  Earl  of  Rutland,  "rather  to  go  a 
hundred  miles  to  speak  with  one  wise  man, 
than  five  miles  to  see  a  fair  town." 

I  described  to  him  an  impudent  fellow  from 
Scotland,  who  affected  to  be  a  savage,  and 
railed  at  all  established  systems.  Johnson: 
"There  is  nothing  surprising  in  this.  Sir.  He 
wants  to  make  himself  conspicuous.  He  would 
tumble  in  a  hog-sty,  as  long  as  you  looked  at 
him  and  called  to  him  to  come  out.  But  let 
him  alone,  never  mind  him,  and  he'll  soon 
give  it  over." 

I  added  that  the  same  person  maintained 
that  there  was  no  distinction  between  virtue 
and  vice.      Johnson:   "Why,  Sir,  if  the  fellow 
does  not  think  as  he  speaks,  he  is  lying;   and 
I  see  not  what  honour  he  can  propose  to  him- 
self from  having  the  character  of  a  liar.     But 
if  he  does  really  think  that  there  is  no  distinc- 
tion between  virtue  and  vice,  why.  Sir,  when 
he  leaves  our  houses  let  us  count  our  spoons." 
Sir  David  Dalrymple,  now  one  of  the  judges 
of  Scotland  by  the  title  of  Lord  Hailes,  had 
contributed  much  to  increase  my  high  opinion 
of  Johnson,  on  account  of  his  writings,  long 
before  I  attained  to  a  personal  acquaintance 
with  him;   I,  in  return,  had  informed  Johnson 
of   Sir   David's   eminent   character  for  learn- 
ing and  religion ;    and  Johnson  was  so  much 
pleased,  that  at  one  of  our  evening  meetings 
he  gave  him  for  his  toast.     I  at  this  time  kept 
up  a  ver}^  frequent  correspondence  with  Sir 
David;    and  I  read  to  Dr.  Johnson  to-night 
the  following  passage  from  the  letter  which  I 
had  last  received  from  him: 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  think  that  you  have  ob- 
tained the  friendship  of  Mr.  Samuel  Johnson.  He 
is  one  of  the  best  moral  writers  which  England  has 
produced.  At  the  same  time,  I  envj'  you  the  free 
and  undisguised  converse  with  such  a  man.  May  I 
beg  you  to  present  my  best  respects  to  him,  and  to 
assure  him  of  the  veneration  which  I  entertain  for 
the  author  of  the  '  Rambler  '  and  of  '  Rasselas  '  ? 
Let  me  recommend  this  last  work  to  you;  with  the 
'Rambler'  you  certainly  are  acquainted.  In 'Ras- 
selas '   you  will  see  a   tender-hearted  operator,  who 


probes  the  wound  only  to  heal  it.  Swift,  on  the  con- 
trary, mangles  human  nature.  He  cuts  and  slashes 
as  if  he  took  pleasure  in  the  operation,  like  the 
tyrant  who  said,  Itaferi  ut  se  sentiat  etnori."  ' 

Johnson  seemed  to  be  much  gratified  by 
this  just  and  well-turned  compliment. 

He  recommended  to  me  to  keep  a  journal 
of  my  life,  full  and  unreserved.  He  said  it 
would  be  a  very  good  exercise,  and  would 
yield  me  great  satisfaction  when  the  particu- 
lars were  faded  from  my  remembrance.  I 
was  uncommonly  fortunate  in  having  had  a 
previous  coincidence  of  opinion  with  him  upon 
this  subject,  for  I  had  kept  such  a  journal  for 
some  time;  and  it  was  no  small  pleasure  to 
me  to  have  this  to  tell  him,  and  to  receive 
his  approbation.  He  counselled  me  to  keep 
it  private,  and  said  I  might  surely  have  a 
friend  who  would  i^urn  it  in  case  of  my  death. 
From  this  habit  I  have  been  enai:)led  to  give 
the  world  so  many  anecdotes,  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  lost  to  posterity.  I  men- 
tioned that  I  was  afraid  I  put  into  my  journal 
too  many  little  incidents.  Johnson:  "There 
is  nothing,  Sir,  too  little  for  so  little  a  creature 
as  man.  It  is  by  studying  little  things  that 
we  attain  the  great  art  of  having  as  little  misery 
and  as  much  happiness  as  possible." 

Next  morning  Mr.  Dempster  happened  to 
call  on  me,  and  was  so  much  struck  even  with 
the  imperfect  account  which  I  gave  him  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  conversation,  that  to  his  honour 
be  it  recorded,  when  I  complained  of  drink- 
ing port  and  sitting  up  late  with  him,  affected 
my  nerves  for  some  time  after,  he  said,  "One 
had  better  be  palsied  at  eighteen  than  not 
keep  company  with  such  a  man." 

On  Tuesday,  July  18,  I  found  tall  Sir 
Thomas  Robinson  sitting  with  Johnson.  Sir 
Thomas  said,  that  the  King  of  Prussia  valued 
himself  upon  three  things;  upon  being  a  hero, 
a  musician,  and  an  author.  Johnson :  "  Pretty 
well.  Sir,  for  one  man.  As  to  his  being  an 
author,  I  have  not  looked  at  his  poetry;  but 
his  prose  is  poor  stuff.  He  writes  just  as  you 
may  suppose  Voltaire's  footboy  to  do,  who 
has  been  his  amanuensis.  He  has  such  parts 
as  the  valet  might  have,  and  about  as  much 
of  the  colouring  of  the  style  as  might  be  got 
by  transcribing  his  works."  When  I  was  at 
Ferney,  I  repeated  this  to  VoUaire,  in  order 
to  reconcile  him  somewhat  to  Johnson,  whom 
he,  in  affecting  the  English  mode  of  expres- 

>  Strike  in  such  a  way  that  he  may  feel  the  pangs  of 
death. 


284 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


sion,  had  previously  characterised  as  "a  super- 
stitious dog  " ;  but  after  hearing  such  a  criticism 
on  Frederick  the  Great,  with  whom  he  was 
then  on  bad  terms,  he  exclaimed,  "An  honest 
fellow!" 

But  I  think  the  criticism  much  too  severe; 
for  the  "Memoirs  of  the  House  of  Branden- 
burgh"  are  written  as  well  as  many  works  of 
that  kind.  His  poetry,  for  the  style  of  which 
he  himself  makes  a  frank  apology,  "jargonnani 
un  Frangois  barbare,"  though  fraught  with 
pernicious  ravings  of  infidelity,  has  in  many 
places,  great  animation,  and  in  some  a  pathetic 
tenderness. 

Upon  this  contemptuous  animadversion  on 
the  King  of  Prussia,  I  observed  to  Johnson, 
"It  would  seem  then,  Sir,  that  much  less  parts 
are  necessary  to  make  a  king,  than  to  make 
an  author:  for  the  King  of  Prussia  is  con- 
fessedly the  greatest  king  now  in  Europe,  yet 
you  think  he  makes  a  very  poor  figure  as  an 
author." 

Mr.  Levett  this  day  showed  me  Dr.  John- 
son's library,  which  was  contained  in  two 
garrets  over  his  chambers,  where  Lintot,  son 
of  the  celebrated  bookseller  of  that  name,  had 
formerly  his  warehouse.  I  found  a  number 
of  good  books,  but  very  dusty  and  in  great 
confusion.  The  floor  was  strewed  with  manu- 
script leaves,  in  Johnson's  own  handwriting, 
which  I  beheld  with  a  degree  of  veneration, 
supposing  they  perhaps  might  contain  por- 
tions of  the  "Rambler,"  or  of  "Rasselas."  I 
observed  an  apparatus  for  chemical  experi- 
ments, of  which  Johnson  was  all  his  life  very 
fond.  The  place  seemed  to  be  very  favour- 
able for  retirement  and  meditation.  Johnson 
told  me,  that  he  went  up  thither  without  men- 
tioning it  to  his  servant  when  he  wanted  to 
study,  secure  from  interruption ;  for  he  would 
not  allow  his  servant  to  say  he  was  not  at 
home  when  he  really  was.  "A  servant's  strict 
regard  for  truth,"  said  he,  "must  be  weakened 
by  such  a  practice.  A  philosopher  may  know 
that  it  is  merely  a  form  of  denial;  but  few 
servants  are  such  nice  distinguishers.  If  I  ac- 
custom a  servant  to  tell  a  lie  for  me,  have  I 
not  reason  to  apprehend  that  he  will  tell  many 
lies  for  himself?"  I  am,  however,  satisfied 
that  every  servant,  of  any  degree  of  intelli- 
gence, understands  saying  his  master  is  not  at 
home,  not  at  all  as  the  affirmation  of  a  fact, 
but  as  customary  words,  intimating  that  his 
master  wishes  not  to  be  seen;  so  that  there 
can  be  no  bad  effect  from  it. 

Mr.    Temple,    now    vicar    of    St.    Gluvias, 


Cornwall,  who  had  been  my  intimate  friend 
for  many  years,  had  at  this  time  chambers  in 
Farrar's  buildings,  at  the  bottom  of  inner 
Temple-lane,  which  he  kindly  lent  me  upon 
my  quitting  my  lodgings,  he  being  to  return 
to  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge.  I  found  them 
particularly  convenient  for  me,  as  they  were 
so  near  Dr.  Johnson's. 

On  Wednesday,  July  20,  Dr.  Johnson,  Mr. 
Dempster,  and  my  uncle.  Dr.  Boswell,  who 
happened  to  be  now  in  London,  supped  with 
me  at  these  chambers.  Johnson:  "Pity  is  not 
natural  to  man.  Children  are  always  cruel. 
Savages  are  always  cruel.  Pity  is  acquired 
and  improved  by  the  cultivation  of  reason. 
We  may  have  uneasy  sensations  from  seeing 
a  creature  in  distress,  without  pity:  for  we 
have  not  pity  unless  we  wish  to  relieve  them. 
When  I  am  on  my  way  to  dine  with  a  friend, 
and  finding  it  late,  have  bid  the  coachman 
make  haste,  if  I  happen  to  attend  when  he 
whips  his  horses,  I  may  feel  unpleasantly  that 
the  animals  are  put  to  pain,  but  I  do  not  wish 
him  to  desist.  No,  Sir,  I  wish  him  to  drive 
on." 

Mr.  Alexander  Donaldson,  bookseller  of 
Edinburgh,  had  for  some  time  opened  a  shop 
in  London,  and  sold  his  cheap  editions  of  the 
most  popular  English  books,  in  defiance  of 
the  supposed  common -law  right  of  Literary 
Property.  Johnson,  though  he  concurred  in 
the  opinion  which  was  afterwards  sanctioned 
by  a  judgment  of  the  House  of  Lords,  that 
there  was  no  such  right,  was  at  this  time 
very  angry  that  the  booksellers  of  London,  for 
whom  he  uniformly  professed  much  regard, 
should  suffer  from  an  invasion  of  what  they 
had  ever  considered  to  be  secure;  and  he 
was  loud  and  violent  against  Mr.  Donaldson. 
"He  is  a  fellow  who  takes  advantage  of  the 
law  to  injure  his  brethren;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing that  the  statute  secures  only  fourteen  years 
of  exclusive  right,  it  has  always  been  under- 
stood by  the  trade,  that  he  who  buys  the  copy- 
right of  a  book  from  the  author  obtains  a 
perpetual  property;  and  upon  that  belief,  num- 
berless bargains  are  made  to  transfer  that 
property  after  the  expiration  of  the  statutory 
term.  Now,  Donaldson,  I  say,  takes  ad- 
vantage here,  of  people  who  have  really  an 
equitable  title  from  usage;  and  if  we  consider 
how  few  of  the  books,  of  which  they  buy  the 
property,  succeed  so  well  as  to  bring  profit, 
we  should  be  of  opinion  that  the  term  of 
fourteen  years  is  too  short;  it  should  be  sixty 
years."   Dempster:  "Donaldson,  Sir,  is  anxious 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


285 


for  the  encouragement  of  literature.  He  re- 
duces the  price  of  books,  so  that  poor  students 
may  buy  them."  Johnson  (laughing) :  "Well, 
Sir,  allowing  that  to  be  his  motive,  he  is  no 
better  than  Robin  Hood,  who  robbed  the  rich 
in  order  to  give  to  the  poor." 

It  is  remarkable,  that  when  the  great  ques- 
tion concerning  Literary  Property  came  to  be 
ultimately  tried  before  the  supreme  tribunal 
of  this  country,  in  consequence  of  the  very 
spirited  exertions  of  Mr.  Donaldson,  Dr. 
Johnson  was  zealous  against  a  perpetuity; 
but  he  thought  that  the  term  of  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  authors  should  be  consideraljly 
enlarged.  He  was  then  for  granting  a  hun- 
dred years. 

The  conversation  now  turned  upon  Mr. 
David  Hume's  style.  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir, 
his  style  is  not  English;  the  structure  of  his 
sentences  is  French.  Now  the  French  struc- 
ture and  the  English  structure  may,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  be  equally  good.  But  if  you 
allow  that  the  English  language  is  established, 
he  is  wrong.  My  name  might  originally  have 
been  Nicholson,  as  well  as  Johnson;  but  were 
you  to  call  me  Nicholson  now,  you  would  call 
me  very  absurdly." 

Rousseau's  treatise  on  the  inequality  of 
mankind  was  at  this  time  a  fashionable  topic. 
It  gave  rise  to  an  observation  by  Mr.  Demp- 
ster, that  the  advantages  of  fortune  and  rank 
were  nothing  to  a  wise  man,  who  ought  to 
value  only  merit.  Johnson:  "If  man  were  a 
savage,  living  in  the  woods  by  himself,  this 
might  be  true;  but  in  civilised  society  we  all 
depend  upon  each  other  and  our  happiness  is 
very  much  owing  to  the  good  opinion  of  man- 
kind. Now,  Sir,  in  civilised  society,  external 
advantages  make  us  more  respected.  A  man 
with  a  good  coat  upon  his  back  meets  with  a 
better  reception  than  he  who  has  a  bad  one. 
Sir,  you  may  analyse  this  and  say  what  is  there 
in  it?  But  that  will  avail  you  nothing,  for  it 
is  part  of  a  general  system.  Pound  St.  Paul's 
church  into  atoms,  and  consider  any  single 
atom;  it  is,  to  be  sure,  good  for  nothing;  but 
put  all  these  atoms  together  and  you  have 
St.  Paul's  church.  So  it  is  with  human 
felicity,  which  is  made  up  of  many  ingredients, 
each  of  which  may  be  shown  to  be  very  in- 
significant. In  civilised  society  personal  merit 
will  not  serve  you  so  much  as  money  will. 
Sir,  you  may  make  the  experiment.  Go  into 
the  street  and  give  one  man  a  lecture  on 
morality  and  another  a  shilling,  and  see  which 
will  respect  you  most.     If  you  wish  only  to  sup- 


port nature.  Sir  William  Petty  fixes  your  allow- 
ance at  three  pounds  a  year;  but  as  times  are 
much  altered,  let  us  call  it  six  pounds.  This 
sum  will  fill  your  belly,  shelter  you  from  the 
weather,  and  even  get  you  a  strong  lasting 
coat,  supposing  it  to  be  made  of  good  bull's 
hide.  Now,  Sir,  all  beyond  this  is  artificial, 
and  is  desired  in  order  to  obtain  a  greater 
degree  of  respect  from  our  fellow-creatures. 
And,  Sir,  if  six  hundred  pounds  a  year  procure 
a  man  more  consequence,  and,  of  course,  more 
happiness  than  six  pounds  a  year,  the  same 
proportion  will  hold  as  to  six  thousand,  and 
so  on,  as  far  as  opulence  can  be  carried.  Per- 
haps he  who  has  a  large  fortune  may  not  be 
so  happy  as  he  who  has  a  small  one;  but  that 
must  proceed  from  other  causes  than  from  his 
having  the  large  fortune:  for,  caeteris  paribus, 
he  who  is  rich  in  a  civilised  society  must  be 
happier  than  he  who  is  poor;  as  riches,  if 
properly  used,  (and  it  is  a  man's  own  fault  if 
they  are  not,)  must  be  productive  of  the 
highest  advantages.  Money,  to  be  sure,  of 
itself  is  of  no  use:  for  its  only  use  is  to  part 
with  it.  Rousseau,  and  all  those  who  deal  in 
paradoxes,  are  led  away  by  a  childish  desire 
of  novelty.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  used  always 
to  choose  the  wrong  side  of  a  debate,  because 
most  ingenious  things,  that  is  to  say,  most  new 
things,  could  be  said  upon  it.  Sir,  there  is 
nothing  for  which  you  may  not  muster  up 
more  plausible  arguments  than  those  which 
are  urged  against  wealth  and  other  external 
advantages.  W^hy,  now,  there  is  stealing: 
why  should  it  be  thought  a  crime?  When 
we  consider  by  what  unjust  methods  property 
has  been  often  acquired,  and  that  what  was 
unjustly  got  it  must  be  unjust  to  keep,  where 
is  the  harm  in  one  man's  taking  the  property 
of  another  from  him?  Besides,  Sir,  when  we 
consider  the  bad  use  that  many  people  make 
of  their  property,  and  how  much  better  use 
the  thief  may  make  of  it,  it  may  be  defended 
as  a  very  allowable  practice.  Yet,  Sir,  the  ex- 
perience of  mankind  has  discovered  stealing 
to  be  so  very  bad  a  thing  that  they  make  no 
scruple  to  hang  a  man  for  it.  When  I  was 
running  about  this  town  a  very  poor  fellow,  I 
was  a  great  arguer  for  the  advantages  of 
poverty;  but  I  was,  at  the  same  time,  very 
sorry  to  be  poor.  Sir,  all  the  arguments 
which  are  brought  to  represent  poverty  as  no 
evil,  show  it  to  be  evidently  a  great  evil.  You 
never  find  people  labouring  to  convince  you 
that  you  may  live  very  happily  upon  a  plenti- 
ful fortune.  —  So  you  hear  people  talking  how 


286 


JAMES    BOS  WELL 


miserable  a  king  must  be,  and  yet  they  all 
wish  to  be  in  his  place." 

It  was  suggested  that  kings  must  be  un- 
happy, because  they  are  deprived  of  the 
greatest  of  all  satisfactions,  easy  and  unre- 
served society.  Johnson:  "This  is  an  ill- 
founded  notion.  Being  a  king  does  not  ex- 
clude a  man  from  such  society.  Great  kings 
have  always  been  social.  The  King  of  Prussia, 
the  only  great  king  at  present,  is  very  social. 
Charles  the  Second,  the  last  king  of  England 
who  was  a  man  of  parts,  was  social;  and  our 
Henrys  and  Edwards  were  all  social." 

Mr.  Dempster  having  endeavoured  to  main- 
tain that  intrinsic  merit  ought  to  make  the  only 
distinction  among  mankind.  Johnson:  "Why, 
Sir,  mankind  have  found  that  this  cannot  be. 
How  shall  we  determine  the  proportion  of 
intrinsic  merit?  Were  that  to  be  the  only 
distinction  amongst  mankind,  we  should  soon 
quarrel  about  the  degrees  of  it.  Were  all 
distinctions  abolished,  the  strongest  would  not 
long  acquiesce,  but  would  endeavour  to  obtain 
a  superiority  by  their  bodily  strength.  But, 
Sir,  as  subordination  is  very  necessary  for 
society,  and  contentions  for  superiority  very 
dangerous,  mankind,  that  is  to  say,  all  civilised 
nations,  have  settled  it  upon  a  plain  invariable 
principle.  A  man  is  born  to  hereditary  rank; 
or  his  being  appointed  to  certain  offices  gives 
him  a  certain  rank.  Subordination  tends 
greatly  to  human  happiness.  Were  we  all 
upon  an  equality,  we  should  have  no  other 
enjoyment  than  mere  animal  pleasure." 

I  said,  I  considered  distinction  or  rank  to 
be  of  so  much  importance  in  civilised  society, 
that  if  I  were  asked  on  the  same  day  to  dine 
with  the  first  duke  in  England,  and  with  the 
first  man  in  Britain  for  genius,  I  should  hesi- 
tate which  to  prefer.  Johnson:  "To  be  sure, 
Sir,  if  you  were  to  dine  only  once,  and  it  were 
never  to  be  known  where  you  dined,  you 
would  choose  rather  to  dine  with  the  first 
man  for  genius;  but  to  gain  most  respect,  you 
should  dine  with  the  first  duke  in  England. 
For  nine  people  in  ten  that  you  meet  with, 
would  have  a  higher  opinion  of  you  for  having 
dined  with  a  duke;  and  the  great  genius  him- 
self would  receive  you  better,  because  you  had 
been  with  the  great  duke." 

He  took  care  to  guard  himself  against  any 
possible  suspicion  that  his  settled  principles 
of  reverence  for  rank  and  respect  for  wealth 
were  at  all  owing  to  mean  or  interested  motives; 
for  he  asserted  his  own  independence  as  a 
literary  man.     "  No  man,"  said  he,  "  who  ever 


lived  by  literature,  has  lived  more  indepen- 
dently than  I  have  done."  He  said  he  had 
taken  longer  time  than  he  needed  to  have 
done  in  composing  his  Dictionary.  He  re- 
ceived our  compliments  upon  that  great  work 
with  complacency,  and  told  us  that  the  Academy 
delta  Crusca  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was 
done  by  one  man. 

Next  morning  I  found  him  alone,  and  have 
preserved  the  following  fragments  of  his  con- 
versation. Of  a  gentleman  who  was  men- 
tioned, he  said,  "I  have  not  met  with  any 
man  for  a  long  time  who  has  given  me  such 
general  displeasure.  He  is  totally  unfixed  in 
his  principles,  and  wants  to  puzzle  other 
people."  I  said  his  principles  had  been 
poisoned  by  a  noted  infidel  writer,  but  that 
he  was,  nevertheless,  a  benevolent,  good  man. 
Johnson:  "We  can  have  no  dependence  upon 
that  instinctive,  that  constitutional  goodness, 
which  is  not  founded  upon  principle.  I  grant 
you  that  such  a  man  may  be  a  very  amiable 
member  of  society.  I  can  conceive  him  placed 
in  such  a  situation  that  he  is  not  much  tempted 
to  deviate  from  what  is  right;  and  as  every 
man  prefers  virtue,  when  there  is  not  some 
strong  incitement  to  transgress  its  precepts,  I 
can  conceive  him  doing  nothing  wrong.  But 
if  such  a  man  stood  in  need  of  money,  I  should 
not  like  to  trust  him;  and  I  should  certainly 
not  trust  him  with  young  ladies,  for  there, 
there  is  always  temptation.  Hume,  and  other 
sceptical  innovators,  are  vain  men,  and  will 
gratify  themselves  at  any  expense.  Truth  will 
not  afford  sufficient  food  to  their  vanity:  so 
they  have  betaken  themselves  to  error.  Truth, 
Sir,  is  a  cow  which  will  yield  such  people  no 
more  milk,  and  so  they  are  gone  to  milk  the 
bull.  If  I  could  have  allowed  myself  to 
gratify  my  vanity  at  the  expense  of  truth, 
what  fame  might  I  have  acquired!  Every- 
thing which  Hume  has  advanced  against 
Christianity  had  passed  through  my  mind  long 
before  he  wrote.  Always  remember  this,  that 
after  a  system  is  well  settled  upon  positive 
evidence,  a  few  partial  objections  ought  not 
to  shake  it.  The  human  mind  is  so  limited, 
that  it  cannot  take  in  all  the  parts  of  a  sub- 
ject, so  that  there  may  be  objections  raised 
against  anything.  There  are  objections  against 
a  plemim,  and  objections  against  a  vacuum; 
yet  one  of  them  must  certainly  be  true." 

I  mentioned  Hume's  argument  against  the 
belief  of  miracles,  that  it  is  more  probable  that 
the  witnesses  to  the  truth  of  them  are  mistaken, 
or  speak  falsely,  than  that  the  miracles  should 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


287 


be  true.  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  the  great  dif- 
ficulty of  proving  miracles  should  make  us 
very  cautious  in  believing  them.  But  let  us 
consider;  although  God  has  made  Nature  to 
operate  by  certain  fixed  laws,  yet  it  is  not  un- 
reasonable to  think  that  he  may  suspend  those 
laws,  in  order  to  establish  a  system  highly 
advantageous  to  mankind.  Now  the  Chris- 
tian religion  is  a  most  beneficial  system,  as 
it  gives  us  light  and  certainty  where  we  were 
before  in  darkness  and  doubt.  The  miracles 
which  prove  it  are  attested  by  men  who  had 
no  interest  in  deceiving  us;  but  who,  on  the 
contrary,  were  told  that  they  should  suffer  per- 
secution, and  did  actually  lay  down  their  lives 
in  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  the  facts  which 
they  asserted.  Indeed,  for  some  centuries  the 
heathens  did  not  pretend  to  deny  the  miracles; 
but  said  they  were  performed  by  the  aid  of  evil 
spirits.  This  is  a  circumstance  of  great  weight. 
Then,  Sir,  when  we  take  the  proofs  derived 
from  prophecies  which  have  been  so  exactly 
fulfilled,  we  have  most  satisfactory  evidence. 
Supposing  a  miracle  possible,  as  to  which,  in 
my  opinion,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  we  have  as 
strong  evidence  for  the  miracles  in  support  of 
Christianity  as  the  nature  of  the  thing  admits." 

At  night,  Mr.  Johnson  and  I  supped  in  a 
private  room  at  the  Turk's  Head  coffee-house, 
in  the  Strand.  "I  encourage  this  house,"  said 
he,  "for  the  mistress  of  it  is  a  good  civil  woman, 
and  has  not  much  business." 

"  Sir,  I  love  the  acquaintance  of  young  people ; 
because,  in  the  first  place,  I  don't  like  to  think 
myself  growing  old.  In  the  next  place,  young 
acquaintances  must  last  longest,  if  they  do  last ; 
and  then.  Sir,  young  men  have  more  virtue 
than  old  men ;  they  have  more  generous  senti- 
ments in  every  respect.  I  love  the  young  dogs 
of  this  age;  they  have  more  wit  and  humour 
and  knowledge  of  life  than  we  had;  but  then 
the  dogs  are  not  so  good  scholars.  Sir,  in  my 
early  years  I  read  very  hard.  It  is  a  sad  re- 
flection, but  a  true  one,  that  I  knew  almost  as 
much  at  eighteen  as  I  do  now.  My  judgment, 
to  be  sure,  was  not  so  good,  but  I  had  all  the 
facts.  I  remember  very  well  when  I  was  at 
Oxford,  an  old  gentleman  said  to  me,  'Young 
man,  ply  your  book  diligently  now,  and  acquire 
a  stock  of  knowledge;  for  when  years  come 
upon  you,  you  will  find  that  poring  upon  books 
will  be  but  an  irksome  task.'  " 

This  account  of  his  reading,  given  by  him- 
self in  plain  words,  sufficiently  confirms  what  I 
have  already  advanced  upon  the  disputed  ques- 
tion as  to  his  application.     It  reconciles  any 


seeming  inconsistency  in  his  way  of  talking 
upon  it  at  different  times;  and  shows  that 
idleness  and  reading  hard  were  with  him  rela- 
tive terms,  the  import  of  which,  as  used  by  him, 
must  be  gathered  from  a  comparison  with  what 
scholars  of  different  degrees  of  ardour  and  as- 
siduity have  been  known  to  do.  And  let  it  be 
remembered  that  he  was  now  talking  sponta- 
neously, and  expressing  his  genuine  sentiments; 
whereas  at  other  times  he  might  be  induced  from 
his  spirit  of  contradiction,  or  more  properly  from 
his  love  of  argumentative  contest,  to  speak  lightly 
of  his  own  application  to  study.  It  is  pleasing 
to  consider  that  the  old  gentleman's  gloomy 
prophecy  as  to  the  irksomeness  of  books  to  men 
of  an  advanced  age,  which  is  too  often  fulfilled, 
was  so  far  from  being  verified  in  Johnson,  that 
his  ardour  for  literature  never  failed,  and  his 
last  writings  had  more  ease  and  vivacity  than 
any  of  his  earlier  productions. 

He  mentioned  to  me  now,  for  the  first  time, 
that  he  had  been  distressed  by  melancholy, 
and  for  that  reason  had  been  obliged  to  fly 
from  study  and  meditation,  to  the  dissipat- 
ing variety  of  life.  Against  melancholy  he 
recommended  constant  occupation  of  mind, 
a  great  deal  of  e.xercise,  moderation  in  eating 
and  drinking,  and  especially  to  shun  drinking 
at  night.  He  said  melancholy  people  were  apt 
to  fly  to  intemperance  for  relief,  but  that  it  sunk 
them  much  deeper  in  misery.  He  obser\'ed, 
that  labouring  men  who  work  hard,  and  live 
sparingly,  are  seldom  or  never  troubled  with 
low  spirits. 

He  again  insisted  on  the  duty  of  maintaining 
subordination  of  rank.  "Sir,  I  would  no  more 
deprive  a  nobleman  of  his  respect  than  of  his 
money.  I  consider  myself  as  acting  a  part  in 
the  great  system  of  society,  and  I  do  to  others 
as  I  would  have  them  do  to  me.  I  would 
behave  to  a  nobleman  as  I  should  expect  he 
would  behave  to  me,  were  I  a  nobleman,  and 
he  Sam.  Johnson.  Sir,  there  is  one  Mrs. 
Macaulay,  in  this  town,  a  great  republican. 
One  day  when  I  was  at  her  house,  I  put  on 
a  ver)'  grave  countenance,  and  said  to  her, 
'Madam,  I  am  now  become  a  convert  to  your 
way  of  thinking.  I  am  convinced  that  all  man- 
kind are  upon  an  equal  footing;  and  to  give 
you  an  unquestionable  proof.  Madam,  that  I 
am  in  earnest,  here  is  a  very  sensible,  civil,  well- 
behaved  fellow-citizen,  your  footman;  I  desire 
that  he  may  be  allowed  to  sit  down  and  dine 
with  us.'  I  thus.  Sir,  showed  her  the  absurdity 
of  the  levelling  doctrine.  She  has  never  liked 
me  since.     Sir,  your  levellers  wish  to  level  down 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


as  far  as  themselves;  but  they  cannot  bear 
levelling  up  to  themselves.  They  would  all 
have  some  people  under  them;  why  not  then 
have  some  people  above  them?" 

I  mentioned  a  certain  author  who  disgusted 
me  by  his  forwardness,  and  by  showing  no 
deference  to  noblemen  into  whose  company 
he  was  admitted.  Johnson:  "Suppose  a  shoe- 
maker should  claim  an  equality  with  him,  as  he 
does  with  a  lord :  how  he  would  stare.  '  Why, 
Sir,  do  you  stare?'  says  the  shoemaker,  'I  do 
great  service  to  society.  'Tis  true  I  am  paid 
for  doing  it;  but  so  are  you.  Sir;  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  it,  better  paid  than  I  am,  for  doing 
something  not  so  necessary.  For  mankind 
could  do  better  without  your  books  than  with- 
out my  shoes.'  Thus,  Sir,  there  would  be 
perpetual  struggle  for  precedence,  were  there 
no  fixed  invariable  rules  for  the  distinction  of 
rank,  which  creates  no  jealousy,  as  it  is  allowed 
to  be  accidental." 

He  said  Dr.  Joseph  Warton  was  a  very  agree- 
able man,  and  his  "Essay  on  the  Genius  and 
Writings  of  Pope"  a  very  pleasing  book.  I 
wondered  that  he  delayed  so  long  to  give  us 
the  continuation  of  it.  Johnson:  "Why, 
Sir,  I  suppose  he  finds  himself  a  little  disap- 
pointed in  not  having  been  able  to  persuade  the 
world  to  be  of  his  opinion  as  to  Pope." 

We  have  now  been  favoured  with  the  con- 
cluding volume,  in  which,  to  use  a  parliamen- 
tary expression,  he  has  explained,  so  as  not  to 
appear  quite  so  adverse  to  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  concerning  Pope,  as  was  at  first  thought;- 
and  we  must  all  agree  that  his  work  is  a  most 
valuable  accession  to  English  literature. 

A  writer  of  deserved  eminence  being  men- 
tioned, Johnson  said,  "Why,  Sir,  he  is  a  man 
of  good  parts,  but  being  originally  poor,  he  has 
got  a  love  of  mean  company  and  low  jocularity; 
a  very  bad  thing,  Sir.  To  laugh  is  good,  and 
to  talk  is  good.  But  you  ought  no  more  to 
think  it  enough  if  you  laugh,  than  you  are  to 
think  it  enough  if  you  talk.  You  may  laugh 
in  as  many  ways  as  you  talk ;  and  surely  every 
way  of  talking  that  is  practised  cannot  be 
esteemed." 

I  spoke  of  Sir  James  Macdonald  as  a  young 
man  of  most  distinguished  merit,  who  united 
the  highest  reputation  at  Eton  and  Oxford, 
with  the  patriarchal  spirit  of  a  great  Highland 
chieftain.  I  mentioned  that  Sir  James  had  said 
to  me,  that  he  had  never  seen  Mr.  Johnson, 
but  he  had  a  great  respect  for  him,  though 
at  the  same  time  it  was  mixed  with  some 
degree  of  terror.     Johnson:    "Sir,  if  he  were 


to  be  acquainted  with  me,  it  might  lessen 
both." 

The  mention  of  this  gentleman  led  us  to 
talk  of  the  W^estern  Islands  of  Scotland,  to 
visit  which  he  expressed  a  wish  that  then  ap- 
peared to  me  a  very  romantic  fancy,  which  I 
little  thought  would  be  afterwards  realised. 
He  told  me  that  his  father  had  put  Martin's 
account  of  those  islands  into  his  hands  when  he 
was  very  young,  and  that  he  was  highly  pleased 
with  it;  that  he  was  particularly  struck  with 
the  St.  Kilda  man's  notion  that  the  high  church 
of  Glasgow  had  been  hollowed  out  of  a  rock; 
a  circumstance  to  which  old  Mr.  Johnson  had 
directed  his  attention.  He  said  he  would  go 
to  the  Hebrides  with  me  when  I  returned  from 
my  travels,  unless  some  very  good  companion 
should  offer  when  I  was  absent,  which  he  did 
not  think  probable;  adding,  "There  are  few 
people  whom  I  take  so  much  to  as  you."  And 
when  I  talked  of  my  leaving  England,  he  said 
with  a  very  affectionate  air,  "My  dear  Boswell, 
I  should  be  very  unhappy  at  parting,  did  I 
think  we  were  not  to  meet  again."  I  cannot 
too  often  remind  my  readers,  that  although 
such  instances  of  his  kindness  are  doubtless 
very  flattering  to  me,  yet  I  hope  my  recording 
them  will  be  ascribed  to  a  better  motive  than  to 
vanity;  for  they  afford  unquestionable  evidence 
of  his  tenderness  and  complacency,  which  some, 
while  they  are  forced  to  acknowledge  his  great 
powers,  have  been  so  strenuous  to  deny. 

He  maintained  that  a  boy  at  school  was 
the  happiest  of  human  beings.  I  supported  a 
diff'erent  opinion,  from  which  I  have  never  yet 
varied,  that  a  man  is  happier;  and  I  enlarged 
upon  the  anxiety  and  sufferings  which  are 
endured  at  school.  Johnson:  "Ah,  Sir,  a 
boy's  being  flogged  is  not  so  severe  as  a  man's 
having  the  hiss  of  the  world  against  him.  Men 
have  a  solicitude  about  fame;  and  the  greater 
share  they  have  of  it,  the  more  afraid  they  are 
of  losing  it."  I  silently  asked  myself,  "Is  it 
possible  that  the  great  Samuel  Johnson  really 
entertains  any  such  apprehension,  and  is  not 
confident  that  his  exalted  fame  is  established 
upon  a  foundation  never  to  be  shaken?" 

He  this  evening  drank  a  bumper  to  Sir  David 
Dalrymple,  "as  a  man  of  worth,  a  scholar, 
and  a  wit."  "I  have,"  said  he,  "never  heard  of 
him,  except  from  you;  but  let  him  know  my 
opinion  of  him:  for  as  he  does  not  show  him- 
self much  in  the  world,  he  should  have  the 
praise  of  the  few  who  hear  of  him." 

On  Tuesday,  July  26,  I  found  Mr.  Johnson 
alone.      It  was  a  very  wet  day,  and  I  again 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


289 


complained  of  the  disagreeable  effects  of  such 
weather.  Johnson:  "Sir,  this  is  all  imagina- 
tion, which  physicians  encourage;  for  man 
lives  in  air  as  a  fish  lives  in  water;  so  that  if  the 
atmosphere  press  heavy  from  above,  there  is 
an  equal  resistance  from  below.  To  be  sure, 
bad  weather  is  hard  upon  people  who  are 
obliged  to  be  abroad;  and  men  cannot  labour 
so  well  in  the  open  air  in  bad  weather  as  in 
good;  but,  Sir,  a  smith,  or  a  tailor,  whose 
work  is  within  doors,  will  surely  do  as  much  in 
rainy  weather  as  in  fair.  Some  very  delicate 
frames,  indeed,  may  be  affected  by  wet  weather; 
but  not  common  constitutions." 

We  talked  of  the  education  of  children;  and 
I  asked  him  what  he  thought  was  best  to  teach 
them  first.  Johnson:  "Sir,  it  is  no  matter 
what  you  teach  them  first,  any  more  than  what 
leg  you  shall  put  into  your  breeches  first.  Sir, 
you  may  stand  disputing  which  is  best  to  put  in 
first,  but  in  the  meantime  your  breech  is  bare. 
Sir,  while  you  are  considering  which  of  two 
things  you  should  teach  your  child  first,  an- 
other boy  has  learned  them  both." 

On  Thursday,  July  28,  we  again  supped  in 
private  at  the  Turk's  Head  coffee-house.  John- 
son: "Swift  has  a  higher  reputation  than  he 
deserves.  His  excellence  is  strong  sense;  for 
his  humour,  though  very  well,  is  not  remark- 
ably good.  I  doubt  whether  the  'Tale  of  a 
Tub'  be  his;  for  he  never  owned  it,  and  it  is 
much  above  his  usual  manner." 

"Thomson,  I  think,  had  as  much  of  the  poet 
about  him  as  most  writers.  Everything  ap- 
peared to  him  through  the  medium  of  his 
favourite  pursuit.  He  could  not  have  viewed 
those  two  candles  burning  but  with  a  poetical 
eye." 

"Has  not  a  great  deal  of  wit.  Sir?" 

Johnson:  "I  do  not  think  so.  Sir.  He  is,  in- 
deed, continually  attempting  wit,  but  he  fails. 
And  I  have  no  more  pleasure  in  hearing  a 
man  attempting  wit  and  failing,  than  in  see- 
ing a  man  trying  to  leap  over  a  ditch  and 
tumbling  into  it." 

He  laughed  heartily  when  I  mentioned  to 
him  a  saying  of  his  concerning  Mr.  Thomas 
Sheridan,  which  Foote  took  a  wicked  pleasure 
to  circulate.  "Why,  Sir,  Sherry  is  dull,  nat- 
urally dull ;  but  it  must  have  taken  him  a  great 
deal  of  pains  to  become  what  we  now  see  him. 
Such  an  excess  of  stupidity,  Sir,  is  not  in  Na- 
ture."—  "So,"  said  he,  "I  allowed  him  all 
his  own  merit." 

He  now  added,  "Sheridan  cannot  bear  me. 
I  bring  his  declamation  to  a  point.     I  ask  him 


a  plain  question,  'What  do  you  mean  to  teach  ?' 
Besides,  Sir,  what  influence  can  Mr.  Sheridan 
have  upon  the  language  of  this  great  country, 
by  his  narrow  exertions?  Sir,  it  is  burning  a 
farthing  candle  at  Dover,  to  show  light  at 
Calais." 

Talking  of  a  young  man  who  was  uneasy 
from  thinking  that  he  was  very  deficient  in 
learning  and  knowledge,  he  said,  "A  man  has 
no  reason  to  complain  who  holds  a  middle 
place,  and  has  many  below  him ;  and  perhaps 
he  has  not  six  of  his  years  above  him;  —  per- 
haps not  one.  Though  he  may  not  know 
anything  perfectly,  the  general  mass  of  know- 
ledge that  he  has  acquired  is  considerable. 
Time  will  do  for  him  all  that  is  wanting." 

The  conversation  then  took  a  philosophical 
turn.  Johnson:  "Human  experience,  which 
is  constantly  contradicting  theory,  is  the  great 
test  of  truth.  A  system  built  upon  the  dis- 
coveries of  a  great  many  minds,  is  always  of 
more  strength,  than  what  is  produced  by  the 
mere  workings  of  any  one  mind,  which,  of  itself, 
can  do  little.  There  is  not  so  poor  a  book  in 
the  world  that  would  not  be  a  prodigious  effort 
were  it  wrought  out  entirely  by  a  single  mind, 
without  the  aid  of  prior  investigators.  The 
French  writers  are  superficial,  because  they  are 
not  scholars,  and  so  proceed  upon  the  mere 
power  of  their  own  minds;  and  we  see  how 
very  little  power  they  have." 

"As  to  the  Christian  religion.  Sir,  besides 
the  strong  evidence  which  we  have  for  it,  there 
is  a  balance  in  its  favour  from  the  number  of 
great  men  who  have  been  convinced  of  its 
truth,  after  a  serious  consideration  of  the 
question.  Grotius  was  an  acute  man,  a  lawyer, 
a  man  accustomed  to  examine  evidence,  and 
he  was  convinced.  Grotius  was  not  a  recluse, 
but  a  man  of  the  world,  who  certainly  had  no 
bias  to  the  side  of  religion.  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
set  out  an  infidel,  and  came  to  be  a  very  firm 
believer." 

He  this  evening  again  recommended  to  me 
to  perambulate  Spain.  I  said  it  would  amuse 
him  to  get  a  letter  from  me  dated  at  Salamanca. 
Johnson :  "I  love  the  University  of  Salamanca ; 
for  when  the  Spaniards  were  in  doubt  as  to 
the  lawfulness  of  their  conquering  America, 
the  University  of  Salamanca  gave  it  as  their 
opinion  that  it  was  not  lawful."  He  spoke 
this  with  great  emotion,  and  with  that  generous 
warmth  which  dictated  the  lines  in  his  "Lon- 
don," against  Spanish  encroachment. 

I  expressed  my  opinion  of  my  friend  Derrick 
as  but  a  poor  writer.     Johnson:   "To  be  sure, 


290 


JAMES    BOSWELL 


Sir,  he  is;  but  you  are  to  consider  that  his 
being  a  literary  man  has  got  for  him  all  that 
he  has.  It  has  made  him  king  of  Bath.  Sir, 
he  has  nothing  to  say  for  himself  but  that  he  is 
a  writer.  Had  he  not  been  a  writer,  he  must 
have  been  sweeping  the  crossings  in  the  streets, 
and  asking  halfpence  from  everybody  that 
passed." 

In  justice,  however,  to  the  memory  of  Mr. 
Derrick,  who  was  my  first  tutor  in  the  ways 
of  London,  and  showed  me  the  town  in  all 
its  variety  of  departments,  both  literary  and 
sportive,  the  particulars  of  which  Dr.  Johnson 
advised  me  to  put  in  writing,  it  is  proper  to 
mention  what  Johnson,  at  a  subsequent  period, 
said  of  him  both  as  a  writer  and  an  editor: 
"Sir,  I  have  often  said,  that  if  Derrick's  letters 
had  been  written  by  one  of  a  more  established 
name,  they  would  have  been  thought  very 
pretty  letters."  And  "I  sent  Derrick  to  Dry- 
den's  relations  to  gather  materials  for  his  life; 
and  I  believe  he  got  all  that  I  myself  should 
have  got." 

Poor  Derrick !  I  remember  him  with  kind- 
ness. Yet  I  cannot  withhold  from  my  readers 
a  pleasant  humorous  sally  which  could  not 
have  hurt  him  had  he  been  alive,  and  now  is 
perfectly  harmless.  In  his  collection  of  poems 
there  is  one  upon  entering  the  harbour  of 
Dublin,  his  native  city,  after  a  long  absence. 
It  begins  thus: 

"  Eblana  !  much  loved  city,  hail ! 

Where  first  I  saw  the  light  of  day." 

And  after  a  solemn  reflection  on  his  being 
"numbered  with  forgotten  dead,"  there  is  the 
following  stanza: 

"  Unless  my  lines  protract  my  fame, 

And  those,  who  chance  to  read  them,  cry, 
I  knew  him  !     Derrick  was  his  name, 
In  yonder  tomb  his  ashes  lie —  " 

which  was  thus  happily  parodied  by  Mr.  John 
Home,  to  whom  we  owe  the  beautiful  and 
pathetic  tragedy  of  "Douglas": 

"  Unless  my  deeds  protract  my  fame, 
And  he  who  passes  sadly  sings, 
I  knew  him  !     Derrick  was  his  name. 
On  yonder  tree  his  carcase  swings/" 

I  doubt  much  whether  the  amiable  and  in- 
genious author  of  these  burlesque  lines  will 
recollect  them;  for  they  were  produced  ex- 
tempore   one    evening  while  he   and  I  were 


walking  together  in  the  dining-room  at  Eglin- 
toune  Castle,  in  1760,  and  I  have  never  men- 
tioned them  to  him  since. 

Johnson  said  once  to  me,  "Sir,  I  honour 
Derrick  for  his  presence  of  mind.  One  night, 
when  Floyd,  another  poor  author,  was  wander- 
ing about  the  streets  in  the  night,  he  found 
Derrick  fast  asleep  upon  a  bulk;  upon  being 
suddenly  waked.  Derrick  started  up,  'My  dear 
Floyd,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  destitute 
state;  will  you  come  home  with  me  to  my 
lodgings?'" 

I  again  begged  his  advice  as  to  my  method 
of  study  at  Utrecht.  "Come,"  said  he,  "let  us 
make  a  day  of  it.  Let  us  go  down  to  Green- 
wich and  dine,  and  talk  of  it  there."  The 
following  Saturday  was  fixed  for  this  excursion. 

On  Saturday,  July  30,  Dr.  Johnson  and  I 
took  a  sculler  at  the  Temple-stairs,  and  set  out 
for  Greenwich.  I  asked  him  if  he  really 
thought  a  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
languages  an  essential  requisite  to  a  good  edu- 
cation. Johnson:  "Most  certainly,  Sir;  for 
those  who  know  them  have  a  very  great  ad- 
vantage over  those  who  do  not.  Nay,  Sir,  it 
is  wonderful  what  a  difference  learning  makes 
upon  people  even  in  the  common  intercourse 
of  life,  which  does  not  appear  to  be  much  con- 
nected with  it."  "And  yet,"  said  I,  "people 
go  through  the  world  very  well  and  carry  on 
the  business  of  life  to  good  advantage  without 
learning."  Johnson:  "Why,  Sir,  that  may  be 
true  in  cases  where  learning  cannot  possibly 
be  of  any  use;  for  instance,  this  boy  rows  us 
as  well  without  learning,  as  if  he  could  sing  the 
song  of  Orpheus  to  the  Argonauts,  who  were 
the  first  sailors."  He  then  called  to  the  boy, 
"What  would  you  give,  my  lad,  to  know  about 
the  Argonauts?"  "Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "I 
would  give  what  I  have."  Johnson  was  much 
pleased  with  his  answer,  and  we  gave  him  a 
double  fare.  Dr.  Johnson  then  turning  to  me, 
"Sir,"  said  he,  "a  desire  of  knowledge  is  the 
natural  feeling  of  mankind;  and  every  human 
being  whose  mind  is  not  debauched,  will  be 
willing  to  give  all  that  he  has  to  get  knowledge." 

We  landed  at  the  Old  Swan,  and  walked  to 
Billingsgate,  where  we  took  oars  and  moved 
smoothly  along  the  silver  Thames.  It  was  a 
very  fine  day.  We  were  entertained  with  the 
immense  number  and  variety  of  ships  that  were 
lying  at  anchor,  and  with  the  beautiful  country 
on  each  side  of  the  river. 

I  talked  of  preaching,  and  of  the  great 
success  which  those  called  methodists  have. 
Johnson:    "Sir,  it  is  owing  to  their  expressing 


THE    LIFE    OF    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


291 


themselves  in  a  plain  and  familiar  manner, 
which  is  the  only  way  to  do  good  to  the  com- 
mon people,  and  which  clergymen  of  genius 
and  learning  ought  to  do  from  a  principle  of 
duty,  when  it  is  suited  to  their  congregations; 
a  practice,  for  which  they  will  be  praised  by 
men  of  sense.  To  insist  against  drunkenness 
as  a  crime,  because  it  debases  reason,  the 
noblest  faculty  of  man,  would  be  of  no  service 
to  the  common  people,  but  to  tell  them  that 
they  may  die  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness  and  show 
them  how  dreadful  that  would  be,  cannot  fail 
to  make  a  deep  impression.  Sir,  when  your 
Scotch  clergy  give  up  their  homely  manner, 
religion  will  soon  decay  in  that  country."  Let 
this  observation,  as  Johnson  meant  it,  be  ever 
remembered. 

I  was  much  pleased  to  find  myself  with  John- 
son at  Greenwich,  which  he  celebrates  in  his 
"London"  as  a  favourite  scene.  I  had  the 
poem  in  my  pocket,  and  read  the  lines  aloud 
with  enthusiasm: 

"On  Thames's  banks  in  silent  thought  we  stood, 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver  flood; 
Pleased  with  the  scat  which  gave  Eliza  birth, 
We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth." 

He  remarked  that  the  structure  of  Green- 
wich hospital  was  too  magnificent  for  a  place 
of  charity,  and  that  its  parts  were  too  much  de- 
tached, to  make  one  great  whole. 

Buchanan,  he  said,  was  a  very  fine  poet; 
and  observed,  that  he  was  the  first  who  com- 
plimented a  lady,  by  ascribing  to  her  the  dif- 
ferent perfections  of  the  heathen  goddesses; 
but  that  Johnstone  improved  upon  this,  by 
making  his  lady,  at  the  same  time,  free  from 
their  defects. 

He  dwelt  upon  Buchanan's  elegant  verses 
to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Nympha  Calcdoniae, 
etc.,  and  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty 
of  Latin  verse.  "All  the  modern  languages," 
said  he,  "cannot  furnish  so  melodious  a  line  as 
'  Formosam  resonarc  doccs  A  mar  i  Hi  da  silvas.'" 

Afterwards  he  entered  upon  the  business  of 
the  day,  which  was  to  give  me  his  advice  as 
to  a  course  of  study.  And  here  I  am  to  men- 
tion with  much  regret,  that  my  record  of  what 
he  said  is  miserably  scanty.  I  recollect  with 
admiration  an  animating  blaze  of  eloquence, 
which  roused  every  intellectual  power  in  me  to 
the  highest  pitch,  but  must  have  dazzled  me  so 
much  that  my  memory  could  not  preserve  the 
substance  of  his  discourse;  for  the  note  which 
I  find  of  it  is  no  more  than  this:  —  "He  ran 
over  the  grand  scale   of  human   knowledge; 


advised  me  to  select  some  particular  branch  to 
e.xcel  in,  but  to  acquire  a  little  of  every  kind." 
The  defect  of  my  minutes  will  be  fully  supplied 
by  a  long  letter  upon  the  subject,  which  he 
favoured  me  with  after  I  had  been  some  time 
at  Utrecht,  and  which  my  readers  will  have  the 
pleasure  to  peruse  in  its  proper  place. 

We  walked,  in  the  evening,  in  Greenwich 
Park.  He  asked  me,  I  suppose,  by  way  of 
trying  my  disposition,  "Is  not  this  very  fine?" 
—  Having  no  exquisite  relish  of  the  beauties 
of  nature,  and  being  more  delighted  with  "the 
busy  hum  of  men,"  I  answered,  "Yes,  Sir,  but 
not  equal  to  Fleet-street."  Johnson:  "You 
are  right.  Sir." 

I  am  aware  that  many  of  my  readers  may 
censure  my  want  of  taste.  Let  me,  however, 
shelter  myself  under  the  authority  of  a  very 
fashionable  baronet  in  the  brilliant  world,  who, 
on  his  attention  being  called  to  the  fragrance  of 
a  May  evening  in  the  country,  observed,  "This 
may  be  very  well ;  but  for  my  part,  I  prefer 
the  smell    of  a  flambeau  at  the  playhouse." 

We  stayed  so  long  at  Greenwich,  that  our  sail 
up  the  river,  in  our  return  to  London,  was  by 
no  means  so  pleasant  as  in  the  morning;  for 
the  night  air  was  so  cold  that  it  made  me  shiver. 
I  was  the  more  sensible  of  it  from  having  sat 
up  all  the  night  before  recollecting  and  writing 
in  my  journal  what  I  thought  worthy  of  pres- 
ervation; an  exertion  which  during  the  first 
part  of  my  acquaintance  with  Johnson,  I  fre- 
quently made.  I  remember  having  sat  up 
four  nights  in  one  week,  without  being  much 
incommoded  in  the  day-time. 

Johnson,  whose  robust  frame  was  not  in  the 
least  affected  by  the  cold,  scolded  me,  as  if  my 
shivering  had  been  a  paltry  effeminacy,  say- 
ing, "Why  do  you  shiver?"  Sir  William 
Scott,  of  the  Commons,  told  me  that  when  he 
complained  of  a  headache  in  the  post-chaise, 
as  they  were  travelling  together  to  Scotland, 
Johnson  treated  him  in  the  same  manner: 
"At  your  age.  Sir,  I  had  no  headache."  It  is 
not  easy  to  make  allowance  for  sensations  in 
others,  which  we  ourselves  have  not  at  the  time. 
We  must  all  have  experienced  how  very  dif- 
ferently we  are  affected  by  the  complaints  of 
our  neighbours,  when  we  are  well,  and  when 
we  are  ill.  In  full  health,  we  can  scarcely 
believe  that  they  suffer  much;  so  faint  is  the 
image  of  pain  upon  our  imagination:  when 
softened  by  sickness,  we  readily  sympathise 
with  the  sufferings  of  others. 

We  concluded  the  day  at  the  Turk's  Head 
coffee-house  very  socially.     He  was  pleased  to 


292 


JUNIUS 


listen  to  a  particular  account  which  I  gave  him 
of  my  family,  and  of  its  hereditary  estate,  as  to 
the  extent  and  population  of  which  he  asked 
questions,  and  made  calculations;  recom- 
mending, at  the  same  time,  a  liberal  kindness 
to  the  tenantry,  as  people  over  whom  the  pro- 
prietor was  placed  by  Providence.  He  took 
delight  in  hearing  my  description  of  the  ro- 
mantic seat  of  my  ancestors.  "I  must  be  there. 
Sir,"  said  he,  "and  we  will  live  in  the  old  castle; 
and  if  there  is  not  a  room  in  it  remaining,  we 
will  build  one."  I  was  highly  flattered,  but 
could  scarcely  indulge  a  hope  that  Auchinleck 
would  indeed  be  honoured  by  his  presence, 
and  celebrated  by  a  description,  as  it  afterwards 
was,  in  his  "Journey  to  the  Western  Islands." 

After  we  had  again  talked  of  my  setting  out 
for  Holland,  he  said,  "I  must  see  thee  out  of 
England;  I  will  accompany  you  to  Harwich." 
I  could  not  find  words  to  express  what  I  felt 
upon  this  unexpected  and  very  great  mark  of 
his  affectionate  regard. 

Next  day,  Sunday,  July  3,  I  told  him  I  had 
been  that  morning  at  a  meeting  of  the  people 
called  Quakers,  where  I  had  heard  a  woman 
preach.  Johnson:  "Sir,  a  woman's  preach- 
ing is  like  a  dog's  walking  on  his  hind  legs.  It 
is  not  done  well;  but  you  are  surprised  to  find 
it  done  at  all." 

On  Tuesday,  August  2,  (the  day  of  my  de- 
parture from  London  having  been  fixed  for 
the  5th,)  Dr.  Johnson  did  me  the  honour  to 
pass  a  part  of  the  morning  with  me  at  my 
chambers.  He  said,  "that  he  always  felt  an 
inclination  to  do  nothing."  I  observed,  that 
it  was  strange  to  think  that  the  most  indolent 
man  in  Britain  had  written  the  most  laborious 
work,  "The  English  Dictionary." 

I  mentioned  an  imprudent  publication  by 
a  certain  friend  of  his,  at  an  early  period  of 
life,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  it  would  hurt 
him.  Johnson:  "No,  Sir;  not  much.  It  may 
perhaps  be  mentioned  at  an  election." 

I  had  now  made  good  my  title  to  be  a  privi- 
leged man,  and  was  carried  by  him  in  the  eve- 
ning to  drink  tea  with  Miss  Williams,  whom, 
though  under  the  misfortune  of  having  lost  her 
sight,  I  found  to  be  agreeable  in  conversation, 
for  she  had  a  variety  of  literature,  and  expressed 
herself  well;  but  her  peculiar  value  was  the 
intimacy  in  which  she  had  long  lived  with  John- 
son, by  which  she  was  well  acquainted  with  his 
habits,  and  knew  how  to  lead  him  on  to  talk. 

After  tea  he  carried  me  to  what  he  called  his 
walk,  which  was  a  long  narrow  paved  court 
in  the  neighbourhood,  overshadowed  by  some 


trees.  There  we  sauntered  a  considerable 
time,  and  I  complained  to  him  that  my  love 
of  London  and  of  his  company  was  such,  that 
I  shrunk  almost  from  the  thought  of  going 
away  even  to  travel,  which  is  generally  so  much 
desired  by  young  men.  He  roused  me  by 
manly  and  spirited  conversation.  He  advised 
me,  when  settled  in  any  place  abroad,  to  study 
with  an  eagerness  after  knowledge,  and  to 
apply  to  Greek  an  hour  every  day;  and  when 
I  was  moving  about,  to  read  diligently  the  great 
book  of  mankind. 

On  Wednesday,  August  3,  we  had  our  last 
social  evening  at  the  Turk's  Head  coffee-house, 
before  my  setting  out  for  foreign  parts.  I  had 
the  misfortune,  before  we  parted  to  irritate 
him  unintentionally.  I  mentioned  to  him  how 
common  it  was  in  the  world  to  tell  absurd 
stories  of  him,  and  to  ascribe  to  him  very  strange 
sayings.  Johnson:  "What  do  they  make  me 
say.  Sir?"  Boswell:  "Why,  Sir,  as  an  in- 
stance very  strange  indeed,"  laughing  heartily 
as  I  spoke,  "  David  Hume  told  me,  you  said  that 
you  would  stand  before  a  battery  of  cannon  to 
restore  the  Convocation  to  its  full  powers." 
Little  did  I  apprehend  that  he  had  actually 
said  this:  but  I  was  soon  convinced  of  my 
error;  for,  with  a  determined  look  he  thundered 
out,  "And  would  I  not.  Sir?  Shall  the  Pres- 
byterian Kirk  of  Scotland  have  its  General 
Assembly,  and  the  Church  of  England  be 
denied  its  Convocation?"  He  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  room  while  I  told  him  the 
anecdote;  but,  when  he  uttered  this  explosion 
of  high-church  zeal  he  had  come  close  to  my 
chair,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  indignation. 
I  bowed  to  the  storm,  and  diverted  the  force  of 
it,  by  leading  him  to  expatiate  on  the  influence 
which  religion  derived  from  maintaining  the 
church  with  great  external  respectability. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  he  this  year 
wrote  "The  Life  of  Ascham,"  and  the  Dedica- 
tion to  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  prefixed  to  the 
edition  of  that  writer's  English  works,  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  Bennet. 

JUNIUS     [  ?    SIR    PHILIP    FRANCIS 

(1740-1818)] 

LETTER   XII 

TO   HIS   GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  GRAFTON 

May  30,  1769. 
My  Lord, 

If  the  measures  in  which  you  have  been  most 
successful  had  been  supported  by  any  tolerable 


TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  GRAFTON 


293 


appearance  of  argument,  I  should  have  thought 
my  time  not  ill  employed  in  continuing  to  ex- 
amine your  conduct  as  a  minister,  and  stating 
it  fairly  to  the  public.  But  when  I  see  ques- 
tions, of  the  highest  national  importance,  carried 
as  they  have  been,  and  the  first  principles  of 
the  constitution  openly  violated  without  argu- 
ment or  decency,  I  confess  I  give  up  the  cause 
in  despair.  The  meanest  of  your  predecessors 
had  abilities  sufficient  to  give  a  colour  to  their 
measures.  If  they  invaded  the  rights  of  the 
people,  they  did  not  dare  to  offer  a  direct 
insult  to  their  understanding;  and,  in  former 
times,  the  most  venal  parliaments  made  it  a 
condition,  in  their  bargain  with  the  minister, 
that  he  should  furnish  them  with  some  plausible 
pretences  for  selling  their  country  and  them- 
selves. You  have  had  the  merit  of  introducing 
a  more  compendious  system  of  government 
and  logic.  You  neither  address  yourself  to 
the  passions  nor  to  the  understanding,  but 
simply  to  the  touch.  You  apply  yourself  im- 
mediately to  the  feelings  of  your  friends  who, 
contrary  to  the  forms  of  parliament,  never  enter 
heartily  into  a  debate  until  they  have  divided. 
Relinquishing,  therefore,  all  idle  views  of 
amendment  to  your  Grace,  or  of  benefit  to  the 
public,  let  me  be  permitted  to  consider  your 
character  and  conduct  merely  as  a  subject  of 
curious  speculation.  There  is  something  in 
both,  which  distinguishes  you  not  only  from  all 
other  ministers,  but  all  other  men.  It  is  not 
that  you  do  wrong  by  design,  but  that  you 
should  never  do  right  by  mistake.  It  is  not 
that  your  indolence  and  your  activity  have  been 
equally  misapplied,  but  that  the  first  uniform 
principle,  or,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  the  genius  of 
your  life,  should  have  carried  you  through  every 
possible  change  and  contradiction  of  conduct 
without  the  momentary  imputation  or  colour 
of  a  virtue,  and  that  the  wildest  spirit  of  incon- 
sistency should  never  once  have  betrayed  you 
into  a  wise  or  honourable  action.  This,  I  own, 
gives  an  air  of  singularity  to  your  fortune,  as 
well  as  to  your  disposition.  Let  us  look  back 
together  to  a  scene  in  which  a  mind  like  yours 
will  find  nothing  to  repent  of.  I^et  us  try,  my 
Lord,  how  well  you  have  supported  the  various 
relations  in  which  you  stood,  to  your  sovereign, 
your  country,  your  friends,  and  yourself.  Give 
us,  if  it  be  possible,  some  excuse  to  posterity, 
and  to  ourselves,  for  submitting  to  your  admin- 
istration. If  not  the  abilities  of  a  great  minister, 
if  not  the  integrity  of  a  patriot,  or  the  fidelity 
of  a  friend,  show  us,  at  least,  the  firmness  of  a 
man.     For  the  sake  of  your  mistress,  the  lover 


shall  be  spared.  I  will  not  lead  her  into  public 
as  you  have  done,  nor  will  I  insult  the  memory 
of  departed  beauty.  Her  sex,  which  alone 
made  her  amiable  in  your  eyes,  makes  her 
respectable    in    mine. 

The  character  of  the  reputed  ancestors  of 
some  men  has  made  it  possible  for  their  de- 
scendants to  be  vicious  in  the  extreme  without 
being  degenerate.  Those  of  your  Grace,  for 
instance,  left  no  distressing  examples  of  virtue 
even  to  their  legitimate  posterity,  and  you  may 
look  back  with  pleasure  to  an  illustrious  pedi- 
gree in  which  heraldry  has  not  left  a  single  good 
quality  upon  record  to  insult  or  upbraid  you. 
You  have  better  proofs  of  your  descent,  my 
Lord,  than  the  register  of  a  marriage,  or  any 
troublesome  inheritance  of  reputation.  There 
are  some  hereditary  strokes  of  character  by 
which  a  family  may  be  as  clearly  distinguished 
as  by  the  blackest  features  of  the  human  face. 
Charles  the  First  lived  and  died  a  hypocrite. 
Charles  the  Second  was  a  hypocrite  of  another 
sort,  and  should  have  died  upon  the  same 
scaffold.  At  the  distance  of  a  century  we  see 
their  different  characters  happily  revived  and 
blended  in  your  Grace.  Sullen  and  severe 
without  religion,  profligate  without  gaiety, 
you  live  like  Charles  II.  without  being  an 
amiable  companion,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
may  die  as  his  father  did  without  the  reputation 
of  a  martyr. 

You  had  already  taken  your  degrees  with 
credit  in  those  schools  in  which  the  English 
nobility  are  formed  to  virtue  when  you  were 
introduced  to  Lord  Chatham's  protection. 
From  Newmarket,  White's,  and  the  Opposition, 
he  gave  you  to  the  world  with  an  air  of  popu- 
larity which  young  men  usually  set  out  with 
and  seldom  preserve  —  grave  and  plausible 
enough  to  be  thought  fit  for  business,  too  young 
for  treachery,  and,  in  short,  a  patriot  of  no 
unpromising  expectations.  Lord  Chatham  was 
the  earliest  object  of  your  political  wonder  and 
attachment.  Yet  you  deserted  him  upon  the 
first  hopes  that  offered  of  an  equal  share  of 
power  with  Lord  Rockingham.  When  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland's  first  negotiation  failed, 
and  when  the  favourite  was  pushed  to  the  last 
extremity,  you  saved  him,  by  joining  with 
an  administration  in  which  Lord  Chatham 
had  refused  to  engage.  Still,  however,  he  was 
your  friend,  and  you  are  yet  to  explain  to  the 
world,  why  you  consented  to  act  without  him, 
or  why,  after  uniting  with  Lord  Rockingham, 
you  deserted  and  betrayed  him.  You  com- 
plained that  no  measures  were  taken  to  satisfy 


294 


JUNIUS 


your  patron,  and  that  your  friend,  Mr.  Wilkes, 
who  had  suffered  so  much  for  the  party,  had 
been  abandoned  to  his  fate.  They  have  since 
contributed  not  a  little  to  your  present  pleni- 
tude of  power;  yet  I  think  Lord  Chatham 
has  less  reason  than  ever  to  be  satisfied;  and 
as  for  Mr.  Wilkes,  it  is,  perhaps,  the  greatest 
misfortune  of  his  life,  that  you  should  have  so 
many  compensations  to  make  in  the  closet  for 
your  former  friendship  with  him.  Your  gra- 
cious master  understands  your  character,  and 
makes  you  a  persecutor,  because  you  have  been 
a  friend. 

Lord  Chatham  formed  his  last  administra- 
tion upon  principles  which  you  certainly  con- 
curred in,  or  you  could  never  have  been  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  treasury.  By  deserting  those 
principles,  and  by  acting  in  direct  contradiction 
-to  them,  in  which  he  found  you  were  secretly 
supported  in  the  closet,  you  soon  forced  him 
to  leave  you  to  yourself,  and  to  withdraw  his 
name  from  an  administration  which  had  been 
form.ed  on  the  credit  of  it.  You  had  then  a 
prospect  of  friendships  better  suited  to  your 
genius  and  more  likely  to  fix  your  disposition. 
Marriage  is  the  point  on  which  every  rake  is 
stationary  at  last ;  and  truly,  my  Lord,  you  may 
well  be  weary  of  the  circuit  you  have  taken, 
for  you  have  now  fairly  travelled  through  every 
sign  in  the  political  zodiac,  from  the  Scorpion, 
in  which  you  stung  Lord  Chatham,  to  the  hopes 
of  a  Virgin  in  the  house  of  Bloomsbury.  One 
would  think  that  you  had  had  sufficient  ex- 
perience of  the  frailty  of  nuptial  engagements, 
or,  at  least,  that  such  a  friendship  as  the  Duke 
of  Bedford's  might  have  been  secured  to  you 
by  the  auspicious  marriage  of  your  late  Duchess 
with  his  nephew.  But  ties  of  this  tender  nature 
cannot  be  drawn  too  close;  and  it  may,  pos- 
sibly, be  a  part  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  am- 
bition, after  making  her  an  honest  woman,  to 
work  a  miracle  of  the  same  sort  upon  your 
Grace.  This  worthy  nobleman  has  long  dealt 
in  virtue.  There  has  been  a  large  consump- 
tion of  it  in  his  own  family;  and,  in  the  way 
of  traffic,  I  dare  say  he  has  bought  and  sold 
more  than  half  the  representative  integrity 
of  the  nation. 

In  a  political  view  this  union  is  not  imprudent. 
The  favour  of  princes  is  a  perishable  com- 
modity. You  have  now  a  strength  sufficient 
to  command  the  closet ;  and,  if  it  be  necessary 
to  betray  one  friendship  more,  you  may  set 
even  Lord  Bute  at  defiance.  Mr.  Stuart 
Mackenzie  may  possibly  remember  what  use 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  usually  makes  of  his 


power ;  and  our  gracious  sovereign,  I  doubt  not, 
rejoices  at  this  first  appearance  of  union  among 
his  servants.  His  late  majesty,  under  the  happy 
influence  of  a  family  connection  between  his 
ministers,  was  relieved  from  the  cares  of  gov- 
ernment. A  more  active  prince  may  perhaps 
observe  with  suspicion  by  what  degrees  an  artful 
servant  grows  upon  his  master,  from  the  first 
unlimited  professions  of  duty  and  attachment 
to  the  painful  representation  of  the  necessity 
of  the  royal  service,  and  soon,  in  regular  pro- 
gression, to  the  humble  insolence  of  dictating 
in  all  the  obsequious  forms  of  peremptory  sub- 
mission. The  interval  is  carefully  employed 
in  forming  connections,  creating  interests,  col- 
lecting a  party,  and  laying  the  foundation 
of  double  marriages;  until  the  deluded  prince 
who  thought  he  had  found  a  creature  prosti- 
tuted to  his  service,  and  insignificant  enough  to 
be  always  dependent  upon  his  pleasure,  finds 
him  at  last  too  strong  to  be  commanded  and 
too  formidable  to  be  removed. 

Your  Grace's  public  conduct  as  a  minister 
is  but  the  counterpart  of  your  private  history; 
- —  the  same  inconsistency,  the  same  contra- 
dictions. In  America  we  trace  you  from  the 
first  opposition  to  the  Stamp  Act  on  principles 
of  convenience,  to  Mr.  Pitt's  surrender  of  the 
right;  then  forward  to  Lord  Rockingham's 
surrender  of  the  fact ;  then  back  again  to  Lord 
Rockingham's  declaration  of  the  right;  then 
forward  to  taxation  with  Mr.  Townshend ;  and, 
in  the  last  instance,  from  the  gentle  Conway's 
undetermined  discretion  to  blood  and  com- 
pulsion with  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  Yet,  if 
we  may  believe  the  simplicity  of  Lord  North's 
eloquence,  at  the  opening  of  next  session  you 
are  once  more  to  be  the  patron  of  America. 
Is  this  the  wisdom  of  a  great  minister?  or  is 
it  the  ominous  vibration  of  a  pendulum  ?  Had 
you  no  opinion  of  your  own,  my  Lord?*  or  was 
it  the  gratification  of  betraying  every  party 
with  which  you  have  been  united,  and  of 
deserting  every  political  principle  in  which 
you  had  concurred? 

Your  enemies  may  turn  their  eyes  without 
regret  from  this  admirable  system  of  provincial 
government.  They  will  find  gratification 
enough  in  the  survey  of  your  domestic 
foreign  policy. 

If,  instead  of  disowning  Lord  Shelburne, 
the  British  court  had  interposed  with  dignity 
and  firmness,  you  know,  my  Lord,  that  Corsica 
would  never  have  been  invaded.  The  French 
saw  the  weakness  of  a  distracted  ministry,  and 
were  justified  in  treating  you  with  contempt. 


TO    HIS    GRACE    THE    DUKE    OF    GRAFTON 


295 


They  would  probably  have  yielded  in  the  first 
instance,  rather  than  hazard  a  rupture  with  this 
country;  but,  being  once  engaged,  they  can- 
not retreat  without  dishonour.  Common  sense 
foresees  consequences  which  have  escaped  your 
Grace's  penetration.  Either  we  suflfer  the 
French  to  make  an  acquisition,  the  importance 
of  which  you  have  probably  no  conception  of, 
or  we  oppose  them  by  an  underhand  manage- 
ment, which  only  disgraces  us  in  the  eyes  of 
Europe,  without  answering  any  purpose  of 
policy  or  prudence.  From  secret,  indirect 
assistance,  a  transition  to  some  more  open 
decisive  measures  becomes  unavoidable;  till 
at  last  we  find  ourselves  principals  in  the  war, 
and  are  obliged  to  hazard  everything  for  an 
object  which  might  have  originally  been  ob- 
tained without  expense  or  danger.  I  am  not 
versed  in  the  politics  of  the  north;  but  this, 
I  believe,  is  certain,  that  half  the  money  you 
have  distributed  to  carry  the  expulsion  of  Air. 
Wilkes,  or  even  your  secretary's  share  in  the 
last  subscription,  would  have  kept  the  Turks 
at  your  devotion.  Was  it  economy,  my  Lord? 
or  did  the  coy  resistance  you  have  constantly 
met  with  in  the  British  senate,  make  you  de- 
spair of  corrupting  the  Divan?  Your  friends, 
indeed,  have  the  first  claim  upon  your  bounty, 
but  if  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  can  be  spared 
in  pension  to  Sir  John  Moore,  it  would  not  have 
disgraced  you  to  have  allowed  something  to 
the  secret  service  of  the  public. 

You  will  say  perhaps  that  the  situation  of 
affairs  at  home  demanded  and  engrossed  the 
whole  of  your  attention.  Here,  I  confess,  you 
have  been  active.  An  amiable,  accomplished 
prince  ascends  the  throne  under  the  happiest 
of  all  auspices  —  the  acclamations  and  united 
affections  of  his  subjects.  The  first  measures 
of  his  reign,  and  even  the  odium  of  a  favourite, 
were  not  able  to  shake  their  attachment.  Your 
services,  my  Lord,  have  been  more  successful. 
Since  you  were  permitted  to  take  the  lead  we 
have  seen  the  natural  effects  of  a  system  of 
government  at  once  both  odious  and  contempt- 
ible. We  have  seen  the  laws  sometimes  scan- 
dalously relaxed,  sometimes  violently  stretched 
beyond  their  tone.  We  have  seen  the  sacred 
person  of  the  sovereign  insulted;  and,  in  pro- 
found peace,  and  with  an  undisputed  title,  the 
fidelity  of  his  subjects  brought  by  his  own 
servants  into  public  question.  Without  abili- 
ties, resolution,  or  interest,  you  have  done  more 
than  Lord  Bute  could  accomplish  with  all 
Scotland  at  his  heels. 

Your  Grace,  little  anxious  perhaps  either  for 


present  or  future  reputation,  will  not  desire  to 
be  handed  down  in  these  colours  to  posterity. 
You  have  reason  to  flatter  yourself  that  the 
memory  of  your  administration  will  survive 
even  the  forms  of  a  constitution  which  our 
ancestors  vainly  hoped  would  be  immortal; 
and  as  for  your  personal  character  I  will  not, 
for  the  honour  of  human  nature,  suppose  that 
you  can  wish  to  have  it  remembered.  The 
condition  of  the  present  times  is  desperate 
indeed;  but  there  is  a  debt  due  to  those  who 
come  after  us,  and  it  is  the  historian's  office 
to  punish  though  he  cannot  correct.  I  do  not 
give  you  to  posterity  as  a  pattern  to  imitate, 
but  as  an  example  to  deter;  and,  as  your  con- 
duct comprehends  everything  that  a  wise  or  hon- 
est minister  should  avoid,  I  mean  to  make  you  a 
negative  instruction  to  your  successors  forever. 

Junius. 

•      LETTER  XV 

TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  GRAFTON 

July  8,  1769. 
My  Lord, 

If  nature  had  given  you  an  understanding 
qualified  to  keep  pace  with  the  wishes  and 
principles  of  your  heart,  she  would  have  made 
you,  perhaps,  the  most  formidable  minister 
that  ever  was  employed  under  a  limited  mon- 
arch to  accomplish  the  ruin  of  a  free  people. 
When  neither  the  feelings  of  shame,  the  re- 
proaches of  conscience,  nor  the  dread  of  punish- 
ment, form  any  bar  to  the  designs  of  a  minister, 
the  people  would  have  too  much  reason  to 
lament  their  condition,  if  they  did  not  find 
some  resource  in  the  weakness  of  his  under- 
standing. We  owe  it  to  the  bounty  of  Provi- 
dence, that  the  completest  depravity  of  the  heart 
is  sometimes  strangely  united  with  a  confusion 
of  the  mind  which  counteracts  the  most  fa- 
vourite principles,  and  makes  the  same  man 
treacherous  without  art,  and  a  hypocrite  with- 
out deceiving.  The  measures,  for  instance,  in 
which  your  Grace's  activity  has  been  chiefly 
exerted,  as  they  were  adopted  without  skill, 
should  have  been  conducted  with  more  than 
common  dexterity.  But  truly,  my  Lord,  the 
execution  has  been  as  gross  as  the  design.  By 
one  decisive  step  you  have  defeated  all  the  arts 
of  writing.  You  have  fairly  confounded  the 
intrigues  of  opposition,  and  silenced  the 
clamours  of  faction.  A  dark,  ambiguous  sys- 
tem might  require  and  furnish  the  materials 
of    ingenious   illustration;     and,    in    doubtful 


296 


JUNIUS 


measures,  the  virulent  exaggeration  of  party 
must  be  employed  to  rouse  and  engage  the 
passions  of  the  people.  You  have  now  brought 
the  merits  of  your  administration  to  an  issue 
on  which  every  Englishman  of  the  narrowest 
capacity  may  determine  for  himself.  It  is  not 
an  alarm  to  the  passions,  but  a  calm  appeal  to 
the  judgment  of  the  people  upon  their  own  most 
essential  interests.  A  more  experienced  min- 
ister would  not  have  hazarded  a  direct  invasion 
of  the  first  principles  of  the  constitution  before 
he  had  made  some  progress  in  subduing  the 
spirit  of  the  people.  With  such  a  cause  as 
yours,  my  Lord,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  you  have 
the  court  at  your  devotion  unless  you  can  find 
means  to  corrupt  or  intimidate  the  jury.  The 
collective  body  of  the  people  form  that  jury, 
and  from  their  decision  there  is  but  one  appeal. 

Whether  you  have  talents  to  support  you  at 
a  crisis  of  such  difficulty  and  danger  should  long 
since  have  been  considered.  Judging  truly  of 
your  disposition,  you  have,  perhaps,  mistaken 
the  extent  of  your  capacity.  Good  faith  and 
folly  have  so  long  been  received  for  synony- 
mous terms,  that  the  reverse  of  the  proposition 
has  grown  into  credit,  and  every  villain  fancies 
himself  a  man  of  abiliLies.  It  is  the  appre- 
hension of  your  friends,  my  Lord,  that  you  have 
drawn  some  hasty  conclusion  of  this  sort,  and 
that  a  partial  reliance  upon  your  moral  char- 
acter has  betrayed  you  beyond  the  depth  of 
your  understanding.  You  have  now  carried 
things  too  far  to  retreat.  You  have  plainly 
declared  to  the  people  what  they  are  to  expect 
from  the  continuance  of  your  administration. 
It  is  time  for  your  Grace  to  consider  what  you 
also  may  expect  in  return  from  their  spirit  and 
their  resentment. 

Since  the  accession  of  our  most  gracious 
sovereign  to  the  throne  we  have  seen  a  system 
of  government  which  may  well  be  called  a  reign 
of  experiments.  Parties  of  all  denominations 
have  been  employed  and  dismissed.  The  ad- 
vice of  the  ablest  men  in  this  country  has 
been  repeatedly  called  for  and  rejected;  and 
when  the  royal  displeasure  has  been  signified 
to  a  minister,  the  marks  of  it  have  usually  been 
proportioned  to  his  abilities  and  integrity.  The 
spirit  of  the  favourite  had  some  apparent  in- 
fluence upon  every  administration:  and  every 
set  of  ministers  preserved  an  appearance  of 
duration,  as  long  as  they  submitted  to  that 
influence.  But  there  were  certain  services  to 
be  performed  for  the  favourite's  security,  or  to 
gratify  his  resentments,  which  your  predecessors 
in  office  had  the  wisdom  or  the  virtue  not  to 


undertake.  The  moment  this  refractory  spirit 
was  discovered  their  disgrace  was  determined. 
Lord  Chatham,  Mr.  Grenville,  and  Lord 
Rockingham  have  successively  had  the  hon- 
our to  be  dismissed  for  preferring  their  duty 
as  servants  of  the  pubhc  to  those  compliances 
which  were  expected  from  their  station.  A 
submissive  administration  was  at  last  gradu- 
ally collected  from  the  deserters  of  all  parties, 
interests,  and  connections;  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  to  find  a  leader  for  these  gallant 
well-disciplined  troops.  Stand  forth,  my  Lord, 
for  thou  art  the  man.  Lord  Bute  found  no 
resource  of  dependence  or  security  in  the  proud, 
imposing  superiority  of  Lord  Chatham's 
abilities,  the  shrewd,  inflexible  judgment  of 
Mr.  Grenville,  nor  in  the  mild  but  determined 
integrity  of  Lord  Rockingham.  His  views 
and  situation  required  a  creature  void  of  all 
these  properties;  and  he  was  forced  to  go 
through  every  division,  resolution,  composition, 
and  refinement  of  political  chemistry,  before 
he  happily  arrived  at  the  caput  mortuum  of 
vitriol  in  your  Grace.  Flat  and  insipid  in  your 
retired  state,  but,  brought  into  action,  you 
become  vitriol  again.  Such  are  the  extremes 
of  alternate  indolence  or  fury  which  have  gov- 
erned your  whole  administration.  Your  cir- 
cumstances with  regard  to  the  people  soon 
becoming  desperate,  like  other  honest  servants 
you  determined  to  involve  the  best  of  masters 
in  the  same  difficulties  with  yourself.  We  owe 
it  to  your  Grace's  well-directed  labours,  that 
your  sovereign  has  been  persuaded  to  doubt  of 
the  affections  of  his  subjects,  and  the  people 
to  suspect  the  virtues  of  their  sovereign,  at 
a  time  when  both  were  unquestionable.  You 
have  degraded  the  royal  dignity  into  a  base, 
dishonourable  competition  with  Mr.  Wilkes, 
nor  had  you  abilities  to  carry  even  this  last  con- 
temptible triumph  over  a  private  man,  without 
the  grossest  violation  of  the  fundamental  laws 
of  the  constitution  and  rights  of  the  people. 
But  these  are  rights,  my  Lord,  which  you  can  no 
more  annihilate  than  you  can  the  soil  to  which 
they  are  annexed.  The  question  no  longer 
turns  upon  points  of  national  honour  and  se- 
curity abroad,  or  on  the  degrees  of  expedience 
and  propriety  of  measures  at  home.  It  was 
not  inconsistent  that  you  should  abandon  the 
cause  of  liberty  in  another  country,  which  you 
had  persecuted  in  your  own ;  and  in  the  com- 
mon arts  of  domestic  corruption,  we  miss  no 
part  of  Sir  Robert  W^alpole's  system  except  his 
abilities.  In  this  humble  imitative  line  you 
might  long  have  proceeded,  safe  and  contempt- 


TO  HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  GRAFTON 


297 


ib!e.  You  might,  probably,  never  have  risen  to 
the  dignity  of  being  hated,  and  even  have  been 
despised  with  moderation.  But  it  seems  you 
meant  to  be  distinguished,  and,  to  a  mind  hke 
yours,  there  was  no  other  road  to  fame  but  by 
the  destruction  of  a  noble  fabric,  which  you 
thought  had  been  too  long  the  admiration  of 
mankind.  The  use  you  have  made  of  the 
military  force  introduced  an  alarming  change 
in  the  mode  of  executing  the  laws.  The  arbi- 
trary appointment  of  Mr.  Luttrell  invades  the 
foundation  of  the  laws  themselves,  as  it  mani- 
festly transfers  the  right  of  legislation  from 
those  whom  the  people  have  chosen  to  those 
whom  they  have  rejected.  With  a  succession 
of  such  appointments  we  may  soon  see  a  House 
of  Commons  collected,  in  the  choice  of  which 
the  other  towns  and  counties  of  England  will 
have  as  little  share  as  the  devoted  county  of 
Middlesex. 

Yet,  I  trust,  your  Grace  will  find  that  the 
people  of  this  country  are  neither  to  be  intimi- 
dated by  violent  measures,  nor  deceived  by 
refinements.  When  they  see  Mr.  Luttrell 
seated  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  mere  dint 
of  power,  and  in  direct  opposition  to  the  choice 
of  a  whole  county,  they  will  not  listen  to  those 
subtleties  by  which  every  arbitrary  exertion  of 
authority  is  explained  into  the  law  and  privi- 
lege of  parliament.  It  requires  no  persuasion 
of  argument,  but  simply  the  evidence  of  the 
senses,  to  convince  them  that  to  transfer  the 
right  of  election  from  the  collective  to  the  rep- 
resentative body  of  the  people  contradicts  all 
those  ideas  of  a  House  of  Commons  which 
they  have  received  from  their  forefathers,  and 
which  they  have  already,  though  vainly  per- 
haps, delivered  to  their  children.  The  prin- 
ciples on  which  this  violent  measure  has  been 
defended,  have  added  scorn  to  injury,  and 
forced  us  to  feel  that  we  are  not  only  oppressed 
but  insulted. 

With  what  force,  my  Lord,  with  what  pro- 
tection, are  you  prepared  to  meet  the  united 
detestation  of  the  people  of  England?  The 
city  of  London  has  given  a  generous  example 
to  the  kingdom  in  what  manner  a  king  of  this 
country  ought  to  be  addressed;  and  I  fancy, 
my  Lord,  it  is  not  yet  in  your  courage  to  stand 
between  your  sovereign  and  the  addresses  of 
his  subjects.  The  injuries  you  have  done  this 
country  are  such  as  demand  not  only  redress 
but  vengeance.  In  vain  shall  you  look  for 
protection  to  that  venal  vote  which  you  have 


already  paid  for  —  another  must  be  purchased; 
and  to  save  a  minister,  the  House  of  Commons 
must  declare  themselves  not  only  independent 
of  their  constituents,  but  the  determined  ene- 
mies of  the  constitution.  Consider,  my  Lord, 
whether  this  be  an  extremity  to  which  their 
fears  will  permit  them  to  advance,  or,  if  their 
protection  should  fail  you,  how  far  you  are 
authorised  to  rely  upon  the  sincerity  of  those 
smiles  which  a  pious  court  lavishes  without 
reluctance  upon  a  libertine  by  profession.  It  is 
not,  indeed,  the  least  of  the  thousand  contra- 
dictions which  attend  you,  that  a  man,  marked 
to  the  world  by  the  grossest  violation  of  all 
ceremony  and  decorum,  should  be  the  first  ser- 
vant of  a  court  in  which  prayers  are  morality 
and  kneeling  is  religion.  Trust  not  too  far 
to  appearances  by  which  your  predecessors 
have  been  deceived,  though  they  have  not 
been  injured.  Even  the  best  of  princes  may  at 
last  discover  that  this  is  a  contention  in  which 
everything  may  be  lost  but  nothing  can  be 
gained;  and,  as  you  became  minister  by  ac- 
cident, were  adopted  without  choice,  trusted 
without  confidence,  and  continued  without 
favour,  be  assured  that,  whenever  an  occasion 
presses,  you  will  be  discarded  without  even  the 
forms  of  regret.  You  will  then  have  reason  to 
be  thankful  if  you  are  permitted  to  retire  to 
that  seat  of  learning  which,  in  contemplation 
of  the  system  of  your  life,  the  comparative 
purity  of  your  manners  with  those  of  their  high 
steward,  and  a  thousand  other  recommending 
circumstances,  has  chosen  you  to  encourage 
the  growing  virtue  of  their  youth,  and  to  pre- 
side over  their  education.  Whenever  the  spirit 
of  distributing  prebends  and  bishopricks  shall 
have  departed  from  you,  you  will  find  that 
learned  seminary  perfectly  recovered  from  the 
delirium  of  an  installation,  and,  what  in  truth 
it  ought  to  be,  once  more  a  peaceful  scene 
of  slumber  and  thoughtless  meditation.  The 
venerable  tutors  of  the  university  will  no  longer 
distress  your  modesty  by  proposing  you  for  a 
pattern  to  their  pupils.  The  learned  dulness 
of  declamation  will  be  silent;  and  even  the 
venal  muse,  though  happiest  in  fiction,  will 
forget  your  virtues.  Yet,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  succeeding  age,  I  could  wish  that  your 
retreat  might  be  deferred  until  your  morals 
shall  happily  be  ripened  to  that  maturity  of 
corruption  at  which  the  worst  examples  cease 
to  be  contagious. 

Junius. 


THE    NINETEENTH   CENTURY.     I 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

PREFACE  TO  THE  "LYRICAL  BALLADS" 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in 
verse  an  Author  makes  a  formal  engagement 
that  he  will  gratify  certain  known  habits  of 
association;  that  he  not  only  thus  apprises 
the  Reader  that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and 
expressions  will  be  found  in  his  book,  but  that 
others  will  be  carefully  excluded.  This  ex- 
ponent or  symbol  held  forth  by  metrical  lan- 
guage must  in  different  eras  of  literature  have 
excited  very  different  expectations :  for  example, 
in  the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence,  and  Lucretius, 
and  that  of  Statius  or  Claudian;  and  in  our 
own  country,  in  the  age  of  Shakspeare  and 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne 
and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not 
take  upon  me  to  determine  the  exact  import 
of  the  promise  which  by  the  act  of  writing 
in  verse  an  Author,  in  the  present  day,  makes 
to  his  Reader;  but  I  am  certain  it  will  appear 
to  many  persons  that  I  have  not  fulfilled  the 
terms  of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily  con- 
tracted. They  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
the  gaudiness  and  inane  phraseology  of  many 
modern  writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading  this 
book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no  doubt,  frequently 
have  to  struggle  with  feelings  of  strangeness 
and  awkwardness:  they  will  look  round  for 
poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to  inquire  by  what 
species  of  courtesy  these  attempts  can  be  per- 
mitted to  assume  that  title.  I  hope  therefore 
the  Reader  will  not  censure  me,  if  I  attempt 
to  state  what  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  per- 
form; and  also  (as  far  as  the  limits  of  this 
notice  will  permit)  to  explain  some  of  the  chief 
reasons  which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice 
of  my  purpose :  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared 
any  unpleasant  feeling  of  disappointment,  and 
that  I  myself  may  be  protected  from  the  most 
dishonourable  accusation  which  can  be  brought 
against  an  Author,  namely,  that  of  an  indolence 
which  prevents  him  from  endeavouring  to  as- 
certain what  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  duty  is 
ascertained,  prevents  him  from  performing  it. 


298 


The  principal  object,  then,  which  I  proposed 
to  myself  in  these  Poems  was  to  choose  incidents 
and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to  relate 
or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as  was 
possible,  in  a  selection  of  language  really  used 
by  men,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  throw  over 
them  a  certain  colouring  of  imagination,  where- 
by ordinary  things  should  be  presented  to  the 
mind  in  an  unusual  way;  and,  further,  and 
above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and  situa- 
tions interesting  by  tracing  in  them,  truly 
though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws 
of  our  nature:  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the 
manner  in  which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  state 
of  excitement.  Low  and  rustic  life  was  gen- 
erally chosen,  because,  in  that  condition,  the 
essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better 
soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity, 
are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer 
and  more  emphatic  language;  because  in  that 
condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  co- 
exist in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  con- 
sequently, may  be  more  accurately  contem- 
plated, and  more  forcibly  communicated; 
because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate 
from  those  elementary  feelings;  and  from  the 
necessary  character  of  rural  occupations,  are 
more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more 
durable;  and,  lastly,  because  in  that  condition 
the  passions  of  men  are  incorporated  with 
the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature. 
The  language,  too,  of  these  men  is  adopted 
(purified  indeed  from  what  appears  to  be  its 
real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes 
of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  men  hourly 
communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which 
the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived; 
and  because,  from  their  rank  in  society  and  the 
sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse, 
being  less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity, 
they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  sim- 
ple and  unelabo rated  expressions.  Accordingly, 
such  a  language,  arising  out  of  repeated  expe- 
rience and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  perma- 
nent, and  a  far  more  philosophical  language, 
than  that  which  is  frequently  substituted  for 
it  by  Poets,  who  think  that  they  are  conferring 
honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  pro- 


PREFACE   TO   THE    "LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


299 


portion  as  they  separate  themselves  from  the 
sympathies  of  men,  and  indulge  in  arbitrary 
and  capricious  habits  of  expression,  in  order 
to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle 
appetites,  of  their  own  creation. 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  of  the  pres- 
ent outcry  against  the  triviality  and  meanness, 
both  of  thought  and  language,  which  some  of 
my  contemporaries  have  occasionally  intro- 
duced into  their  metrical  compositions;  and  I 
acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it  exists, 
is  more  dishonourable  to  the  Writer's  own  char- 
acter than  false  refinement  or  arbitrary  inno- 
vation, though  I  should  contend  at  the  same 
time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum 
of  its  consequences.  From  such  verses  the 
Poems  in  these  volumes  will  be  found  dis- 
tinguished at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference, 
that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not 
that  I  mean  to  say,  I  always  began  to  write 
with  a  distinct  purpose  formally  conceived; 
but  my  habits  of  meditation  have  so  formed  my 
feelings,  as  that  my  descriptions  of  such  objects 
as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will  be  found 
to  carry  along  with  them  a  purpose.  If  in  this 
opinion  I  am  mistaken,  I  can  have  little  right 
to  the  name  of  a  Poet.  For  all  good  poetry  is 
the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings: 
and  though  this  be  true.  Poems  to  which  any 
value  can  be  attached  were  never  produced  on 
any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man,  who, 
being  possessed  of  more  than  usual  organic 
sensibility,  had  also  thought  long  and  deeply. 
For  our  continued  influxes  of  feeling  are  modi- 
fied and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are 
indeed  the  representatives  of  all  our  past 
feelings:  and,  as  by  contemplating  the  relation 
of  these  general  representatives  to  each  other, 
we  discover  what  is  really  important  to  men, 
so,  by  the  repetition  and  continuance  of  this 
act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected  with  impor- 
tant subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally 
possessed  of  much  sensibility,  such  habits  of 
mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by  observing 
blindly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of  those 
habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter 
sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such 
connection  with  each  other,  that  the  under- 
standing of  the  being  to  whom  we  address 
ourselves,  if  he  be  in  a  healthful  state  of  asso- 
ciation, must  necessarily  be  in  some  degree 
enlightened,  and  his  afTections  ameliorated. 

I  have  said  that  each  of  these  poems  has 
a  purpose.  I  have  also  informed  my  Reader 
what  this  purpose  will  be  found  principally 
to  be:    namely,   to   illustrate  the  manner  in 


which  our  feelings  and  ideas  are  associated  in  a 
state  of  excitement.  But,  speaking  in  language 
somewhat  more  appropriate,  it  is  to  follow  the 
fluxes  and  refluxes  of  the  mind  when  agitated 
by  the  great  and  simple  affections  of  our  nature. 
This  object  I  have  endeavoured  in  these  short 
essays  to  attain  by  various  means;  by  tracing 
the  maternal  passion  through  many  of  its  more 
subtile  windings,  as  in  the  poems  of  the  Idiot 
Boy  and  the  Mad  Mother ;  by  accompanying 
the  last  struggles  of  a  human  being,  at  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  cleaving  in  solitude  to  life  and 
society,  as  in  the  Poem  of  the  Forsaken  Indian; 
by  showing,  as  in  the  Stanzas  entitled  We  are 
Seven,  the  perplexity  and  obscurity  which  in 
childhood  attend  our  notion  of  death,  or  rather 
our  utter  inability  to  admit  that  notion ;  or  by 
displaying  the  strength  of  fraternal,  or,  to  speak 
more  philosophically,  of  moral  attachment  when 
early  associated  with  the  great  and  beautiful  ob- 
jects of  nature,  as  in  The  Brothers;  or,  as  in  the 
Incident  of  Simon  Lee,  by  placing  my  Reader 
in  the  way  of  receiving  from  ordinary  moral 
sensations  another  and  more  salutary  impres- 
sion than  we  are  accustomed  to  receive  from 
them.  It  has  also  been  part  of  my  general 
purpose  to  attempt  to  sketch  characters  under 
the  influence  of  less  impassioned  feelings,  as  in 
The  Two  April  Mornings,  The  Fountain,  The 
Old  Man  Travelling,  The  Two  Thieves,  etc., 
characters  of  which  the  elements  are  simple, 
belonging  rather  to  nature  than  to  manners, 
such  as  exist  now,  and  will  probably  always 
exist,  and  which  from  their  constitution  may 
be  distinctly  and  profitably  contemplated.  I 
will  not  abuse  the  indulgence  of  my  Reader 
by  dwelling  longer  upon  this  subject;  but  it  is 
proper  that  I  should  mention  one  other  cir- 
cumstance which  distinguishes  these  Poems 
from  the  popular  Poetry  of  the  day;  it  is  this, 
that  the  feeling  therein  developed  gives  impor- 
tance to  the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the 
action  and  situation  to  the  feeling.  My  mean- 
ing will  be  rendered  perfectly  intelligible  by 
referring  my  Reader  to  the  Poems  entitled  Poor 
Susan  and  the  Childless  Father,  particularly  to 
the  last  Stanza  of  the  latter  Poem. 

I  will  not  suffer  a  sense  of  false  modesty  to 
prevent  me  from  asserting,  that  I  point  my 
Reader's  attention  to  this  mark  of  distinction, 
far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particular  Poems 
than  from  the  general  importance  of  the  subject. 
The  subject  is  indeed  important !  For  the  hu- 
man mind  is  capable  of  being  excited  without 
the  application  of  gross  and  violent  stimulants; 
and  he  must  have  a  very  faint  perception  of  its 


JOO 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


beauty  and  dignity  who  does  not  know  this,  and 
who  does  not  further  know,  that  one  being  is  ele- 
vated above  another,  in  proportion  as  he  pos- 
sesses this  capabiHty.  It  has  therefore  appeared 
to  me,  that  to  endeavour  to  produce  or  enlarge 
this  capabiHty  is  one  of  the  best  services  in 
which,  at  any  period,  a  Writer  can  be  engaged; 
but  this  service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  espe- 
cially so  at  the  present  day.  For  a  multitude 
of  causes,  unknown  to  former  times,  are  now 
acting  with  a  combined  force  to  blunt  the  dis- 
criminating powers  of  the  mind,  and  unfitting 
it  for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a 
state  of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  ef- 
fective of  these  causes  are  the  great  national 
events  which  are  daily  taking  place,  and  the 
increasing  accumulation  of  men  in  cities,  where 
the  uniformity  of  their  occupations  produces  a 
craving  for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the 
rapid  communication  of  intelligence  hourly 
gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  and  man- 
ners the  literature  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of 
the  country  have  conformed  themselves.  The 
invaluable  works  of  our  elder  writers,  I  had 
almost  said  the  works  of  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic  novels, 
sickly  and  stupid  German  Tragedies,  and  del- 
uges of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in  verse.  — 
When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after 
outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed 
to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble  effort  with  which 
I  have  endeavoured  to  counteract  it;  and,  re- 
flecting upon  the  magnitude  of  the  general 
evil,  I  should  be  oppressed  with  no  dishonour- 
able melancholy,  had  I  not  a  deep  impression 
of  certain  inherent  and  indestructible  qualities 
of  the  human  mind,  and  likewise  of  certain 
powers  in  the  great  and  permanent  objects 
that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally  inherent 
and  indestructible;  and  did  I  not  further  add 
to  this  impression  a  belief,  that  the  time  is  ap- 
proaching when  the  evil  will  be  systematically 
opposed,  by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with 
far  more  distinguished  success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and 
aim  of  these  Poems,  I  shall  request  the  Reader's 
permission  to  apprise  him  of  a  few  circum- 
stances relating  to  their  style,  in  order,  among 
other  reasons,  that  I  may  not  be  censured  for 
not  having  performed  what  I  never  attempted. 
The  Reader  will  find  that  personifications  of 
abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in  these  volumes; 
and,  I  hope,  are  utterly  rejected,  as  an  ordinary 
device  to  elevate  the  style,  and  raise  it  above 
prose.  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  imitate, 
and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt  the  very 


language  of  men ;  and  assuredly  such  personi- 
fications do  not  make  any  natural  or  regular 
part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a 
figure  of  speech  occasionally  prompted  by  pas- 
sion, and  I  have  made  use  of  them  as  such; 
but  I  have  endeavoured  utterly  to  reject  them 
as  a  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a  family 
language  which  Writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay 
claim  to  by  prescription.  I  have  wished  to 
keep  my  Reader  in  the  company  of  flesh  and 
blood,  persuaded  that  by  so  doing  I  shall  in- 
terest him.  I  am,  however,  well  aware  that 
others  who  pursue  a  different  track  may  inter- 
est him  likewise ;  I  do  not  interfere  with  their 
claim,  I  only  wish  to  prefer  a  different  claim 
of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found  in  these 
pieces  little  of  what  is  usually  called  poetic 
diction;  I  have  taken  as  much  pains  to  avoid 
it  as  others  ordinarily  take  to  produce  it;  this 
I  have  done  for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to 
bring  my  language  near  to  the  language  of  men, 
and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  a  kind  very 
difi'erent  from  that  which  is  supposed  by  many 
persons  to  be  the  proper  object  of  poetry.  I  do 
not  know  how,  without  being  culpably  particu- 
lar, I  can  give  my  Reader  a  more  exact  notion 
of  the  style  in  which  I  wished  these  poems  to  be 
written,  than,  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at 
all  times  endeavoured  to  look  steadily  at  my 
subject,  consequently,  I  hope  that  there  is  in 
these  Poems  little  falsehood  of  description, 
and  that  my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language 
fitted  to  their  respective  importance.  Some- 
thing I  must  have  gained  by  this  practice,  as 
it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good  poetry, 
namely,  good  sense;  but  it  has  necessarily 
cut  me  off  from  a  large  portion  of  phrases  and 
figures  of  speech  which  from  father  to  son  have 
long  been  regarded  as  the  common  inheritance 
of  Poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  to 
restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained 
from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  themselves 
proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been 
foolishly  repeated  by  bad  Poets,  till  such  feel- 
ings of  disgust  are  connected  with  them  as  it  is 
scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  association  to 
overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series 
of  lines,  or  even  a  single  line,  in  which  the 
language,  though  naturally  arranged,  and  ac- 
cording to  the  strict  laws  of  metre,  does  not 
differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a  numerous 
class  of  critics  who,  when  they  stumble  upon 
these  prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine 
that  they  have  made  a  notable  discovery,  and 


PREFACE    TO    THE    ''LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


301 


exult  over  the  Poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant  of  his 
own  profession.  Now  these  men  would  cstab- 
Hsh  a  canon  of  criticism  which  the  Reader 
will  conclude  he  must  utterly  reject,  if  he  wishes 
to  be  pleased  with  these  pieces.  And  it  would 
be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him,  that  not 
only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every 
good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character, 
must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the 
metre,  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good 
prose,  but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most  inter- 
esting parts  of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to 
be  strictly  the  language  of  prose,  when  prose 
is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion 
might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable  pas- 
sages from  almost  all  the  poetical  writings, 
even  of  Milton  himself.  I  have  not  space 
for  much  quotation;  but,  to  illustrate  the  sub- 
ject in  a  general  manner,  I  will  here  adduce  a 
short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at  the  head 
of  those  who,  by  their  reasonings,  have  at- 
tempted to  widen  the  space  of  separation  be- 
twixt Prose  and  Metrical  composition,  and 
was  more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elab- 
orate in  the  structure  of  his  own  poetic  diction. 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire: 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine; 
And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire: 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 
And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part 
of  this  Sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines 
printed  in  Italics;  it  is  equally  obvious,  that, 
except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the  use  of  the  single 
word  "fruitless"  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far 
a  defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no 
respect  differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  I  have  shown  that 
the  language  of  Prose  may  yet  be  well  adapted 
to  Poetry;  and  I  have  previously  asserted, 
that  a  large  portion  of  the  language  of  every 
good  poem  can  in  no  respect  differ  from  that 
of  good  Prose.  I  will  go  further.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  it  may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  there 
neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  essential  difference 
between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical 
composition.     We  are  fond  of  tracing  the  re- 


semblance between  Poetry  and  Painting,  and, 
accordingly,  we  call  them  Sisters:  but  where 
shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection  sufficiently 
strict  to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and 
prose  composition?  They  both  speak  by 
and  to  the  same  organs;  the  bodies  in  which 
both  of  them  are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of 
the  same  substance,  their  affections  are  kindred, 
and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  differing 
even  in  degree;  Poetry'  sheds  no  tears  "such 
as  Angels  weep"  but  natural  and  human  tears; 
she  can  boast  of  no  celestial  Ichor  that  dis- 
tinguishes her  vital  juices  from  those  of  prose; 
the  same  human  blood  circulates  through  the 
veins  of  them  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical 
arrangement  of  themselves  constitute  a  distinc- 
tion which  overturns  what  I  have  been  saying 
on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical  language  with 
that  of  prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other 
artificial  distinctions  which  the  mind  volun- 
tarily admits,  I  answer  that  the  language  of 
such  Poetry  as  I  am  recommending  is,  as  far 
as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  language  really 
spoken  by  men;  that  this  selection,  wherever 
it  is  made  with  true  taste  and  feeling,  will  of 
itself  form  a  distinction  far  greater  than  would 
at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely  separate 
the  composition  from  the  vulgarity  and  mean- 
ness of  ordinary  life;  and,  if  metre  be  super- 
added thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude 
will  be  produced  altogether  sufficient  for  the 
gratification  of  a  rational  mind.  Wliat  other 
distinction  would  we  have?  Whence  is  it  to 
come?  And  where  is  it  to  exist ?  Not,  surely, 
where  the  Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of 
his  characters:  it  cannot  be  necessary  here, 
either  for  elevation  of  style,  or  any  of  its  sup- 
posed ornaments:  for,  if  the  Poet's  subject  be 
judiciously  chosen,  it  will  naturally,  and  upon 
fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  passions  the  language 
of  which,  if  selected  truly  and  judiciously,  must 
necessarily  be  dignified  and  variegated,  and 
alive  with  metaphors  and  figures.  I  forbear 
to  speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  shock 

'  I  here  use  the  word  "Poetry"  (though  against 
my  own  judgment)  as  opposed  to  the  word  "Prose," 
and  synonymous  with  metrical  composition.  But 
much  confusion  has  been  introduced  into  criticism 
by  this  contradistinction  of  Poetry  and  Prose,  instead 
of  the  more  philosophical  one  of  Poetry  and  Matter 
of  Fact,  or  Science.  The  only  strict  antithesis  to 
Prose  is  Metre:  nor  is  this,  in  truth,  a  strict  antithesis; 
because  lines  and  passages  of  metre  so  naturally 
occur  in  writing  prose,  that  it  would  be  scarcely 
possible  to  avoid  them,  even  were  it  desirable. 


302 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


the  intelligent  Reader,  should  the  Poet  inter- 
weave any  foreign  splendour  of  his  own  with 
that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests: 
it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is  un- 
necessary. And,  surely,  it  is  more  probable 
that  those  passages,  which  with  propriety 
abound  with  metaphors  and  figures,  will  have 
their  due  effect,  if,  upon  other  occasions  where 
the  passions  are  of  a  milder  character,  the  style 
also  be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by 
the  Poems  I  now  present  to  the  Reader  must 
depend  entirely  on  just  notions  upon  this  sub- 
ject, and,  as  it  is  in  itself  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance to  our  taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot 
content  myself  with  these  detached  remarks. 
And  if,  in  what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear 
to  some  that  my  labour  is  unnecessary,  and 
that  I  am  like  a  man  fighting  a  battle  without 
enemies,  I  would  remind  such  persons,  that, 
whatever  may  be  the  language  outwardly 
holden  by  men,  a  practical  faith  in  the  opin- 
ions which  I  am  wishing  to  establish  is  almost 
unknown.  If  my  conclusions  are  admitted, 
and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if 
admitted  at  all,  our  judgments  concerning  the 
works  of  the  greatest  Poets  both  ancient  and 
modern  will  be  far  different  from  what  they  are 
at  present,  both  when  we  praise,  and  when  we 
censure :  and  our  moral  feelings  influencing  and 
influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I  believe, 
be  corrected  and  purified. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general 
grounds,  I  ask  what  is  meant  by  the  word 
"  Poet "  ?  What  is  a  Poet  ?  To  whom  does  he 
address  himself?  And  what  language  is  to  be 
expected  from  him  ?  He  is  a  man  speaking  to 
men:  a  man,  it  is  true,  endued  with  more 
lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tender- 
ness, who  has  a  greater  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive  soul,  than 
are  supposed  to  be  common  among  mankind; 
a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and 
volitions,  and  who  rejoices  more  than  other 
men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him;  de- 
lighting to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and 
passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  the 
Universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to  create  them 
where  he  does  not  find  them.  To  these  quali- 
ties he  has  added,  a  disposition  to  be  affected 
more  than  other  men  by  absent  things  as  if 
they  were  present ;  an  ability  of  conjuring  up 
in  himself  passions,  which  are  indeed  far  from 
being  the  same  as  those  produced  by  real  events, 
yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of  the  general 
sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  delightful) 


do  more  nearly  resemble  the  passions  produced 
by  real  events,  than  anything  which,  from  the 
motions  of  their  own  minds  merely,  other  men 
are  accustomed  to  feel  in  themselves;  whence, 
and  from  practice,  he  has  acquired  a  greater 
readiness  and  power  in  expressing  what  he 
thinks  and  feels,  and  especially  those  thoughts 
and  feelings  which,  by  his  own  choice,  or 
from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind,  arise  in 
him  without  immediate  external  excitement. 

But,  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may 
suppose  even  the  greatest  Poet  to  possess,  there 
cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that  the  language  which 
it  will  suggest  to  him,  must,  in  liveliness  and 
truth,  fall  far  short  of  that  which  is  uttered  by 
men  in  real  life,  under  the  actual  pressure  of 
those  passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the 
Poet  thus  produces,  or  feels  to  be  produced,  in 
himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to 
cherish  of  the  character  of  a  Poet,  it  is  obvious, 
that,  while  he  describes  and  imitates  passions, 
his  situation  is  altogether  slavish  and  mechan- 
ical, compared  with  the  freedom  and  power 
of  real  and  substantial  action  and  suffering. 
So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  Poet  to  bring 
his  feelings  near  to  those  of  the  persons  whose 
feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of 
time,  perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire 
delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his 
own  feelings  with  theirs;  modifying  only  the 
language  which  is  thus  suggested  to  him  by  a 
consideration  that  he  describes  for  a  particular 
purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.  Here,  then, 
he  will  apply  the  principle  on  which  I  have  so 
much  insisted,  namely,  that  of  selection;  on 
this  he  will  depend  for  removing  what  would 
otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in  the  pas- 
sion; he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to 
trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature:  and,  the  more 
industriously  he  applies  this  principle,  the 
deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no  words,  which 
his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be 
to  be  compared  with  those  which  are  the 
emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object 
to  the  general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it 
is  imf)ossible  for  the  poet  to  produce  upon  all 
occasions  language  as  exquisitely  fitted  for  the 
passion  as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself 
suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he  should  consider 
himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a  translator,  who 
deems  himself  justified  when  he  substitutes 
excellencies  of  another  kind  for  those  which  are 
unattainable  by  him;  and  endeavours  occa- 
sionally to  surpass  his  original,  in  order  to  make 


PREFACE    TO    THE    "LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


303 


some  amends  for  the  general  inferiority  to  which 
he  feels  that  he  must  submit.  But  this  would 
be  to  encourage  idleness  and  unmanly  despair. 
Further,  it  is  the  language  of  men  who  speak 
of  what  they  do  not  understand;  who  talk 
of  Poetry  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle 
pleasure;  who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely 
about  a  taste  for  Poetry,  as  they  express  it,  as 
if  it  were  a  thing  as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for 
Rope-dancing,  or  Frontiniac  or  Sherry.  Aris- 
totle, I  have  been  told,  hath  said,  that  Poetry 
is  the  most  philosophic  of  all  writing:  it  is  so: 
its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local, 
but  general,  and  operative;  not  standing  upon 
external  testimony,  but  carried  alive  into  the 
heart  by  passion;  truth  which  is  its  own  tes- 
timony, which  gives  strength  and  divinity  to 
the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and  receives 
them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the 
image  of  man  and  nature.  The  obstacles 
which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidelity  of  the 
Biographer  and  Historian  and  of  their  conse- 
quent utility,  are  incalculably  greater  than  those 
which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the  Poet  who 
has  an  adequate  notion  of  the  dignity  of  his 
art.  The  Poet  writes  under  one  restriction 
only,  namely,  that  of  the  necessity  of  giving 
immediate  pleasure  to  a  human  Being  possessed 
of  that  information  which  may  be  expected 
from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a 
mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a  natural  philoso- 
pher, but  as  a  Man.  Except  this  one  re- 
striction, there  is  no  object  standing  between 
the  Poet  and  the  image  of  things;  between 
this,  and  the  Biographer  and  Historian  there 
are  a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate 
pleasure  be  considered  as  a  degradation  of  the 
Poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  beauty  of  the  universe, 
an  acknowledgment  the  more  sincere,  because 
it  is  not  formal,  but  indirect;  it  is  a  task  light 
and  easy  to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the 
spirit  of  love :  further,  it  is  an  homage  paid  to 
the  native  and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to  the 
grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by 
which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves. 
We  have  no  sympathy  but  what  is  propagated 
by  pleasure:  I  would  not  be  misunderstood; 
but  wherever  we  sympathise  with  pain,  it  will 
be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  produced  and 
carried  on  by  subtle  combinations  with  pleasure. 
We  have  no  knowledge,  that  is,  no  general 
principles  drawn  from  the  contemplation  of 
particular  facts,  but  what  has  been  built  up 
by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  pleasure  alone. 


The  Man  of  Science,  the  Chemist  and  Math- 
ematician, whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts 
they  may  have  had  to  struggle  with,  know  and 
feel  this.  However  painful  may  be  the  objects 
with  which  the  Anatomist's  knowledge  is  con- 
nected, he  feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleasure; 
and  where  he  has  no  pleasure  he  has  no  know- 
ledge. What  then  does  the  Poet?  He  con- 
siders man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him 
as  acting  and  reacting  upon  each  other,  so  as 
to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and 
pleasure;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature 
and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this 
with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate  knowledge, 
with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  deduc- 
tions, which  by  habit  become  of  the  nature  of 
intuitions;  he  considers  him  as  looking  upon 
this  complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and 
finding  everywhere  objects  that  immediately  ex- 
cite in  him  sympathies  which,  from  the  neces- 
sities of  his  nature,  are  accompanied  by  an 
overbalance  of  enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about 
with  them,  and  to  these  sympathies  in  which, 
without  any  other  discipline  than  that  of  our 
daily  life,  we  are  fitted  to  take  delight,  the  Poet 
principally  directs  his  attention.  He  considers 
man  and  nature  as  essentially  adapted  to  each 
other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the 
mirror  of  the  fairest  and  most  interesting  quali- 
ties of  nature.  And  thus  the  Poet,  prompted 
by  this  feeling  of  pleasure  which  accompanies 
him  through  the  whole  course  of  his  studies, 
converses  with  general  nature  with  affections 
akin  to  those,  which,  through  labour  and  length 
of  time,  the  Man  of  Science  has  raised  up  in 
himself,  by  conversing  with  those  particular 
parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects  of  his 
studies.  The  knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and 
the  Man  of  Science  is  pleasure ;  but  the  know- 
ledge of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary  part 
of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  inalienable 
inheritance;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  in- 
dividual acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and 
by  no  habitual  and  direct  sympathy  connecting 
us  with  our  fellow -beings.  The  Man  of  Science 
seeks  truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown  bene- 
factor; he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in  his  solitude: 
the  Poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all  human 
beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the  presence 
of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly  com- 
panion. Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  all  knowledge;  it  is  the  impassioned  expres- 
sion which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all  Science. 
Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of  the  Poet,  as 
Shakspeare  hath  said  of  man,  "that  he  looks 


304 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


before  and  after."  He  is  the  rock  of  defence 
of  human  nature;  an  upholder  and  preserver, 
carrying  everj'where  with  him  relationship  and 
love.  In  spite  of  difference  of  soil  and  climate, 
of  language  and  manners,  of  laws  and  customs, 
in  spite  of  things  silently  gone  out  of  mind,  and 
things  violently  destroyed,  the  Poet  binds  to- 
gether by  passion  and  knowledge  the  vast 
empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is  spread  over 
the  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  objects 
of  the  Poet's  thoughts  are  everj^here ;  though 
the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his 
favourite  guides,  yet  he  will  follow  whereso- 
ever he  can  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in 
which  to  move  his  wings.  Poetry  is  the  first 
and  last  of  all  knowledge  —  it  is  as  immortal 
as  the  heart  of  man.  If  the  labours  of  Men  of 
Science  should  ever  create  any  material 
revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition, 
and  in  the  impressions  which  we  habitually 
receive,  the  Poet  will  sleep  then  no  more  than  at 
present,  but  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps 
of  the  Man  of  Science,  not  only  in  those  general 
indirect  effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  carry- 
ing, sensation  into  the  midst  of  the  objects 
of  the  Science  itself.  The  remotest  discoveries 
of  the  Chemist,  the  Botanist,  or  Mineralogist, 
will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  Poet's  art  as 
any  upon  which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time 
should  ever  come  when  these  things  shall  be 
familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations  under  which 
they  are  contemplated  by  the  followers  of 
these  respective  Sciences  shall  be  manifestly 
and  palpably  material  to  us  as  enjoying  and 
suffering  beings.  If  the  time  should  ever  come 
when  what  is  now  called  Science,  thus  familiar- 
ised to  men,  shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were, 
a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  Poet  will  lend 
his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and 
will  welcome  the  Being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear 
and  genuine  inmate  of  the  household  of  man.  — 
It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that  any  one,  who 
holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry  which  I 
have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in  upon 
the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures  by  transi- 
tory and  accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavour 
to  excite  admiration  of  himself  by  arts,  the 
necessity  of  which  must  manifestly  depend  upon 
the  assumed  meanness  of  his  subject. 

What  I  have  thus  far  said  applies  to  Poetry 
in  general;  but  especially  to  those  parts  of 
composition  where  the  Poet  speaks  through 
the  mouths  of  his  characters;  and  upon  this 
point  it  appears  to  have  such  weight,  that  I 
will  conclude,  there  are  few  persons  of  good 
sense,  who  would  not  allow  that  the  dramatic 


parts  of  composition  are  defective,  in  proportion 
as  they  deviate  from  the  real  language  of  nature, 
and  are  coloured  by  a  diction  of  the  Poet's 
own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  individual 
Poet  or  belonging  simply  to  Poets  in  general, 
to  a  body  of  men  who,  from  the  circumstance 
of  their  compositions  being  in  metre,  it  is  ex- 
pected will  employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  com- 
position that  we  look  for  this  distinction  of 
language ;  but  still  it  may  be  proper  and  neces- 
sary where  the  Poet  speaks  to  us  in  his  own 
person  and  character.  To  this  I  answer  by 
referring  my  Reader  to  the  description  which 
I  have  before  given  of  a  Poet.  Among  the 
qualities  which  I  have  enumerated  as  principally 
conducing  to  form  a  Poet,  is  implied  nothing 
differing  in  kind  from  other  men,  but  only  in 
degree.  The  sum  of  what  I  have  there  said  is, 
that  the  Poet  is  chiefly  distinguished  from  other 
men  by  a  greater  promptness  to  think  and  feel 
without  immediate  external  excitement,  and  a 
greater  power  in  expressing  such  thoughts  and 
feelings  as  are  produced  in  him  in  that  manner. 
But  these  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings 
are  the  general  passions  and  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  men.  And  with  what  are  they 
connected?  Undoubtedly  with  our  moral 
sentiments  and  animal  sensations,  and  with  the 
causes  which  excite  these ;  with  the  operations 
of  the  elements,  and  the  appearances  of  the 
visible  universe;  with  storm  and  sunshine,  with 
the  revolutions  of  the  seasons,  with  cold  and 
heat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with 
injuries  and  resentments,  gratitude  and  hope, 
with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and  the  like, 
are  the  sensations  and  objects  which  the  Poet 
describes,  as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other 
men,  and  the  objects  which  interest  them.  The 
Poet  thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  the  passions 
of  men.  How,  then,  can  his  language  differ  in 
any  material  degree  from  that  of  all  other  men 
who  feel  vividly  and  see  clearly?  It  might  be 
proved  that  it  is  impossible.  But  supposing 
that  this  were  not  the  case,  the  Poet  might  then 
be  allowed  to  use  a  peculiar  language  when 
expressing  his  feelings  for  his  own  gratification, 
or  that  of  men  like  himself.  But  Poets  do  not 
write  for  Poets  alone,  but  for  men.  Unless 
therefore  we  are  advocates  for  that  admiration 
which  depends  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleas- 
ure which  arises  from  hearing  what  we  do  not 
understand,  the  Poet  must  descend  from  this 
supposed  height,  and,  in  order  to  excite  rational 
sympathy,  he  must  express  himself  as  other 
men  express  themselves.     To  this  it  may  be 


PREFACE    TO    THE    "LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


305 


added,  that  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the 
real  language  of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to 
the  same  thing,  composing  accurately  in  the 
spirit  of  such  selection,  he  is  treading  upon  safe 
ground,  and  we  know  what  we  are  to  expect 
from  him.  Our  feelings  are  the  same  with 
respect  to  metre;  for,  as  it  may  be  proper  to 
remind  the  Reader,  the  distinction  of  metre 
is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not,  like  that 
which  is  produced  by  what  is  usually  called 
poetic  diction,  arbitrary,  and  subject  to  infinite 
caprices  upon  which  no  calculation  whatever 
can  be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the  Reader  is 
utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  Poet  respecting  what 
imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect 
with  the  passion,  whereas,  in  the  other,  the 
metre  obeys  certain  laws,  to  which  the  Poet 
and  Reader  both  willingly  submit  because  they 
are  certain,  and  because  no  interference  is 
made  by  them  with  the  passion  but  such  as  the 
concurring  testimony  of  ages  has  shown  to 
heighten  and  improve  the  pleasure  which  co- 
exists with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious 
question,  namely,  Why,  professing  these  opin- 
ions, have  I  written  in  verse?  To  this,  in 
addition  to  such  answer  as  is  included  in  what 
I  have  already  said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place, 
Because,  however  I  may  have  restricted  my- 
self, there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  con- 
fessedly constitutes  the  most  valuable  object 
of  all  writing,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  the 
great  and  universal  passions  of  men,  the  most 
general  and  interesting  of  their  occupations, 
and  the  entire  world  of  nature,  from  which  I 
am  at  liberty  to  supply  myself  with  endless 
combinations  of  forms  and  imagery.  Now, 
supposing  for  a  moment  that  whatever  is 
interesting  in  these  objects  may  be  as  vividly 
described  in  prose,  why  am  I  to  be  condemned, 
if  to  such  description  I  have  endeavoured  to 
superadd  the  charm,  which,  by  the  consent  of 
all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in  metrical 
language?  To  this,  by  such  as  are  uncon- 
vinced by  what  I  have  already  said,  it  may  be 
answered  that  a  very  small  part  of  the  pleasure 
given  by  Poetry  depends  upon  the  metre,  and 
that  it  is  injudicious  to  write  in  metre,  unless 
it  be  accompanied  with  the  other  artificial 
distinctions  of  style  with  which  metre  is  usu- 
ally accompanied,  and  that,  by  such  deviation, 
more  will  be  lost  from  the  shock  which  will 
thereby  be  given  to  the  Reader's  associations 
than  will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure 
which  he  can  derive  from  the  general  power  of 
numbers.     In  answer  to  those  who  still  contend 


for  the  necessity  of  accompanying  metre  with 
certain  appropriate  colours  of  style  in  order 
to  the  accomplishment  of  its  appropriate  end, 
and  who  also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  underrate 
the  power  of  metre  in  itself,  it  might,  perhaps, 
as  far  as  relates  to  these  Poems,  have  been  almost 
sufficient  to  observe,  that  Poems  are  extant, 
written  upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a 
more  naked  and  simple  style  than  I  have  aimed 
at,  which  poems  have  continued  to  give  pleas- 
ure from  generation  to  generation.  Now,  if 
nakedness  and  simplicity  be  a  defect,  the  fact 
here  mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption 
that  poems  somewhat  less  naked  and  simple 
are  capable  of  affording  pleasure  at  the  present 
day ;  and,  what  I  wished  chiefly  to  attempt,  at 
present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written 
under  the  impression  of  this  belief. 

But  I  might  point  out  various  causes  why, 
when  the  style  is  manly,  and  the  subject  of 
some  importance,  words  metrically  arranged 
will  long  continue  to  impart  such  a  pleasure  to 
mankind  as  he  who  is  sensible  of  the  extent  of 
that  pleasure  will  be  desirous  to  impart.  The 
end  of  Poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in 
coexistence  with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure. 
Now,  by  the  supposition,  excitement  is  an 
unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the  mind;  ideas 
and  feelings  do  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each 
other  in  accustomed  order.  But,  if  the  words 
by  which  this  excitement  is  produced  are  in 
themselves  powerful,  or  the  images  and  feelings 
have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected 
with  them,  there  is  some  danger  that  the  ex- 
citement may  be  carried  beyond  its  proper 
bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  something 
regular,  something  to  which  the  mind  has  been 
accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a  less 
excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy 
in  tempering  and  restraining  the  passion  by  an 
intertexture  of  ordinary  feeling,  and  of  feel- 
ing not  strictly  and  necessarily  connected  with 
the  passion.  This  is  unquestionably  true,  and 
hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at  first  appear 
paradoxical,  from  the  tendency  of  metre  to 
divest  language,  in  a  certain  degree,  of  its 
reality,  and  thus  to  throw  a  sort  of  half  con- 
sciousness of  unsubstantial  existence  over  the 
whole  composition,  there  can  be  little  doubt, 
but  that  more  pathetic  situations  and  senti- 
ments, that  is,  those  which  have  a  greater  pro- 
portion of  pain  connected  with  them,  may  be 
endured  in  metrical  composition,  especially  in 
rhyme,  than  in  prose.  The  metre  of  the  old 
ballads  is  very  artless;  yet  they  contain  many 
passages  which  would  illustrate  this  opinion, 


?o6 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 


and,  I  hope,  if  the  Poems  referred  to  be  atten- 
tively perused,  similar  instances  will  be  found  in 
them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  illustrated 
by  appealing  to  the  Reader's  own  experience  of 
the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes  to  the  re- 
perusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of  Clarissa  Har- 
lowe,  or  the  Gamester.  While  Shakspeare's 
writings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never 
act  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the  bounds 
of  pleasure  —  an  effect  which,  in  a  much 
greater  degree  than  might  at  first  be  imagined, 
is  to  be  ascribed  to  small,  but  continual  and 
regular  impulses  of  pleasurable  surprise  from 
the  metrical  arrangement.  —  On  the  other 
hand,  (what  it  must  be  allowed  will  much  more 
frequently  happen,)  if  the  Poet's  words  should 
be  incommensurate  with  the  passion,  and 
inadequate  to  raise  the  Reader  to  a  height  of 
desirable  excitement,  then,  (unless  the  Poet's 
choice  of  his  metre  has  been  grossly  injudicious,) 
in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the  Reader 
has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  metre  in 
general,  and  in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful 
or  melancholy,  which  he  has  been  accustomed 
to  connect  with  that  particular  movement  of 
metre,  there  will  be  found  something  which  will 
greatly  contribute  to  impart  passion  to  the 
words,  and  to  effect  the  complex  end  which  the 
Poet  proposes  to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systematic  defence  of 
the  theory  upon  which  these  poems  are  written, 
it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop  the 
various  causes  upon  which  the  pleasure  re- 
ceived from  metrical  language  depends.  Among 
the  chief  of  these  causes  is  to  be  reckoned  a 
principle  which  must  be  well  known  to  those 
who  have  made  any  of  the  Arts  the  object 
of  accurate  reflection;  I  mean  the  pleasure 
which  the  mind  derives  from  the  perception 
of  similitude  in  dissimilitude.  This  principle 
is  the  great  spring  of  the  activity  of  our  minds, 
and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  principle 
the  direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all  the 
passions  connected  with  it,  take  their  origin: 
it  is  the  life  of  our  ordinary  conversation ;  and 
upon  the  accuracy  with  which  similitude  in 
dissimilitude,  and  dissimilitude  in  similitude 
are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our  moral 
feelings.  It  would  not  have  been  a  useless 
employment  to  have  applied  this  principle  to  the 
consideration  of  metre,  and  to  have  shown  that 
metre  is  hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure, 
and  to  have  pointed  out  in  what  manner  that 
pleasure  is  produced.  But  my  limits  will  not 
permit  me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I 
must  content  myself  with  a  general  summary. 


I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerful  feelings:  it  takes  its 
origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity; 
the  emotion  is  contemplated,  till,  by  a  species  of 
reaction,  the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears, 
and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was  be- 
fore the  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually 
produced,  and  does  itself  actually  exist  in  the 
mind.  In  this  mood  successful  composition 
generally  begins,  and  in  a  mood  similar  to  this 
it  is  carried  on;  but  the  emotion  of  whatever 
kind,  and  in  whatever  degree,  from  various 
causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleasures,  so 
that  in  describing  any  passions  whatsoever, 
which  are  voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will, 
upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjoyment. 
Now,  if  Nature  be  thus  cautious  in  preserving 
in  a  state  of  enjoyment  a  being  thus  employed, 
the  Poet  ought  to  profit  by  the  lesson  thus  held 
forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to  take 
care,  that,  whatever  passions  he  communicates 
to  his  Reader,  those  passions,  if  his  Reader's 
mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should  always 
be  accompanied  with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure. 
How  the  music  of  harmonious  metrical  lan- 
guage, the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and 
the  blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has  been 
previously  received  from  the  works  of  rhyme 
or  metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction, 
and  indistinct  perception  perpetually  renewed 
of  language  closely  resembling  that  of  real 
life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  of  metre, 
differing  from  it  so  widely  —  all  these  im- 
perceptibly make  up  a  complex  feeling  of 
delight,  which  is  of  the  most  important  use 
in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  which  will 
always  be  found  intermingled  with  powerful 
descriptions  of  the  deeper  passions.  This 
effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic  and  im- 
passioned poetry;  while,  in  lighter  composi- 
tions, the  ease  and  gracefulness  with  which 
the  Poet  manages  his  numbers  are  themselves 
confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  Reader.  I  might,  perhaps,  in- 
clude all  which  it  is  necessary  to  say  upon  this 
subject,  by  aflirming  what  few  persons  will 
deny,  that,  of  two  descriptions  either  of  passions, 
manners,  or  characters,  each  of  them  equally 
well  executed,  the  one  in  prose  and  the  other  in 
verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred  times 
where  the  prose  is  read  once.  We  see  that 
Pope,  by  the  power  of  verse  alone,  has  con- 
trived to  render  the  plainest  common  sense 
interesting,  and  even  frequently  to  invest  it 
with  the  appearance  of  passion.  In  con- 
sequence of  these  convictions  I  related  in  metre 


PREFACE    TO    THE    "LYRICAL    BALLADS" 


307 


the  Tale  of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  which 
is  one  of  the  rudest  of  this  collection.  I 
wished  to  draw  attention  to  the  truth,  that  the 
power  of  the  human  imagination  is  sufficient 
to  produce  such  changes  even  in  our  physical 
nature  as  might  almost  appear  miraculous. 
The  truth  is  an  important  one;  the  fact  (for 
it  is  a  fact)  is  a  valuable  illustration  of  it:  and 
I  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it 
has  been  communicated  to  many  hundreds  of 
people  who  would  never  have  heard  of  it,  had 
it  not  been  narrated  as  a  Ballad,  and  in  a  more 
impressive  metre  than  is  usual  in  Ballads. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  the  reasons 
why  I  have  written  in  verse,  and  why  I  have 
chosen  subjects  from  common  life,  and  en- 
deavoured to  bring  my  language  near  to  the 
real  language  of  men,  if  I  have  been  too  minute 
in  pleading  my  own  cause,  I  have  at  the  same 
time  been  treating  a  subject  of  general  interest; 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  request  the 
Reader's  permission  to  add  a  few  words  with 
reference  solely  to  these  particular  poems,  and 
to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be  found 
in  them.  I  am  sensible  that  my  associations 
must  have  sometimes  been  particular  instead 
of  general,  and  that,  consequently,  giving  to 
things  a  false  importance,  sometimes  from 
diseased  impulses,  I  may  have  written  upon 
unworthy  subjects ;  but  I  am  less  apprehensive 
on  this  account,  than  that  my  language  may 
frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary 
connections  of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular 
words  and  phrases,  from  which  no  man  can 
altogether  protect  himself.  Hence  I  have  no 
doubt,  that,  in  some  instances,  feelings,  even 
of  the  ludicrous,  may  be  given  to  my  Readers 
by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me  tender  and 
pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  con- 
vinced they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that 
they  must  necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I 
would  willingly  take  all  reasonable  pains  to 
correct.  But  it  is  dangerous  to  make  these 
alterations  on  the  simple  authority  of  a  few 
individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men; 
for  where  the  understanding  of  an  Author  is 
not  convinced,  or  his  feelings  altered,  this 
cannot  be  done  without  great  injury  to  himself: 
for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and  support; 
and,  if  he  sets  them  aside  in  one  instance,  he 
may  be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind 
loses  all  confidence  in  itself,  and  becomes 
utterly  debilitated.  To  this  it  may  be  added, 
that  the  Reader  ought  never  to  forget  that  he 
is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the 
Poet,  and,  perhaps,  in  a  much  greater  degree: 


for  there  can  be  no  presumption  in  saying,  that 
it  is  not  probable  he  will  be  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  various  stages  of  meaning  through 
which  words  have  passed,  or  with  the  fickle- 
ness or  stability  of  the  relations  of  particular 
ideas  to  each  other;  and,  above  all,  since  he  is 
so  much  less  interested  in  the  subject,  he  may 
decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  I  have  detained  my  Reader,  I  hope 
he  will  permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a 
mode  of  false  criticism  which  has  been  applied 
to  Poetry,  in  which  the  language  closely  re- 
sembles that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses 
have  been  triumphed  over  in  parodies  of 
which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen. 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand. 

Immediately  under  these  lines  I  will  place 
one  of  the  most  justly-admired  stanzas  of  the 
"Babes  in  the  Wood." 

These  pretty  babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 
Approaching  from  the  Town. 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the 
order  of  the  words,  in  no  respect  differ  from 
the  most  unimpassioned  conversation.  There 
are  words  in  both,  for  example,  "the  Strand," 
and  "the  Town,"  connected  with  none  but 
the  most  familiar  ideas;  yet  the  one  stanza 
we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a 
fair  example  of  the  superlatively  contemptible. 
Whence  arises  this  difference?  Not  from  the 
metre,  not  from  the  language,  not  from  the 
order  of  the  words;  but  the  matter  expressed 
in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  contemptible.  The 
proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple 
verses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would 
be  a  fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say.  This  is  a 
bad  kind  of  poetry,  or.  This  is  not  poetr}'; 
but,  This  wants  sense;  it  is  neither  interesting 
in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  anything  interesting; 
the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state 
of  feeling  which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor 
can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the  Reader. 
This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  dealing 
with  such  verses.  Why  trouble  yourself  about 
the  species  till  you  have  previously  decided 
upon  the  genus?  Why  take  pains  to  prove 
that  an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  self- 
evident  that  he  is  not  a  man? 


3o8 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


I  have  one  request  to  make  of  my  Reader, 
which  is,  that  in  judging  these  Poems  he 
would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  genuinely, 
and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  will  probably 
be  the  judgment  of  others.  How  common  is 
it  to  hear  a  person  say,  "I  myself  do  not  object 
to  this  style  of  composition,  or  this  or  that 
expression,  but,  to  such  and  such  classes  of 
people,  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous!" 
This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  all 
sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is  almost  uni- 
versal: I  have  therefore  to  request,  that  the 
Reader  would  abide  independently  by  his 
own  feelings,  and  that,  if  he  finds  himself 
affected,  he  would  not  suffer  such  conjectures 
to  interfere  with  his  pleasure. 

If  an  Author,  by  any  single  composition, 
has  impressed  us  with  respect  for  his  talents, 
it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as  affording  a  pre- 
sumption, that  on  other  occasions  where  we 
have  been  displeased,  he,  nevertheless,  may 
not  have  written  ill  or  absurdly;  and,  further, 
to  give  him  so  much  credit  for  this  one  com- 
position as  may  induce  us  to  review  what  has 
displeased  us,  with  more  care  than  we  should 
otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it.  This  is  not 
only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  in  our  decisions 
upon  poetry  especially,  may  conduce,  in  a 
high  degree,  to  the  improvement  of  our  own 
taste:  for  an  accurate  taste  in  poetry,  and  in 
all  the  other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has 
observed,  is  an  acquired  talent,  which  can 
only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long- 
continued  intercourse  with  the  best  models  of 
composition.  This  is  mentioned,  not  with  so 
ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to  prevent  the  most 
inexperienced  Reader  from  judging  for  him- 
self (I  have  already  said  that  I  wish  him  to 
judge  for  himself),  but  merely  to  temper  the 
rashness  of  decision,  and  to  suggest,  that,  if 
Poetry  be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  has 
not  been  bestowed,  the  judgment  may  be 
erroneous;  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it  neces- 
sarily will  be  so. 

I  know  that  nothing  would  have  so  effectu- 
ally contributed  to  further  the  end  which  I 
have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown  of  what  kind 
the  pleasure  is,  and  how  that  pleasure  is 
produced,  which  is  confessedly  produced  by 
metrical  composition  essentially  different  from 
that  which  I  have  here  endeavoured  to  recom- 
mend: for  the  Reader  will  say  that  he  has 
been  pleased  by  such  composition;  and  what 
can  I  do  more  for  him  ?  The  power  of  any 
art  is  limited;  and  he  will  suspect,  that,  if  I 
propose  to  furnish  him  with  new  friends,  it  is 


only  upon  condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old 
friends.  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the  Reader 
is  himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which  he 
has  received  from  such  composition,  compo- 
sition to  which  he  has  peculiarly  attached  the 
endearing  name  of  Poetry;  and  all  men  feel 
an  habitual  gratitude,  and  something  of  an 
honourable  bigotry  for  the  objects  which  have 
long  continued  to  please  them;  we  not  only 
wish  to  be  pleased,  but  to  be  pleased  in  that 
particular  way  in  which  we  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  be  pleased.  There  is  a  host  of 
arguments  in  these  feelings;  and  I  should  be 
the  less  able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as 
I  am  willing  to  allow,  that,  in  order  entirely  to 
enjoy  the  Poetry  which  I  am  recommending,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  give  up  much  of  what 
is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would  my  limits 
have  permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this  pleas- 
sure  is  produced,  I  might  have  removed  many 
obstacles,  and  assisted  my  Reader  in  perceiving 
that  the  powers  of  language  are  not  so  limited 
as  he  may  suppose;  and  that  it  is  possible  for 
poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer, 
more  lasting,  and  more  exquisite  nature. 
This  part  of  my  subject  I  have  not  altogether 
neglected;  but  it  has  been  less  my  present  aim 
to  prove,  that  the  interest  excited  by  some  other 
kinds  of  poetry  is  less  vivid,  and  less  worthy 
of  the  nobler  powers  of  the  mind,  than  to  offer 
reasons  for  presuming,  that,  if  the  object  which 
I  have  proposed  to  myself  were  adequately  at- 
tained, a  species  of  poetry  would  be  produced, 
which  is  genuine  poetry;  in  its  nature  well 
adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently, 
and  likewise  important  in  the  multiplicity  and 
quality  of  its  moral  relations. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a  perusal 
of  the  Poems,  the  Reader  will  be  able  clearly 
to  perceive  the  object  which  I  have  proposed 
to  myself;  he  will  determine  how  far  I  have 
attained  this  object ;  and,  what  is  a  much  more 
important  question,  whether  it  be  worth  attain- 
ing; and  upon  the  decision  of  these  two  ques- 
tions will  rest  my  claim  to  the  approbation  of 
the  Public. 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT    (1771-1832) 

WANDERING   WILLIE'S   TALE 

From  REDGAUNTLET 

Ye  maun  have  heard  of  Sir  Robert  Red- 
gauntlet  of  that  Ilk,  who  lived  in  these  parts 
before  the  dear  years.     The  country  will  lang 


WANDERING    WILLIE'S    TALE 


309 


mind  him;  and  our  fathers  used  to  draw 
breath  thick  if  ever  they  heard  him  named. 
He  was  out  wi'  the  Hielandmen  in  Montrose's 
time;  and  again  he  was  in  tlie  hills  wi'  Glen- 
cairn  in  the  saxteen  hundred  and  fifty-twa; 
and  sae  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came 
in,  wha  was  in  sic  favour  as  the  Laird  of  Red- 
gauntlet?  He  was  knighted  at  Lonon  court, 
wi'  the  King's  ain  sword;  and  being  a  redhot 
prelatist,  he  came  down  here,  rampauging 
like  a  lion,  with  commissions  of  lieutenancy, 
(and  of  lunacy,  for  what  I  ken,)  to  put  down 
a'  the  Whigs  and  Covenanters  in  the  country. 
Wild  wark  they  made  of  it;  for  the  Whigs 
were  as  dour  as  the  Cavaliers  were  fierce, 
and  it  was  which  should  first  tire  the  other. 
Redgauntlet  was  aye  for  the  strong  hand; 
and  his  name  is  kend  as  wide  in  the  country 
as  Claverhouse's  or  Tam  Dalyell's.  Glen,  nor 
dargle,  nor  mountain,  nor  cave,  could  hide 
the  puir  hill-folk  when  Redgauntlet  was  out 
with  bugle  and  bloodhound  after  them,  as  if 
they  had  been  sae  mony  deer.  And  troth 
when  they  fand  them,  they  didna  mak  muckle 
mair  ceremony  than  a  Hielandman  wi'  a  roe- 
buck-r- It  was  just,  "Will  ye  tak  the  test?" 

—  if  not,  "Make  ready  —  present  —  fire!" 
and  there  lay  the  recusant. 

Far  and  wide  was  Sir  Robert  hated  and 
feared.  Men  thought  he  had  a  direct  compact 
with  Satan  —  that  he  was  proof  against  steel 

—  and  that  bullets  happed  a£f  his  buff-coat 
like  hailstanes  from  a  hearth  —  that  he  had  a 
mear  that  would  turn  a  hare  on  the  side  of 
Carrifra-gawns  —  and  muckle  to  the  same 
purpose,  of  whilk  mair  anon.  The  best  bless- 
ing they  wared  on  him  was,  "Deil  scowp  wi' 
Redgauntlet!"  He  wasna  a  bad  master  to 
his  ain  folk,  though,  and  was  weel  aneugh 
liked  by  his  tenants;  and  as  for  the  lackies 
and  troopers  that  raid  out  wi'  him  to  the  per- 
secutions, as  the  Whigs  caa'd  those  killing 
times,  they  wad  hae  drunken  themsells  blind 
to  his  health  at  ony  time. 

Now  you  are  to  ken  that  my  gudesire  lived 
on  Redgauntlet's  grund  —  they  ca'  the  place 
Primrose -Knowe.  We  had  lived  on  the  grund, 
and  under  the  Redgauntlets,  since  the  riding- 
days,  and  lang  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  bit; 
and  I  think  the  air  is  callerer  and  fresher 
there  than  ony  where  else  in  the  country.  It's 
a'  deserted  now;  and  I  sat  on  the  broken 
door-cheek  three  days  since,  and  was  glad  I 
couldna  see  the  plight  the  place  was  in;  but 
that's  a'  wide  o'  the  mark.  There  dwelt  my 
gudesire,  Steenie  Steenson,  a  rambling,  rattling 


chiel'  he  had  been  in  his  young  days,  and 
could  play  weel  on  the  pipes;  he  was  famous 
at  "Hoopers  and  Girders"  —  a'  Cumberland 
couldna  touch  him  at  "Jockie  Lattin"  —  and 
he  had  the  finest  finger  for  the  backlilt  be- 
tween Berwick  and  Carlisle.  The  like  o' 
Steenie  wasna  the  sort  that  they  made  Whigs  o'. 
And  so  he  became  a  Tor}',  as  they  ca'  it,  which 
we  now  ca'  Jacobites,  just  out  of  a  kind  of 
needccssity,  that  he  might  belang  to  some  side 
or  other.  He  had  nae  ill-will  to  the  Whig 
bodies,  and  liked  little  to  see  the  blude  rin, 
though,  being  obliged  to  follow  Sir  Robert  in 
hunting  and  hosting,  watching  and  warding, 
he  saw  muckle  mischief,  and  maybe  did  some, 
that  he  couldna  avoid. 

Now  Steenie  was  a  kind  of  favourite  with 
his  master,  and  kend  a'  the  folks  about  the 
castle,  and  was  often  sent  for  to  play  the  pipes 
when  they  were  at  their  merriment.  Auld 
Dougal  MacCallum,  the  butler,  that  had  fol- 
lowed Sir  Robert  through  gude  and  ill,  thick 
and  thin,  pool  and  stream,  was  specially  fond 
of  the  pipes,  and  aye  gae  my  gudesire  his  gude 
word  wi'  the  Laird;  for  IDougal  could  turn 
his  master  round  his  finger. 

Weel,  round  came  the  Revolution,  and  it 
had  like  to  have  broken  the  hearts  baith  of 
Dougal  and  his  master.  But  the  change  was 
not  a'thegether  sae  great  as  they  feared,  and 
other  folk  thought  for.  The  Whigs  made  an 
unco  crawing  what  they  wad  do  with  their 
auld  enemies,  and  in  special  wi'  Sir  Robert 
Redgauntlet.  But  there  were  ower  mony 
great  folks  dipped  in  the  same  doings,  to  mak 
a  spick  and  span  new  warld.  So  Parliament 
passed  it  a'  ower  easy;  and  Sir  Robert,  bating 
that  he  was  held  to  hunting  foxes  instead  of 
Covenanters,  remained  just  the  man  he  was. 
His  revel  was  as  loud,  and  his  hall  as  weel 
lighted,  as  ever  it  had  been,  though  maybe  he 
lacked  the  fines  of  the  nonconformists,  that 
used  to  come  to  stock  his  larder  and  cellar; 
for  it  is  certain  he  began  to  be  keener  about 
the  rents  than  his  tenants  used  to  find  him 
before,  and  they  behoved  to  be  prompt  to  the 
rent-day,  or  else  the  Laird  wasna  pleased. 
And  he  was  sic  an  awsome  body,  that  naebody 
cared  to  anger  him;  for  the  oaths  he  swore, 
and  the  rage  that  he  used  to  get  into,  and  the 
looks  that  he  put  on,  made  men  sometimes 
think  him  a  devil  incarnate. 

Weel,  my  gudesire  was  nae  manager  —  no 
that  he  was  a  very  great  misguider  —  but  he 
hadna  the  saving  gift,  and  he  got  twa  terms' 
rent   in    arrear.     He   got   the    first    brash    at 


310 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 


Whitsunday  put  ower  wi'  fair  word  and  piping; 
but  when  Martinmas  came,  there  was  a  sum- 
mons from  the  grund-ofl&cer  to  come  wi'  the 
rent  on  a  day  preceese,  or  else  Steenie  behoved 
to  flit.  Sair  wark  he  had  to  get  the  siller; 
but  he  was  weel-freended,  and  at  last  he  got 
the  haill  scraped  thegether  —  a  thousand  merks 
—  the  maist  of  it  was  from  a  neighbour  they 
caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik  —  a  sly  tod.  Laurie 
had  walth  o'  gear  —  could  hunt  wi'  the  hound 
and  rin  wi'  the  hare  —  and  be  Whig  or  Tor)', 
saunt  or  sinner,  as  the  wind  stood.  He  was  a 
professor  in  this  Revolution  warld,  but  he 
liked  an  orra  sough  of  this  warld,  and  a  tune 
on  the  pipes  weel  aneugh  at  a  bytime;  and 
abune  a',  he  thought  he  had  gude  security  for 
the  siller  he  lent  my  gudesire  ower  the  stock- 
ing at  Primrose-Knowe. 

Away  trots  my  gudesire  to  Redgauntlet 
Castle  wi'  a  heavy  purse  and  a  light  heart, 
glad  to  be  out  of  the  Laird's  danger.  Weel, 
the  first  thing  he  learned  at  the  Castle  was, 
that  Sir  Robert  had  fretted  himsell  into  a  fit 
of  the  gout,  because  he  did  not  appear  before 
twelve  o'clock.  It  wasna  a'thegether  for  sake 
of  the  money,  Dougal  thought;  but  because 
he  didna  like  to  part  wi'  my  gudesire  aff  the 
grund.  Dougal  was  glad  to  see  Steenie,  and 
brought  him  into  the  great  oak  parlour,  and 
there  sat  the  Laird  his  leesome  lane,  excepting 
that  he  had  beside  him  a  great,  ill-favoured 
jackanape,  that  was  a  special  pet  of  his;  a 
cankered  beast  it  was,  and  mony  an  ill-natured 
trick  it  played  —  ill  to  please  it  was,  and 
easily  angered  —  ran  about  the  haill  castle, 
chattering  and  yowling,  and  pinching,  and  bit- 
ing folk,  specially  before  ill-weather,  or  dis- 
turbances in  the  State.  Sir  Robert  caa'd  it 
Major  Weir,  after  the  warlock  that  was  burnt ; 
and  few  folk  liked  either  the  name  or  the 
conditions  of  the  creature  —  they  thought 
there  was  something  in  it  by  ordinar  —  and 
my  gudesire  was  not  just  easy  in  mind  when 
the  door  shut  on  him,  and  he  saw  himself  in 
the  room  wi'  naebody  but  the  Laird,  Dougal 
MacCallum,  and  the  Major,  a  thing  that  hadna 
chanced  to  him  before. 

Sir  Robert  sat,  or,  I  should  say,  lay,  in  a 
great  armed  chair,  wi'  his  grand  velvet  gown, 
and  his  feet  on  a  cradle;  for  he  had  baith 
gout  and  gravel,  and  his  face  looked  as  gash 
and  ghastly  as  Satan's.  Major  Weir  sat 
opposite  to  him,  in  a  red  laced  coat,  and  the 
Laird's  wig  on  his  head ;  and  aye  as  Sir  Robert 
girned  wi'  pain,  the  jackanape  gimed  too,  like 
a  sheep's-head  between  a  pair  of  tangs  —  an 


ill-faur'd,  fearsome  couple  they  were.  The 
Laird's  buff-coat  was  hung  on  a  pin  behind 
him,  and  his  broadsword  and  his  pistols  within 
reach;  for  he  keepit  up  the  auld  fashion  of 
having  the  weapons  ready,  and  a  horse  saddled 
day  and  night,  just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he 
was  able  to  loup  on  horseback,  and  away  after 
ony  of  the  hill-folk  he  could  get  speerings  of. 
Some  said  it  was  for  fear  of  the  Whigs  taking 
vengeance,  but  I  judge  it  was  just  his  auld 
custom  —  he  wasna  gien  to  fear  ony  thing. 
The  rental-book,  wi'  its  black  cover  and  brass 
clasps,  was  lying  beside  him;  and  a  book  of 
sculduddry  sangs  was  put  betwixt  the  leaves, 
to  keep  it  open  at  the  place  where  it  bore 
evidence  against  the  Goodman  of  Primrose- 
Knowe,  as  behind  the  hand  with  his  mails 
and  duties.  Sir  Robert  gave  my  gudesire  a 
look,  as  if  he  would  have  withered  his  heart 
in  his  bosom.  Ye  maun  ken  he  had  a  way  of 
bending  his  brows,  that  men  saw  the  visible 
mark  of  a  horse-shoe  in  his  forehead,  deep 
dinted,  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  there. 

"Are  ye  come  light-handed,  ye  son  of  a 
toom  whistle?"  sai'd  Sir  Robert.  "Zounds! 
if  you  are"  — 

My  gudesire,  with  as  gude  a  countenance  as 
he  could  put  on,  made  a  leg,  and  placed  the 
bag  of  money  on  the  table  wi'  a  dash,  like  a 
man  that  does  something  clever.  The  Laird 
drew  it  to  him  hastily  —  "Is  it  all  here,  Steenie, 
man?" 

"Your  honour  will  find  it  right,"  said  my 
gudesire. 

"Here,  Dougal,"  said  the  Laird,  "gie 
Steenie  a  tass  of  brandy  down  stairs,  till  I 
count  the  siller  and  write  the  receipt." 

But  they  werena  weel  out  of  the  room,  when 
Sir  Robert  gied  a  yelloch  that  garr'd  the  Castle 
rock.  Back  ran  Dougal  —  in  flew  the  livery- 
men —  yell  on  yell  gied  the  Laird,  ilk  ane 
mair  awfu'  than  the  ither.  My  gudesire  knew 
not  whether  to  stand  or  flee,  but  he  ventured 
back  into  the  parlour,  where  a'  was  gaun 
hirdy-girdie  —  naebody  to  say  "come  in,"  or 
"gae  out."  Terribly  the  Laird  roared  for 
cauld  water  to  his  feet,  and  wine  to  cool  his 
throat;  and  Hell,  hell,  hell,  and  its  flames, 
was  aye  the  word  in  his  mouth.  They  brought 
him  water,  and  when  they  plunged  his  swoln 
feet  into  the  tub,  he  cried  out  it  was  burning; 
and  folk  say  that  it  did  bubble  and  sparkle 
like  a  seething  caldron.  He  flung  the  cup  at 
Dougal's  head,  and  said  he  had  given  him 
blood  instead  of  burgundy;  and,  sure  aneugh, 
the  lass  washed  clotted  blood  aff  the  carpet 


WANDERING    WILLIE'S    TALE 


311 


the  neist  day.  The  jackanape  they  caa'd 
Major  Weir,  it  jibbered  and  cried  as  if  it  was 
mocking  its  master;  my  gudesire's  head  was 
like  to  turn  —  he  forgot  baith  siller  and  re- 
ceipt, and  down  stairs  he  banged;  but  as  he 
ran,  the  shrieks  came  faint  and  fainter;  there 
was  a  deep-drawn  shivering  groan,  and  word 
gaed  through  the  Castle,  that  the  Laird  was 
dead. 

Weel,  away  came  my  gudesire,  wi'  his  finger 
in  his  mouth,  and  his  best  hope  was,  that 
Dougal  had  seen  the  money-bag,  and  heard  the 
Laird  speak  of  writing  the  receipt.  The  young 
Laird,  now  Sir  John,  came  from  Edinburgh, 
to  see  things  put  to  rights.  Sir  John  and  his 
father  never  gree'd  weel.  Sir  John  had 
been  bred  an  advocate,  and  afterwards  sat 
in  the  last  Scots  Parliament  and  voted  for  the 
Union,  having  gotten,  it  was  thought,  a  rug  of 
the  compensations  —  if  his  father  could  have 
come  out  of  his  grave,  he  would  have  brained 
him  for  it  on  his  awn  hearthstane.  Some 
thought  it  was  easier  counting  with  the  auld 
rough  Knight  than  the  fair-spoken  young  ane 
—  but  mair  of  that  anon. 

Dougal  MacCallum,  poor  body,  neither  grat 
nor  grained,  but  gaed  about  the  house  looking 
like 'a  corpse,  but  directing,  as  was  his  duty, 
a'  the  order  of  the  grand  funeral.  Now, 
Dougal  looked  aye  waur  and  waur  when  night 
was  coming,  and  was  aye  the  last  to  gang  to 
his  bed,  whilk  was  in  a  little  round,  just  oppo- 
site the  chamber  of  dais,  whilk  his  master 
occupied  while  he  was  living,  and  where  he 
now  lay  in  state,  as  they  caa'd  it,  weel-a-day ! 
The  night  before  the  funeral,  Dougal  could 
keep  his  awn  counsel  nae  langer;  he  came 
doun  with  his  proud  spirit,  and  fairly  asked 
auld  Hutcheon  to  sit  in  his  room  with  him 
for  an  hour.  When  they  were  in  the  round, 
Dougal  took  ae  tass  of  brandy  to  himsell,  and 
gave  another  to  Hutcheon,  and  wished  him  all 
health  and  lang  life,  and  said  that,  for  himsell, 
he  wasna  lang  for  this  world;  for  that,  every 
night  since  Sir  Robert's  death,  his  silver  call 
had  sounded  from  the  state  chamber,  just  as 
it  used  to  do  at  nights  in  his  lifetime,  to  call 
Dougal  to  help  to  turn  him  in  his  bed.  Dougal 
said,  that  being  alone  with  the  dead  on  that 
floor  of  the  tower,  (for  naebody  cared  to  wake 
Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet  like  another  corpse,) 
he  had  never  daured  to  answer  the  call,  but 
that  now  his  conscience  checked  him  for  neg- 
lecting his  duty;  for  "though  death  breaks 
service,"  said  MacCallum,  ''  it  shall  never 
break  my  service  to  Sir  Robert;   and  I  will 


answer  his  next  whistle,  so  be  you  will  stand 
by  me,  Hutcheon." 

Hutcheon  had  nae  will  to  the  wark,  but  he 
had  stood  by  Dougal  in  battle  and  broil,  and 
he  wad  not  fail  him  at  this  pinch;  so  down 
the  carles  sat  ower  a  stoup  of  brandy,  and 
Hutcheon,  who  was  something  of  a  clerk, 
would  have  read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible;  but 
Dougal  would  hear  naething  but  a  blaud  of 
Davie  Lindsay,  whilk  was  the  waur  prepara- 
tion. 

When  midnight  came,  and  the  house  was 
quiet  as  the  grave,  sure  enough  the  silver 
whistle  sounded  as  sharp  and  shrill  as  if  Sir 
Robert  was  blowing  it,  and  up  got  the  twa 
auld  servingmen,  and  tottered  into  the  room 
where  the  dead  man  lay.  Hutcheon  saw 
aneugh  at  the  first  glance;  for  there  were 
torches  in  the  room,  which  showed  him  the 
foul  fiend,  in  his  ain  shape,  sitting  on  the 
Laird's  coflin !  Ower  he  cowped  as  if  he  had 
been  dead.  He  could  not  tell  how  lang  he 
lay  in  a  trance  at  the  door,  but  when  he  gathered 
himself,  he  cried  on  his  neighbour,  and  getting 
nae  answer,  raised  the  house,  when  Dougal 
was  found  lying  dead  within  twa  steps  of  the 
bed  where  his  master's  coffin  was  placed. 
As  for  the  whistle,  it  was  gane  anes  and  aye; 
but  mony  a  time  was  it  heard  at  the  top  of 
the  house  on  the  bartizan,  and  amang  the  auld 
chimneys  and  turrets  where  the  howlets  have 
their  nests.  Sir  John  hushed  the  matter  up, 
and  the  funeral  passed  over  without  mair 
bogle-wark. 

But  when  a'  was  ower,  and  the  Laird  was 
beginning  to  settle  his  affairs,  every  tenant 
was  called  up  for  his  arrears,  and  my  gudesire 
for  the  full  sum  that  stood  against  him  in 
the  rental-book.  Weel,  away  he  trots  to  the 
Castle,  to  tell  his  story,  and  there  he  is  intro- 
duced to  Sir  John,  sitting  in  his  father's  chair, 
in  deep  mourning,  with  weepers  and  hanging 
cravat,  and  a  small  walking  rapier  by  his  side, 
instead  of  the  auld  broadsword  that  had  a 
hundred-weight  of  steel  about  it,  what  with 
blade,  chape,  and  basket-hilt.  I  have  heard 
their  communing  so  often  tauld  ower,  that 
I  almost  think  I  was  there  mysell,  though  I 
couldna  be  born  at  the  time.  (In  fact,  Alan, 
my  companion  mimicked,  with  a  good  deal  of 
humour,  the  flattering,  conciliating  tone  of  the 
tenant's  address,  and  the  hypocritical  melan- 
choly of  the  Laird's  reply.  His  grandfather, 
he  said,  had,  while  he  spoke,  his  eye  fixed  on 
the  rental-book,  as  if  it  were  a  mastiff-dog  that 
he  was  afraid  would  spring  up  and  bite  him.) 


312 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT 


"I  wuss  ye  joy,  sir,  of  the  head  seat,  and 
the  white  loaf,  and  the  braid  lairdship.  Your 
father  was  a  kind  man  to  friends  and  followers; 
muckle  grace  to  you,  Sir  John,  to  fill  his 
shoon  —  his  boots,  I  suld  say,  for  he  seldom 
wore  shoon,  unless  it  were  muils  when  he  had 
the  gout." 

"Ay,  Steenie,"  quoth  the  Laird,  sighing 
deeply,  and  putting  his  napkin  to  his  een, 
"his  was  a  sudden  call,  and  he  wall  be  missed 
in  the  country;  no  time  to  set  his  house  in 
order  —  weel  prepared  Godward,  no  doubt, 
which  is  the  root  of  the  matter  —  but  left  us 
behind  a  tangled  hesp  to  wind,  Steenie.  — 
Hem!  hem!  We  maun  go  to  business,  Stee- 
nie;   much  to  do,  and  little  time  to  do  it  in." 

Here  he  opened  the  fatal  volume.  I  have 
heard  of  a  thing  they  call  Doomsday-book  — 
I  am  clear  it  has  been  a  rental  of  back-ganging 
tenants. 

"Stephen,"  said  Sir  John,  still  in  the  same 
soft,  sleekit  tone  of  voice  —  "Stephen  Steven- 
son, or  Steenson,  ye  are  down  here  for  a 
year's  rent  behind  the  hand  —  due  at  last 
term." 

Stephen.  —  "Please  your  honour.  Sir  John, 
I  paid  it  to  your  father." 

Sir  John.  —  "Ye  took  a  receipt,  then, 
doubtless,    Stephen;     and   can   produce   it?" 

Stephen.  —  "Indeed,  I  hadna  time,  an  it 
like  your  honour;  for  nae  sooner  had  I  set 
doun  the  siller,  and  just  as  his  honour.  Sir 
Robert,  that's  gaen,  drew  it  till  him  to  count 
it,  and  write  out  the  receipt,  he  was  ta'en  wi' 
the  pains  that  removed  him." 

"That  was  unlucky,"  said  Sir  John,  after  a 
pause.  "But  ye  maybe  paid  it  in  the  pres- 
ence of  somebody.  I  want  but  a  talis  quails 
evidence,  Stephen.  I  would  go  ower  strictly 
to  work  with  no  poor  man." 

Stephen.  —  "Troth,  Sir  John,  there  was  nae- 
body  in  the  room  but  Dougal  AlacCallum  the 
butler.  But,  as  your  honour  kens,  he  has  e'en 
followed  his  auld  master." 

"Very  unlucky  again,  Stephen,"  said  Sir 
John,  without  altering  his  voice  a  single  note. 
"The  man  to  whom  ye  paid  the  money  is 
dead  —  and  the  man  who  witnessed  the  pay- 
ment is  dead  too  —  and  the  siller,  which  should 
have  been  to  the  fore,  is  neither  seen  nor  heard 
tell  of  in  the  repositories.  How  am  I  to  be- 
lieve a'  this?" 

Stephen.  —  "I  dinna  ken,  your  honour; 
but  there  is  a  bit  memorandum  note  of  the 
very  coins;  for,  God  help  me!  I  had  to 
borrow  out  of  twenty  purses;    and  I  am  sure 


that  ilka  man  there  set  down  will  take  his  grit 
oath  for  what  purpose  I  borrowed  the  money." 

Sir  John.  —  "I  have  little  doubt  ye  bor- 
rowed the  money,  Steenie.  It  is  the  payment  to 
my  father  that  I  want  to  have  some  proof  of." 

Stephen.  —  "The  siller  maun  be  about  the 
house,  Sir  John.  And  since  your  honour  never 
got  it,  and  his  honour  that  was  canna  have 
taen  it  w'i'  him,  maybe  some  of  the  family 
may  have  seen  it." 

Sir  John.  —  "We  will  examine  the  servants, 
Stephen;   that  is  but  reasonable." 

But  lackey  and  lass,  and  page  and  groom, 
all  denied  stoutly  that  they  had  ever  seen  such 
a  bag  of  money  as  my  gudesire  described. 
What  was  waur,  he  had  unluckily  not  men- 
tioned to  any  living  soul  of  them  his  purpose 
of  paying  his  rent.  Ae  quean  had  noticed 
something  under  his  arm,  but  she  took  it  for 
the  pipes. 

Sir  John  Redgauntlet  ordered  the  ser\'ants 
out  of  the  room,  and  then  said  to  my  gudesire, 
"Now,  Steenie,  ye  see  ye  have  fair  play;  and, 
as  I  have  little  doubt  ye  ken  better  where  to 
find  the  siller  than  ony  other  body,  I  beg,  in 
fair  terms,  and  for  your  own  sake,  that  you 
will  end  this  fasherie;  for,  Stephen,  ye  maun 
pay  or  flit." 

"The  Lord  forgie  your  opinion,"  said 
Stephen,  driven  almost  to  his  wit's  end  — "I 
am  an  honest  man." 

"So  am  I,  Stephen,"  said  his  honour;  "and 
so  are  all  the  folks  in  the  house,  I  hope.  But 
if  there  be  a  knave  amongst  us,  it  must  be 
he  that  tells  the  story  he  cannot  prove.  He 
paused,  and  then  added,  mair  sternly,  "If  I 
understand  your  trick,  sir,  you  want  to  take 
advantage  of  some  malicious  reports  concern- 
ing things  in  this  family,  and  particularly 
respecting  my  father's  sudden  death,  thereby 
to  cheat  me  out  of  the  money,  and  perhaps 
take  away  my  character,  by  insinuating  that  I 
have  received  the  rent  I  am  demanding.  — 
Where  do  you  suppose  this  money  to  be  ?  — 
I  insist  upon  knowing." 

My  gudesire  saw  every  thing  look  so  muckle 
against  him,  that  he  grew  nearly  desperate  — 
however,  he  shifted  from  one  foot  to  another, 
looked  to  every  corner  of  the  room,  and  made 
no  answer. 

"Speak  out,  sirrah,"  said  the  Laird,  assum- 
ing a  look  of  his  father's,  a  ver}'  particular  ane, 
which  he  had  when  he  was  angry  —  it  seemed 
as  if  the  wrinkles  of  his  frown  made  that  self- 
same fearful  shape  of  a  horse's  shoe  in  the 
middle   of   his   brow; — ^  "Speak   out,    sir!     I 


WANDERING    WILLIE'S    TALE 


3^3 


will  know  your  thoughts;  —  do  you  supjwse 
that  I  have  this  money?" 

"Far  be  it  frae  me  to  say  so,"  said  Stephen. 

"Do  you  charge  any  of  my  people  with 
having  taken  it?" 

"I  wad  be  laith  to  charge  them  that  may 
be  innocent,"  said  my  gudesire;  "and  if  there 
be  any  one  that  is  guilty,  I  have  nae  proof." 

"Somewhere  the  money  must  be,  if  there  is 
a  word  of  truth  in  your  stor}-,"  said  Sir  John ; 
"I  ask  where  you  think  it  is  —  and  demand  a 
correct  answer?" 

"In  hell,  if  you  will  have  my  thoughts  of 
it,"  said  my  gudesire,  driven  to  extremity,  — 
"in  hell!  with  your  father,  his  jackanape,  and 
his  silver  whistle." 

Down  the  stairs  he  ran,  (for  the  parlour  was 
nae  place  for  him  after  such  a  word,)  and  he 
heard  the  Laird  swearing  blood  and  wounds, 
behind  him,  as  fast  as  ever  did  Sir  Robert, 
and  roaring  for  the  bailie  and  the  baron- 
ofl&cer. 

Away  rode  my  gudesire  to  his  chief  creditor, 
(him  they  caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik,)  to  try  if  he 
could  make  ony  thing  out  of  him;  but  when 
he  tauld  his  story,  he  got  but  the  warst  word 
in  his  wame  —  thief,  beggar,  and  dyvour, 
were  the  saftest  terms;  and  to  the  boot  of 
these  hard  terms,  Laurie  brought  up  the  auld 
story  of  his  dipping  his  hand  in  the  blood  of 
God's  saunts,  just  as  if  a  tenant  could  have 
helped  riding  with  the  Laird,  and  that  a  laird 
Uke  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet.  My  gudesire 
was,  by  this  time  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
patience,  and,  while  he  and  Laurie  were  at 
deil  speed  the  liars,  he  was  wanchancie  aneugh 
to  abuse  Lapraik's  doctrine  as  weel  as  the 
man,  and  said  things  that  garr'd  folks'  flesh 
grue  that  heard  them;  —  he  wasna  just  him- 
sell,  and  he  had  lived  wi'  a  wild  set  in  his  day. 

At  last  they  parted,  and  my  gudesire  was  to 
ride  hame  through  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie, 
that  is  a'  fou  of  black  firs,  as  they  say.  —  I 
ken  the  wood,  but  the  firs  may  be  black  or 
white  for  what  I  can  tell.  —  At  the  entry  of 
the  wood  there  is  a  wild  common,  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  common,  a  little  lonely  change- 
house,  that  was  keepit  then  by  an  ostler  wife, 
they  suld  hae  caa'd  her  Tibbie  Faw,  and  there 
puir  Steenie  cried  for  a  mutchkin  of  brandy, 
for  he  had  had  no  refreshment  the  haill  day. 
Tibbie  was  earnest  wi'  him  to  take  a  bite  of 
meat,  but  he  couldna  think  o't,  nor  would  he 
take  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  and  took  off 
the  brandy  wholely  at  twa  draughts,  and 
named  a  toast  at  each :  —  the  first  was,  the 


memory  of  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet,  and  might 
he  never  lie  quiet  in  his  grave  till  he  had 
righted  his  poor  bond-tenant;  and  the  second 
was,  a  health  to  Man's  Enemy,  if  he  would 
but  get  him  back  the  pock  of  siller,  or  tell 
him  what  came  o't,  for  he  saw  the  haill  world 
was  like  to  regard  him  as  a  thief  and  a  cheat, 
and  he  took  that  waur  than  even  the  ruin  of 
his  house  and  hauld. 

On  he  rode,  little  caring  where.  It  was  a 
dark  night  turned,  and  the  trees  made  it  yet 
darker,  and  he  let  the  beast  take  its  ain  road 
through  the  wood;  when  all  of  a  sudden, 
from  tired  and  wearied  that  it  was  before, 
the  nag  began  to  spring,  and  flee,  and  stend, 
that  my  gudesire  could  hardly  keep  the  saddle. 
- —  Upon  the  whilk,  a  horseman,  suddenly 
riding  up  beside  him,  said,  "That's  a  mettle 
beast  of  yours,  freend;  will  you  sell  him?" 
■ —  So  saying,  he  touched  the  horse's  neck  with 
his  riding-wand,  and  it  fell  into  its  auld  heigh-ho 
of  a  stumbling  trot.  "But  his  spunk's  soon 
out  of  him,  I  think,"  continued  the  stranger, 
"and  that  is  like  mony  a  man's  courage,  that 
thinks  he  wad  do  great  things  till  he  come  to 
the  proof." 

My  gudesire  scarce  listened  to  this,  but 
spurred  his  horse,  with  "Gude  e'en  to  you, 
freend." 

But  it's  like  the  stranger  was  ane  that  doesna 
lightly  yield  his  point;  for,  ride  as  Steenie 
liked,  he  was  aye  beside  him  at  the  self-same 
pace.  At  last  my  gudesire,  Steenie  Steenson, 
grew  half  angry;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  half 
feared. 

"What  is  it  that  ye  want  with  me,  freend?" 
he  said,  "If  ye  be  a  robber,  I  have  nae  money; 
if  ye  be  a  leal  man,  wanting  company,  I  have 
nae  heart  to  mirth  or  speaking;  and  if  ye 
want  to  ken  the  road,  I  scarce  ken  it  mysell." 

"If  you  will  tell  me  your  grief,"  said  the 
stranger,  "I  am  one,  that,  though  I  have  been 
sair  miscaa'd  in  the  world,  am  the  only  hand 
for  helping  my  freends." 

So  my  gudesire,  to  ease  his  ain  heart,  mair 
than  from  any  hope  of  help,  told  him  the 
story  from  beginning  to  end. 

"It's  a  hard  pinch,"  said  the  stranger; 
"but  I  think  I  can  help  you." 

"If  you  could  lend  the  money,  sir,  and  take 
a  lang  day  —  I  ken  nae  other  help  on  earth," 
said  my  gudesire. 

"But  there  may  be  some  under  the  earth," 
said  the  stranger.  "Come,  I'll  be  frank  wi' 
you;  I  could  lend  you  the  money  on  bond, 
but   you    would    maybe    scruple    my    terms. 


314 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


Now,  I  can  tell  you,  that  your  auld  Laird  is 
disturbed  in  his  grave  by  your  curses,  and  the 
wailing  of  your  family,  and  if  ye  daur  ven- 
ture to  go  to  see  him,  he  will  give  you  the 
receipt." 

My  gudesire's  hair  stood  on  end  at  this 
proposal,  but  he  thought  his  companion  might 
be  some  humoursome  chield  that  was  trying  to 
frighten  him,  and  might  end  with  lending  him 
the  money.  Besides,  he  was  bauld  wi'  brandy, 
and  desparate  wi'  distress;  and  he  said  he  had 
courage  to  go  to  the  gate  of  hell,  and  a  step 
farther,  for  that  receipt.  —  The  stranger  laughed. 

Weel,  they  rode  on  through  the  thickest  of 
the  wood,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  horse 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  great  house;  and, 
but  that  he  knew  the  place  was  ten  miles  off, 
my  father  would  have  thought  he  was  at  Red- 
gauntlet  Castle.  They  rode  into  the  outer 
court-yard,  through  the  muckle  faulding  yetts, 
and  aneath  the  auld  portcullis;  and  the  whole 
front  of  the  house  was  lighted,  and  there  were 
pipes  and  fiddles,  and  as  much  dancing  and 
deray  within  as  used  to  be  at  Sir  Robert's 
house  at  Pace  and  Yule,  and  such  high  seasons. 
They  lap  off,  and  my  gudesire,  as  seemed  to 
him,  fastened  his  horse  to  the  very  ring  he 
had  tied  him  to  that  morning,  when  he  gaed 
to  wait  on  the  young  Sir  John. 

"God!"  said  my  gudesire,  "if  Sir  Robert's 
death  be  but  a  dream !" 

He  knocked  at  the  ha'  door  just  as  he  was 
wont,  and  his  auld  acquaintance,  Dougal 
MacCallum,  —  just  after  his  wont,  too,  — ■ 
came  to  open  the  door,  and  said,  "Piper 
Steenie,  are  ye  there,  lad?  Sir  Robert  has 
been  crying  for  you." 

My  gudesire  was  like  a  man  in  a  dream  — 
he  looked  for  the  stranger,  but  he  was  gane 
for  the  time.  At  last  he  just  tried  to  say, 
"Ha!  Dougal  Driveower,  are  ye  living?  I 
thought  ye  had  been  dead." 

"Never  fash  yoursell  wi'  me,"  said  Dougal, 
"but  look  to  yoursell;  and  see  ye  tak  naething 
frae  ony  body  here,  neither  meat,  drink,  or 
siller,  except  just  the  receipt  that  is  your  ain." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  out  through  halls 
and  trances  that  were  weel  kend  to  my  gude- 
sire, and  into  the  auld  oak  parlour;  and  there 
was  as  much  singing  of  profane  sangs,  and 
birling  of  red  wine,  and  speaking  blasphemy 
and  sculduddry,  as  had  ever  been  in  Red- 
gauntlet  Castle  when  it  was  at  the  blithest. 

But,  Lord  take  us  in  keeping,  what  a  set 
of  ghastly  revellers  they  were  that  sat  around 
that   table!  — My  gudesire  kend  mony   that 


had  long  before  gane  to  their  place,  for  often 
had  he  piped  to  the  most  part  in  the  hall  of 
Redgauntiet.  There  was  the  fierce  Middle- 
ton,  and  the  dissolute  Rothes,  and  the  crafty 
Lauderdale;  and  Dalyell,  with  his  bauld  head 
and  a  beard  to  his  girdle;  and  Earlshall,  with 
Cameron's  blude  on  his  hand;  and  wild  Bon- 
shaw,  that  tied  blessed  Mr.  Cargill's  limbs  till 
the  blude  sprung;  and  Dunbarton  Douglas, 
the  twice-turned  traitor  baith  to  country  and 
king.  There  was  the  Bluidy  Advocate  INIac- 
Kenyie,  who,  for  his  worldly  wit  and  wisdom, 
had  been  to  the  rest  as  a  god.  And  there  was 
Claverhouse,  as  beautiful  as  when  he  lived, 
with  his  long,  dark,  curled  locks,  streaming 
down  over  his  laced  buff-coat,  and  his  left 
hand  always  on  his  right  spule-blade,  to  hide 
the  wound  that  the  silver  bullet  had  made. 
He  sat  apart  from  them  all,  and  looked  at 
them  with  a  melancholy,  haughty  countenance ; 
while  the  rest  hallooed,  and  sung,  and  laughed, 
that  the  room  rang.  But  their  smiles  were 
fearfully  contorted  from  time  to  time;  and 
their  laughter  passed  into  such  wild  sounds, 
as  made  my  gudesire's  very  nails  grow  blue, 
and  chilled  the  marrow  in  his  banes. 

They  that  waited  at  the  table  were  just  the 
wicked  serving-men  and  troopers,  that  had 
done  their  work  and  cruel  bidding  on  earth. 
There  was  the  Lang  Lad  of  the  Nethertown, 
that  helped  to  take  Argyle;  and  the  Bishop's 
summoner,  that  they  called  the  Deil's  Rattle- 
bag;  and  the  wicked  guardsmen  in  their  laced 
coats;  and  the  savage  Highland  Amorites, 
that  shed  blood  like  water;  and  many  a  proud 
serving-man,  haughty  of  heart  and  bloody  of 
hand,  cringing  to  the  rich,  and  making  them 
wickeder  than  they  would  be;  grinding  the 
poor  to  powder,  when  the  rich  had  broken 
them  to  fragments.  And  mony,  mony  mair 
were  coming  and  ganging,  a'  as  busy  in  their 
vocation  as  if  they  had  been  alive. 

Sir  Robert  Redgauntiet,  in  the  midst  of  a' 
this  fearful  riot,  cried,  wi'  a  voice  like  thunder, 
on  Steenie  Piper  to  come  to  the  board-head 
where  he  was  sitting;  his  legs  stretched  out 
before  him,  and  swathed  up  with  flannel,  with 
his  holster  pistols  aside  him,  while  the  great 
broadsword  rested  against  his  chair,  just  as 
my  gudesire  had  seen  him  the  last  time  upon 
earth  —  the  very  cushion  for  the  jackanape 
was  close  to  him,  but  the  creature  itsell  was 
not  there  —  it  wasna  its  hour,  it's  likely;  for 
he  heard  them  say,  as  he  came  forward,  "Is 
not  the  Major  come  yet?"  And  another 
answered,  "The  jackanape  will  be  here  be- 


WANDERING    WILLIE'S    TALE 


315 


times  the  morn."  And  when  my  gudesire 
came  forward,  Sir  Robert,  or  his  ghaist,  or 
the  deevil  in  his  likeness,  said,  "Weel,  piper, 
hae  ye  settled  wi'  my  son  for  the  year's  rent?" 

With  much  ado  my  father  gat  breath  to  say, 
that  Sir  John  would  not  settle  without  his 
honour's  receipt. 

"Ye  shall  hae  that  for  a  tunc  of  the  pipes, 
Steenie,"  said  the  appearance  of  Sir  Robert  — 
"Play  us  up,  'Weel  hoddled,  Luckie.'  " 

Now  this  was  a  tune  my  gudesire  learned 
frae  a  warlock,  that  heard  it  when  they  were 
worshipping  Satan  at  their  meetings;  and  my 
gudesire  had  sometimes  played  it  at  the  ranting 
suppers  in  Redgauntlet  Castle,  but  never  very 
willingly;  and  now  he  grew  cauld  at  the  very 
name  of  it,  and  said,  for  excuse,  he  hadna  his 
pipes  wi'  him. 

"MacCallum,  ye  limb  of  Beelzebub,"  said 
the  fearfu'  Sir  Robert,  "bring  Steenie  the  pipes 
that  I  am  keeping  for  him !" 

MacCallum  brought  a  pairof  pipes  might  have 
served  the  piper  of  Donald  of  the  Isles.  But 
he  gave  my  gudesire  a  nudge  as  he  offered  them ; 
and  looking  secretly  and  closely,  Steenie  saw 
that  the  chanter  was  of  steel,  and  heated  to  a 
white  heat;  so  he  had  fair  warning  not  to  trust 
his  fingers  with  it.  So  he  excused  himself 
again,  and  said,  he  was  faint  and  frightened, 
and  had  not  wind  aneugh  to  fill  the  bag. 

"Then  ye  maun  eat  and  drink,  Steenie," 
said  the  figure;  "for  we  do  little  else  here; 
and  it's  ill  speaking  between  a  fou  man  and  a 
fasting." 

Now  these  were  the  very  words  that  the 
bloody  Earl  of  Douglas  said  to  keep  the  King's 
messenger  in  hand,  while  he  cut  the  head  off 
MacLellan  of  Bombie,  at  the  Threave  Castle, 
and  that  put  Steenie  mair  and  mair  on  his 
guard.  So  he  spoke  up  like  a  man,  and  said  he 
came  neither  to  eat,  or  drink,  or  make  min- 
strelsy; but  simply  for  his  ain  —  to  ken  what 
was  come  o'  the  money  he  had  paid,  and  to  get 
a  discharge  for  it;  and  he  was  so  stout-hearted 
by  this  time,  that  he  charged  Sir  Robert  for 
conscience-sake  —  (he  had  no  power  to  say  the 
holy  name)  —  and  as  he  hoped  for  peace  and 
rest,  to  spread  no  snares  for  him,  but  just  to 
give  him  his  ain. 

The  appearance  gnashed  its  teeth  and 
laughed,  but  it  took  from  a  large  pocket-book 
the  receipt,  and  handed  it  to  Steenie.  "There 
is  your  receipt,  ye  pitiful  cur;  and  for  the 
money,  my  dog-whelp  of  a  son  may  go  look  for 
it  in  the  Cat's  Cradle." 

My  gudesire  uttered  mony  thanks,  and  was 


about  to  retire,  when  Sir  Robert  roared  aloud, 
"Stop,  though,  thou  sack-doudling  son  of  a 
whore !  I  am  not  done  with  thee.  Here  we 
do  nothing  for  nothing;  and  you  must  return 
on  this  very  day  twelvemonth,  to  pay  your 
master  the  homage  that  you  owe  me  for  my 
protection." 

My  father's  tongue  was  loosed  of  a  suddenty, 
and  he  said  aloud,  "I  refer  mysell  to  God's 
pleasure,  and  not  to  yours." 

He  had  no  sooner  uttered  the  word  than  all 
was  dark  around  him ;  and  he  sunk  on  the  earth 
with  such  a  sudden  shock,  that  he  lost  both 
breath  and  sense. 

How  lang  Steenie  lay  there,  he  could  not  tell; 
but  when  he  came  to  himsell,  he  was  lying  in 
the  auld  kirkyard  of  Redgauntlet  parochine, 
just  at  the  door  of  the  family  aisle,  and  the 
scutcheon  of  the  auld  knight.  Sir  Robert,  hang- 
ing over  his  head.  There  was  a  deep  morning 
fog  on  grass  and  gravestane  around  him,  and  his 
horse  was  feeding  quietly  beside  the  minister's 
twa  cows.  Steenie  would  have  thought  the 
whole  was  a  dream,  but  he  had  the  receipt  in 
his  hand,  fairly  written  and  signed  by  the  auld 
Laird;  only  the  last  letters  of  his  name  were  a 
little  disorderly,  written  like  one  seized  with 
sudden  pain. 

Sorely  troubled  in  his  mind,  he  left  that 
dreary  place,  rode  through  the  mist  to  Red- 
gauntlet Castle,  and  with  much  ado  he  got 
speech  of  the  Laird. 

"Well,  you  dy\'our  bankrupt,"  was  the  first 
word,  "have  you  brought  me  my  rent?^" 

"No,"  answered  my  gudesire,  "I  have  not; 
but  I  have  brought  your  honour  Sir  Robert's 
receipt  for  it." 

"How,  sirrah?  —  Sir  Robert's  receipt!  — 
You  told  me  he  had  not  given  you  one." 

"Will  your  honour  please  to  see  if  that  bit 
line  is  right?" 

Sir  John  looked  at  every  line,  and  at  every 
letter,  with  much  attention;  and  at  last,  at  the 
date,  which  my  gudesire  had  not  observed, 
—  "From  my  appointed  place,'"  he  read,  "this 
twenty -fifth  of  November."  —  "What !  —  That 
is  yesterday  !  —  Villain,  thou  must  have  gone  to 
hell  for  this!" 

"I  got  it  from  your  honour's  father — whether 
he  be  in  heaven  or  hell,  I  know  not,"  said 
Steenie. 

"I  will  delate  you  for  a  warlock  to  the  Privy 
Council!"  said  Sir  John.  "I  will  send  you  to 
your  master,  the  devil,  with  the  help  of  a  tar- 
barrel  and  a  torch !" 

"I  intend  to  delate  mysell  to   the   Presby- 


3i6 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


tcry,"  said  Steenie,  "and  tell  them  all  I  have 
seen  last  night,  whilk  are  things  fitter  for  them 
to  judge  of  than  a  borrel  man  like  me." 

Sir  John  paused,  composed  himsell  and 
desired  to  hear  the  full  history;  and  my 
gudesire  told  it  him  from  point  to  point,  as  I 
have  told  it  you  —  word  for  word,  neither  more 
nor  less. 

Sir  John  was  silent  again  for  a  long  tinie, 
and  at  last  he  said,  very  composedly,  "Steenie, 
this  story  of  yours  concerns  the  honour  of  many 
a  noble  family  besides  mine;  and  if  it  be  a 
leasing-making,  to  keep  yourself  out  of  my 
danger,  the  least  you  can  expect  is  to  have  a 
redhot  iron  driven  through  your  tongue,  and 
that  will  be  as  bad  as  scauding  your  fingers 
wi'  a  redhot  chanter.  But  yet  it  may  be  true, 
Steenie;  and  if  the  money  cast  up,  I  shall  not 
know  what  to  think  of  it.  —  But  where  shall 
we  find  the  Cat's  Cradle?  There  are  cats 
enough  about  the  old  house,  but  I  think  they 
kitten  without  the  ceremony  of  bed  or  cradle." 

"We  were  best  ask  Hutcheon,"  said  my 
gudesire;  "he  kens  a'  the  odd  corners  about 
as  weel  as  —  another  serving-man  that  is  now 
gane,  and  that  I  wad  not  like  to  name." 

Aweel,  Hutcheon,  when  he  was  asked,  told 
them,  that  a  ruinous  turret,  lang  disused,  next 
to  the  clock-house,  only  accessible  by  a  ladder, 
for  the  opening  was  on  the  outside,  and  far 
above  the  battlements,  was  called  of  old  the 
Cat's  Cradle. 

"There  will  I  go  immediately,"  said  Sir  John; 
and  he  took  (with  what  purpose.  Heaven  kens) 
one  of  his  father's  pistols  from  the  hall-table, 
where  they  had  lain  since  the  night  he  died, 
and  hastened  to  the  battlements. 

It  was  a  dangerous  place  to  climb,  for  the 
ladder  was  auld  and  frail,  and  wanted  ane  or 
twa  rounds.  However,  up  got  Sir  John,  and 
entered  at  the  turret-door,  where  his  body 
stopped  the  only  httle  light  that  was  in  the  bit 
turret.  Something  flees  at  him  wi'  a  vengeance, 
maist  dang  him  back  ower  —  bang  gaed  the 
knight's  pistol,  and  Hutcheon,  that  held  the 
ladder,  and  my  gudesire  that  stood  beside  him, 
hears  a  loud  skelloch.  A  minute  after.  Sir  John 
flings  the  body  of  the  jackanape  down  to  them, 
and  cries  that  the  siller  is  fund,  and  that  they 
should  come  up  and  help  him.  And  there  was 
the  bag  of  siller  sure  aneugh,  and  mony  orra 
things  besides,  that  had  been  missing  for  mony 
a  day.  And  Sir  John,  when  he  had  riped  the 
turret  weel,  led  my  gudesire  into  the  dining- 
parlour,  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  spoke 
kindly  to  him,  and  said  he  was  sorry  he  should 


have  doubted  his  word,  and  that  he  would 
hereafter  be  a  good  master  to  him,  to  make 
amends. 

"And  now,  Steenie,"  said  Sir  John,  "although 
this  vision  of  yours  tends,  on  the  whole,  to 
my  father's  credit,  as  an  honest  man,  that  he 
should,  even  after  his  death,  desire  to  see 
justice  done  to  a  poor  man  like  you,  yet  you  are 
sensible  that  ill-dispositioned  men  might  make 
bad  constructions  upon  it,  concerning  his  soul's 
health.  So,  I  think,  we  had  better  lay  the  haill 
dirdum  on  that  ill-deedie  creature.  Major 
Weir,  and  say  naething  about  your  dream 
in  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie.  You  had  taken 
ower  muckle  brandy  to  be  very  certain  about 
ony  thing;  and,  Steenie,  this  receipt,"  (his 
hand  shook  while  he  held  it  out,)  —  "it's 
but  a  queer  kind  of  document,  and  we  will  do 
best,  I  think,  to  put  it  quietly  in  the  fire." 

"Od,  but  for  as  queer  as  it  is,  it's  a'  the 
voucher  I  have  for  my  rent,"  said  my  gudesire, 
who  was  afraid,  it  may  be,  of  losing  the  benefit 
of  Sir  Robert's  discharge. 

"I  will  bear  the  contents  to  your  credit  in 
the  rental-book,  and  give  you  a  discharge  under 
my  own  hand,"  said  Sir  John,  "and  that  on  the 
spot.  And,  Steenie,  if  you  can  hold  your  tongue 
about  this  matter,  you  shall  sit,  from  this  term 
downward,  at  an  easier  rent." 

"Mony  thanks  to  your  honour,"  said  Steenie, 
who  saw  easily  in  what  corner  the  wind  was; 
"doubtless  I  will  be  conformable  to  all  your  hon- 
our's commands;  only  I  would  willingly  speak 
wi'  some  powerful  minister  on  the  subject, 
for  I  do  not  like  the  sort  of  soumons  of  appoint- 
ment whilk  your  honour's  father" — 

"Do  not  call  the  phantom  my  father!"  said 
Sir  John,  interrupting  him. 

"Weel,  then,  the  thing  that  was  so  like  him," 
said  my  gudesire;  "he  spoke  of  my  coming 
back  to  him  this  time  twelvemonth,  and  it's 
a  weight  on  my  conscience." 

"Aweel,  then,"  said  Sir  John,  "if  you  be  so 
much  distressed  in  mind,  you  may  speak  to 
our  minister  of  the  parish;  he  is  a  douce  man, 
regards  the  honour  of  our  family,  and  the  mair 
that  he  may  look  for  some  patronage  from  me." 

W'i'  that,  my  father  readily  agreed  that  the 
receipt  should  be  burnt,  and  the  Laird  threw 
it  into  the  chimney  with  his  ain  hand.  Burn 
it  would  not  for  them,  though;  but  away  it 
flew  up  the  lumb,  wi'  a  lang  train  of  sparks 
at  its  tail,  and  a  hissing  noise  like  a  squib. 

My  gudesire  gaed  down  to  the  Manse,  and 
the  minister,  when  he  had  heard  the  story,  said, 
it  was  his  real  opinion,  that  though  my  gudesire 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


2>n 


had  gaen  very  far  in  tampering  with  dangerous 
matters,  yet,  as  he  had  refused  the  devil's 
arles,  (for  such  was  the  offer  of  meat  and  drink,) 
and  had  refused  to  do  homage  by  piping  at  his 
bidding,  he  hoped,  that  if  he  held  a  circumspect 
walk  hereafter,  Satan  could  take  little  ad- 
vantage by  what  was  come  and  gane.  And, 
indeed,  my  gudesire,  of  his  ain  accord,  lang 
foreswore  baith  the  pipes  and  the  brandy  — 
it  was  not  even  till  the  year  was  out,  and  the 
fatal  day  past,  that  he  would  so  much  as  take 
the  fiddle,  or  drink  usquebaugh  or  tippenny. 
Sir  John  made  up  his  stor)^  about  the  jack- 
anape  as  he  liked  himsell;  and  some  believe 
till  this  day  there  was  no  more  in  the  matter 
than  the  filching  nature  of  the  brute.  Indeed, 
ye' 11  no  hinder  some  to  threap,  that  it  was  nane 
o'  the  auld  Enemy  that  Dougal  and  my  gude- 
sire saw  in  the  Laird's  room,  but  only  that 
wanchancy  creature,  the  Major,  capering  on 
the  cofim;  and  that,  as  to  the  blawing  on  the 
Laird's  whistle  that  was  heard  after  he  was 
dead,  the  filthy  brute  could  do  that  as  weel  as  the 
Laird  himsell,  if  no  better.  But  Heaven  kens 
the  truth,  whilk  first  came  out  by  the  minister's 
wife,  after  Sir  John  and  her  ain  gudeman  were 
baith  in  the  moulds.  And  then  my  gudesire, 
wha  was  failed  in  his  limbs,  but  not  in  his 
judgment  or  memory  —  at  least  nothing  to  speak 
of  —  was  obliged  to  tell  the  real  narrative  to  his 
freends,  for  the  credit  of  his  good  name.  He 
might  else  have  been  charged  for  a  warlock. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

BIOGRAPHIA    LITERARIA 
CHAP.   XIV 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth 
and  I  WTre  neighbours,  our  conversations  turned 
frequently  on  the  two  cardinal  points  of  poetry, 
the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the 
reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of 
nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of 
novelty  by  the  modifying  colours  of  imagination. 
The  sudden  charm,  which  accidents  of  light  and 
shade,  which  moonlight  or  sunset,  diffused  over 
a  known  and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to 
represent  the  practicability  of  combining  both. 
These  are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The  thought 
suggested  itself  (to  which  of  us  I  do  not 
recollect)  that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  com- 
posed of  two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents 
and  agents  were  to  be,  in  part  at  least,  super- 


natural; and  the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to 
consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by 
the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions,  as  would 
naturally  accompany  such  situations,  suppos- 
ing them  real.  And  real  in  this  sense  they 
have  been  to  every  human  being  who,  from 
whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time 
believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency. 
For  the  second  class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen 
from  ordinar}'  life;  the  characters  and  incidents 
were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every  village 
and  its  vicinity  where  there  is  a  meditative 
and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to  notice 
them  when  they  present  themselves. 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  "Lyri- 
cal Ballads";  in  which  it  was  agreed  that  my 
endeavours  should  be  directed  to  persons  and 
characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic; 
yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  a 
human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth  suffi- 
cient to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagina- 
tion that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief  for  the 
moment,  which  constitutes  poetic  faith.  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  to  propose 
to  himself  as  his  object,  to  give  the  charm  of 
novelty  to  things  of  ever}'  day,  and  to  excite 
a  feeling  analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by 
awakening  the  mind's  attention  from  the  leth- 
argy of  custom,  and  directing  it  to  the  loveliness 
and  the  wonders  of  the  world  before  us;  an 
inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  which,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  film  of  familiarity  and  selfish 
solicitude,  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not,  ears  that 
hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither  feel  nor  under- 
stand. 

With  this  view  I  wrote  the  "Ancient  Mariner," 
and  was  preparing,  among  other  poems,  the 
"Dark  Ladie,"  and  the  "Christabel,"  in  which 
I  should  have  more  nearly  realised  my  ideal 
than  I  had  done  in  my  first  attempt.  But  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  industry  had  proved  so  much 
more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his  poems 
so  much  greater,  that  my  compositions,  instead 
of  forming  a  balance,  appeared  rather  an 
interpolation  of  heterogeneous  matter.  Mr. 
Wordsworth  added  two  or  three  poems  written 
in  his  own  character,  in  the  impassioned,  lofty, 
and  sustained  diction  which  is  characteristic 
of  his  genius.  In  this  form  the  "Lyrical 
Ballads"  were  published;  and  were  presented 
by  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether  subjects, 
which  from  their  nature  rejected  the  usual 
ornaments  and  extra-colloquial  style  of  poems 
in  general,  might  not  be  so  managed  in  the 
language  of  ordinary  life  as  to  produce  the 
pleasurable   interest  which  it  is  the  peculiar 


3ii 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 


business  of  poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second 
edition  he  added  a  preface  of  considerable 
length;  in  which,  notwithstanding  some  pas- 
sages of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
understood  to  contend  for  the  extension  of 
this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject 
as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  phrases  and 
forms  of  style  that  were  not  included  in  what  he 
(unfortunately,  I  think,  adopting  an  equivocal 
expression)  called  the  language  of  real  life. 
From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems  in  which 
it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence  of  orig- 
inal genius,  however  mistaken  its  direction 
might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long-con- 
tinued controversy.  For  from  the  conjunction 
of  perceived  power  with  supposed  heresy  I  ex- 
plain the  inveteracy,  and  in  some  instances, 
I  grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with 
which  the  controversy  has  been  conducted  by 
the  assailants. 

Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the  silly, 
the  childish  things  which  they  were  for  a  long 
time  described  as  being;  had  they  been  really 
distinguished  from  the  compositions  of  other 
poets  merely  by  meanness  of  language  and 
inanity  of  thought;  had  they  indeed  contained 
nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the  parodies 
and  pretended  imitations  of  them;  they  must 
have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead  weight,  into  the 
slough  of  oblivion,  and  have  dragged  the 
preface  along  with  them.  But  year  after  year 
increased  the  number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
admirers.  They  were  found,  too,  not  in  the 
lower  classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly 
among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility  and 
meditative  minds;  and  their  admiration  (in- 
flamed perhaps  in  some  degree  by  opposition) 
was  distinguished  by  its  intensity,  I  might 
almost  say,  by  its  religious  fervour.  These 
facts,  and  the  intellectual  energy  of  the  author, 
which  was  more  or  less  consciously  felt,  where 
it  was  outwardly  and  even  boisterously  denied, 
meeting  with  sentiments  of  aversion  to  his 
opinions,  and  of  alarm  at  their  consequences, 
produced  an  eddy  of  criticism,  which  would  of 
itself  have  borne  up  the  poems  by  the  violence 
with  which  it  whirled  them  round  and  round. 
With  many  parts  of  this  preface,  in  the  sense 
attributed  to  them,  and  which  the  words  un- 
doubtedly seem  to  authorise,  I  never  con- 
curred; but,  on  the  contrary,  objected  to  them 
as  erroneous  in  principle,  and  as  contradictory 
(in  appearance  at  least)  both  to  other  parts  of 
the  same  preface  and  to  the  author's  own 
practice  in  the  greater  number  of  the  poems 
themselves.     Mr.   Wordsworth,    in   his  recent 


collection,  has,  I  find,  degraded  this  prefatory 
disquisition  to  the  end  of  his  second  volume, 
to  be  read  or  not  at  the  reader's  choice.  But 
he  has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  announced 
any  change  in  his  poetic  creed.  At  all  events, 
considering  it  as  the  source  of  a  controversy, 
in  which  I  have  been  honoured  more  than  I 
deserve  by  the  frequent  conjunction  of  my  name 
with  his,  I  think  it  expedient  to  declare,  once  for 
all,  in  what  points  I  coincide  with  his  opinions, 
and  in  what  points  I  altogether  differ.  But 
in  order  to  render  myself  intelligible,  I  must 
previously,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  explain 
my  ideas,  first,  of  a  poem;  and  secondly,  of 
poetry  itself,  in  kind  and  in  essence. 

The  office  of  philosophical  disquisition  con- 
sists in  just  distinction ;  while  it  is  the  privilege 
of  the  philosopher  to  preserve  himself  con- 
stantly aware  that  distinction  is  not  division. 
In  order  to  obtain  adequate  notions  of  any 
truth,  we  must  intellectually  separate  its  dis- 
tinguishable parts;  and  this  is  the  technical 
process  of  philosophy.  But  having  so  done, 
we  must  then  restore  them  in  our  conceptions 
to  the  unity  in  which  they  actually  coexist; 
and  this  is  the  result  of  philosophy.  A  poem 
contains  the  same  elements  as  a  prose  com- 
position; the  difference,  therefore,  must  con- 
sist in  a  different  combination  of  them,  in 
consequence  of  a  different  object  proposed. 
According  to  the  difference  of  the  object  will  be 
the  difference  of  the  combination.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  the  object  may  be  merely  to  facilitate 
the  recollection  of  any  given  facts  or  observa- 
tions by  artificial  arrangement;  and  the  com- 
position will  be  a  poem,  merely  because  it  is 
distinguished  from  prose  by  metre,  or  by  rhyme, 
or  by  both  conjointly.  In  this,  the  lowest  sense, 
a  man  might  attribute  the  name  of  a  poem  to  the 
well-known  enumeration  of  the  days  in  the 
several  months: 

"Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November, "  etc. 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  purpose. 
And  as  a  particular  pleasure  is  found  in  an- 
ticipating the  recurrence  of  sound  and  quanti- 
ties, all  compositions  that  have  this  charm  su- 
peradded, whatever  be  their  contents,  may  be 
entitled  poems. 

So  much  for  the  superficial  form.  A  differ- 
ence of  object  and  contents  supplies  an  addi- 
tional ground  of  distinction.  The  immediate 
purpose  may  be  the  communication  of  truths: 
either  of  truth  absolute  and  demonstrable,  as  in 


BIOGRAPHIA    LITERARIA 


319 


works  of  science;  or  of  facts  experienced  and 
recorded,  as  in  history.  Pleasure,  and  that 
of  the  highest  and  most  permanent  kind,  may 
result  from  the  attainment  of  the  end;  but  it 
is  not  itself  the  immediate  end.  In  other  works 
the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be  the 
immediate  purpose;  and  though  truth,  either 
moral  or  intellectual,  ought  to  be  the  ultimate 
end,  yet  this  will  distinguish  the  character  of  the 
author,  not  the  class  to  which  the  work  belongs. 
Blest  indeed  is  that  state  of  society,  in  which  the 
immediate  purpose  would  be  baffled  by  the 
perversion  of  the  proper  ultimate  end;  in  which 
no  charm  of  diction  or  imagery  could  exempt 
the  Bathyllus  even  of  an  Anacreon,  or  the  Alexis 
of  Virgil,  from  disgust  and  aversion ! 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may  be 
the  immediate  object  of  a  work  not  metrically 
composed;  and  that  object  may  have  been  in  a 
high  degree  attained,  as  in  novels  and  romances. 
Would  then  the  mere  superaddition  of  metre, 
with  or  without  rhyme,  entitle  these  to  the 
name  of  poems?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing 
can  permanently  please,  which  does  not  contain 
in  itself  the  reason  why  it  is  so,  and  not  other- 
wise. If  metre  be  superadded,  all  other  parts 
must  be  made  consonant  with  it.  They  must 
be  such  as  to  justify  the  perpetual  and  distinct 
attention  to  each  part,  which  an  exact  cor- 
respondent recurrence  of  accent  and  sound  are 
calculated  to  excite.  The  final  definition  then, 
so  deduced,  may  be  thus  worded.  A  poem  is 
that  species  of  composition,  which  is  opposed 
to  works  of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  im- 
mediate object  pleasure,  not  truth;  and  from 
all  other  species  (having  this  object  in  common 
with  it)  it  is  discriminated  by  proposing  to 
itself  such  delight  from  the  whole,  as  is  com- 
patible with  a  distinct  gratification  from  each 
component  part. 

Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in  conse- 
quence of  the  disputants  attaching  each  a  dif- 
ferent meaning  to  the  same  word;  and  in  few 
instances  has  this  been  more  striking  than  in 
disputes  concerning  the  present  subject.  If  a 
man  chooses  to  call  every  composition  a  poem, 
which  is  rhyme,  or  measure,  or  both,  I  must 
leave  his  opinion  uncontroverted.  The  dis- 
tinction is  at  least  competent  to  characterise 
the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were  subjoined, 
that  the  whole  is  likewise  entertaining  or 
affecting  as  a  tale,  or  as  a  series  of  interesting 
reflections,  I  of  course  admit  this  as  another  fit 
ingredient  of  a  poem,  and  an  additional  merit. 
But  if  the  definition  sought  for  be  that  of  a 
legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must  be  one  the 


parts  of  which  mutually  support  and  explain 
each  other;  all  in  their  proportion  harmo- 
nising with,  and  supporting  the  purpose  and 
known  influences  of  metrical  arrangement.  The 
philosophic  critics  of  all  ages  coincide  with  the 
ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries,  in  equally 
denying  the  praises  of  a  just  poem,  on  the  one 
hand  to  a  series  of  striking  lines  or  distichs, 
each  of  which  absorbing  the  whole  attention  of 
the  reader  to  itself,  disjoins  it  from  its  context, 
and  makes  it  a  separate  whole,  instead  of  a 
harmonising  part ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  to  an 
unsustained  composition,  from  which  the  reader 
collects  rapidly  the  general  result  unattracted 
by  the  component  parts.  The  reader  should 
be  carried  forward,  not  merely  or  chiefly  by  the 
mechanical  impulse  of  curiosity,  or  by  a  rest- 
less desire  to  arrive  at  the  final  solution ;  but  by 
the  pleasurable  activity  of  mind  excited  by  the 
attractions  of  the  journey  itself.  Like  the  mo- 
tion of  a  serpent,  which  the  Egyptians  made 
the  emblem  of  intellectual  power;  or  like  the 
path  of  sound  through  the  air,  at  every  step  he 
pauses  and  half  recedes,  and  from  the  retro- 
gressive movement  collects  the  force  which  again 
carries  him  onward,  Praecipiiandus  est  liber 
spiritus,^  says  Petronius  Arbiter  most  happily. 
The  epithet,  liber,  here  balances  the  preceding 
verb :  and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  more  mean- 
ing condensed  in  fewer  words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a  satisfac- 
tory character  of  a  poem,  we  have  still  to  seek 
for  a  definition  of  poetry.  The  writings  of 
Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor,  and  the  Thcoria 
Sacra  of  Burnet,  furnish  undeniable  proofs 
that  poetry  of  the  highest  kind  may  exist  with- 
out metre,  and  even  without  the  contra-dis- 
tinguishing objects  of  a  poem.  The  first 
chapter  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large  proportion 
of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the  most  em- 
phatic sense;  yet  it  would  be  not  less  irrational 
than  strange  to  assert,  that  pleasure,  and  not 
truth,  was  the  immediate  object  of  the  prophet. 
In  short,  whatever  specific  import  we  attach 
to  the  word  poetry,  there  will  be  found  involved 
in  it,  as  a  necessaiy  consequence,  that  a  poem 
of  any  length  neither  can  be,  nor  ought  to  be, 
all  poetry.  Yet  if  a  harmonious  whole  is  to 
be  produced,  the  remaining  parts  must  be  pre- 
served in  keeping  with  the  poetry;  and  this 
can  be  no  otherwise  effected  than  by  such  a 
studied  selection  and  artificial  arrangement 
as  will  partake  of  one,  though  not  a  peculiar, 
property  of  poetry.     And  this  again  can  be  no 

1  The  free  spirit  must  be  urged  headlong. 


320 


FRANCIS    JEFFREY 


other  than  the  property  of  exciting  a  more 
continuous  and  equal  attention  than  the  lan- 
guage of  prose  aims  at,  whether  colloquial  or 
written. 

My  own  conclusions  on  the  nature  of  poetr>', 
in  the  strictest  use  of  the  word,  have  been  in 
part  anticipated  in  the  preceding  disquisition 
on  the  fancy  and  imagination.  What  is  poetry  ? 
is  so  nearly  the  same  question  with,  what  is  a 
poet?  that  the  answer  to  the  one  is  involved 
in  the  solution  of  the  other.  For  it  is  a  dis- 
tinction resulting  from  the  poetic  genius  itself, 
which  sustains  and  modifies  the  images, thoughts, 
and  emotions  of  the  poet's  own  mind.  The 
poet,  described  in  ideal  perfection,  brings  the 
whole  soul  of  man  into  activity,  with  the  sub- 
ordination of  its  faculties  to  each  other,  accord- 
ing to  their  relative  worth  and  dignity.  He 
diffuses  a  tone  and  spirit  of  unity,  that  blends, 
and  (as  it  were)  fuses,  each  into  each,  by  that 
synthetic  and  magical  power,  to  which  we  have 
exclusively  appropriated  the  name  of  imagina- 
tion. This  power,  first  put  in  action  by  the 
will  and  understanding,  and  retained  under  their 
irremissive,  though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  con- 
trol (laxis  effertur  kabenis ')  reveals  itself  in  the 
balance  or  reconciliation  of  opposite  or  discor- 
dant qualities:  of  sameness,  with  difference; 
of  the  general,  with  the  concrete;  the  idea, 
with  the  image;  the  individual,  with  the  repre- 
sentative; the  sense  of  novelty  and  fresh- 
ness, with  old  and  familiar  objects ;  a  more  than 
usual  state  of  emotion,  with  more  than 
usual  order;  judgment  ever  awake  and  steady 
self-possession,  with  enthusiasm  and  feeling  pro- 
found or  vehement;  and  while  it  blends  and 
harmonises  the  natural  and  the  artificial, 
still  subordinates  art  to  nature;  the  manner  to 
the  matter;  and  our  admiration  of  the  poet  to 
our  sympathy  with  the  poetry.  "Doubtless," 
as  Sir  John  Davies  observes  of  the  soul  (and 
his  words  may  with  slight  alteration  be  applied, 
and  even  more  appropriately,  to  the  poetic 
imagination), — 

"  Doubtless  this  could  not  be,  but  that  she  turns 
Bodies  to  spirit  by  sublimation  strange, 
As  fire  converts  to  fire,  the  things  it  burns, 
As  v/e  our  food  into  our  nature  change. 

From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts  their  forms, 
And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from  things; 
Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms 
To  bear  them  light  on  her  celestial  wings. 

'  He  is  borne  with  loosened  reins. 


Thus  does  she,  when  from  individual  states 
She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds; 
Which  then  re-clothed  in  divers  names  and  fates 
Steal  access  through  our  senses  to  our  minds." 

Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic 
genius,  fancy  its  drapery,  motion  its  life,  and 
imagination  the  soul  that  is  everywhere,  and  in 
each;  and  forms  all  into  one  graceful  and 
intelligent  whole. 

FRANCIS    JEFFREY  (i 773-1850) 
THE   WTIITE   DOE    OF   RYLSTONE 

This,  we  think,  has  the  merit  of  being  the 
very  worst  poem  we  ever  saw  imprinted  in  a 
quarto  volume;  and  though  it  was  scarcely 
to  be  expected,  we  confess,  that  Mr.  Words- 
worth, with  all  his  ambition,  should  so  soon 
have  attained  to  that  distinction,  the  wonder 
may  perhaps  be  diminished  when  we  state, 
that  it  seems  to  us  to  consist  of  a  happy  union 
of  all  the  faults,  without  any  of  the  beauties, 
which  belong  to  his  school  of  poetry.  It  is 
just  such  a  work,  in  short,  as  some  wicked 
enemy  of  that  school  might  be  supposed  to  have 
devised,  on  purpose  to  make  it  ridiculous;  and 
when  we  first  took  it  up,  we  could  not  help 
suspecting  that  some  ill-natured  critic  had 
actually  taken  this  harsh  method  of  instructing 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  by  example,  in  the  nature  of 
those  errors,  against  which  our  precepts  had 
been  so  often  directed  in  vain.  We  had  not 
gone  far,  however,  till  we  felt  intimately  that 
nothing  in  the  nature  of  a  joke  could  be  so  in- 
supportably  dull ;  —  and  that  this  must  be  the 
work  of  one  who  earnestly  believed  it  to  be  a 
pattern  of  pathetic  simplicity,  and  gave  it  out 
as  such  to  the  admiration  of  all  intelligent 
readers.  In  this  point  of  view,  the  work  may 
be  regarded  as  curious  at  least,  if  not  in  some 
degree  interesting;  and,  at  all  events,  it  must  be 
instructive  to  be  made  aware  of  the  excesses 
into  which  superior  understandings  may  be 
betrayed,  by  long  self-indulgence,  and  the 
strange  extravagances  into  which  they  may 
run,  when  under  the  influence  of  that  intoxica- 
tion which  is  produced  by  unrestrained  admira- 
tion of  themselves.  This  poetical  intoxication, 
indeed,  to  pursue  the  figure  a  little  farther, 
seems  capable  of  assuming  as  many  forms  as 
the  vulgar  one  which  arises  from  wine ;  and  it 
appears  to  require  as  delicate  a  management 
to  make  a  man  a  good  poet  by  the  help  of  the 
one,  as  to  make  him  a  good  companion  by 
means  of  the  other.     In  both   cases  a  little 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY 


321 


mistake  as  to  the  dose  or  the  quality  of  the 
inspiring  fluid  may  make  him  absolutely  out- 
rageous, or  lull  him  over  into  the  most  pro- 
found stupidity,  instead  of  brightening  up  the 
hidden  stores  of  his  genius:  and  truly  we  are 
concerned  to  say,  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  seems 
hitherto  to  have  been  unlucky  in  the  choice 
of  his  liquor  —  or  of  his  bottle-holder.  In 
some  of  his  odes  and  ethic  exhortations,  he 
was  exposed  to  the  public  in  a  state  of  inco- 
herent rapture  and  glorious  delirium,  to  which 
we  think  we  have  seen  a  parallel  among  the 
humbler  lovers  of  jollity.  In  the  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads, he  was  exhibited,  on  the  whole,  in  a  vein 
of  very  pretty  deliration;  but  in  the  poem 
before  us,  he  appears  in  a  state  of  low  and 
maudlin  imbecility,  which  would  not  have 
misbecome  Master  Silence  himself,  in  the  close 
of  a  social  day.  Whether  this  unhappy  result 
is  to  be  ascribed  to  any  adulteration  of  his 
Castalian  cups,  or  to  the  unlucky  choice  of  his 
company  over  them,  we  cannot  presume  to  say. 
It  may  be  that  he  has  dashed  his  Hippocrene 
with  too  large  an  infusion  of  lake  water,  or 
assisted  its  operation  too  exclusively  by  the 
study  of  the  ancient  historical  ballads  of  "the 
north  countrie."  That  there  are  palpable 
imitations  of  the  style  and  manner  of  those 
venerable  compositions  in  the  work  before 
us,  is  indeed  undeniable;  but  it  unfortunately 
happens,  that  while  the  hobbling  versification, 
the  mean  diction,  and  flat  stupidity  of  these 
models  are  very  exactly  copied,  and  even 
improved  upon,  in  this  imitation,  their  rude 
energy,  manly  simplicity,  and  occasional  felicity 
of  expression,  have  totally  disappeared;  and, 
instead  of  them,  a  large  allowance  of  the  au- 
thor's own  metaphysical  sensibility,  and  mys- 
tical wordiness,  is  forced  into  an  unnatural 
combination  with  the  borrowed  beauties  which 
have  just  been  mentioned. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 

THE   LIFE    OF   NELSON 

From  CHAPTER   V 

The  Battle  of  the  Nile 

On  the  25th  of  July  he  sailed  from  Syracuse 
for  the  Morea.  Anxious  beyond  measure,  and 
irritated  that  the  enemy  should  so  long  have 
eluded  him,  the  tediousness  of  the  nights  made 
him  impatient ;  and  the  ofScer  of  the  watch  was 
repeatedly  called  on  to  let  him  know  the  hour, 
and  convince  him,  who  measured  time  by  his 


own  eagerness,  that  it  was  not  yet  daybreak. 
The  squadron  made  the  Gulf  of  Coron  on  the 
28th.  Troubridge  entered  the  port,  and  re- 
turned with  intelligence  that  the  French  had 
been  seen  about  four  weeks  before  steering  to 
the  S.E.  from  Candia.  Nelson  then  deter- 
mined immediately  to  return  to  Alexandria, 
and  the  British  fleet  accordingly,  with  every 
sail  set,  stood  once  more  for  the  coast  of  Egypt. 
On  the  ist  of  August,  about  ten  in  the  morning, 
they  came  in  sight  of  Alexandria;  the  port 
had  been  vacant  and  solitary  when  they  saw  it 
last;  it  was  now  crowded  with  ships,  and  they 
perceived  with  exultation  that  the  tri-colour 
flag  was  flying  upon  the  walls.  At  four  in  the 
afternoon.  Captain  Hood,  in  the  Zealous, 
made  the  signal  for  the  enemy's  fleet.  For 
many  preceding  days  Nelson  had  hardly  taken 
either  sleep  or  food :  he  now  ordered  his  dinner 
to  be  served,  while  preparations  were  making 
for  battle;  and  when  his  officers  rose  from  the 
table,  and  went  to  their  separate  stations,  he  said 
to  them:  "Before  this  time  to-morrow,  I  shall 
have  gained  a  peerage  or  W^estminster  Abbey." 

The  French,  steering  direct  for  Candia, 
had  made  an  angular  passage  for  Alexandria; 
whereas  Nelson,  in  pursuit  of  them,  made 
straight  for  that  place,  and  thus  materially 
shortened  the  distance.  The  comparative 
smallness  of  his  force  made  it  necessary  to  sail 
in  close  order,  and  it  covered  a  less  space  than 
it  would  have  done  if  the  frigates  had  been  with 
him:  the  weather  also  was  constantly  hazy. 
These  circumstances  prevented  the  English 
from  discovering  the  enemy  on  the  way  to 
Egypt,  though  it  appeared,  upon  examining 
the  journals  of  the  French  officers  taken  in  the 
action,  that  the  two  fleets  must  actually  have 
crossed  on  the  night  of  the  22d  of  June.  During 
the  return  to  Syracuse,  the  chances  of  falling 
in  with  them  were  fewer. 

Why  Buonaparte,  having  effected  his  land- 
ing, should  not  have  suffered  the  fleet  to  return, 
has  never  yet  been  explained.  This  much  is 
certain,  that  it  was  detained  by  his  command; 
though,  with  his  accustomed  falsehood,  he 
accused  Admiral  Brueys,  after  that  officer's 
death,  of  having  lingered  on  the  coast,  con- 
trary to  orders.  The  French  fleet  arrived  at 
Alexandria  on  the  ist  of  July;  and  Brueys, 
not  being  able  to  enter  the  port,  which  time  and 
neglect  had  ruined,  moored  his  ships  in  Aboukir 
Bay,  in  a  strong  and  compact  line  of  battle; 
the  headmost  vessel,  according  to  his  own 
account,  being  as  close  as  possible  to  a  shoal 
on  the  N.W.,  and  the  rest  of  the  fleet  forming 


322 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY 


a  kind  of  curve  along  the  line  of  deep  water, 
so  as  not  to  be  turned  by  any  means  in  the  S.W. 
By  Buonaparte's  desire,  he  had  offered  a 
reward  of  10,000  livres  to  any  pilot  of  the 
country  who  would  carry  the  squadron  in ;  but 
none  could  be  found  who  would  venture  to 
take  charge  of  a  single  vessel  drawing  more 
than  twenty  feet.  He  had,  therefore,  made 
the  best  of  his  situation,  and  chosen  the  strong- 
est position  which  he  could  possibly  take  in  an 
open  road.  The  commissary  of  the  fleet  said, 
they  were  moored  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bid 
defiance  to  a  force  more  than  double  their  own. 
This  presumption  could  not  then  be  thought 
unreasonable.  Admiral  Barrington,  when 
moored  in  a  similar  manner  off  St.  Lucia,  in 
the  year  1778,  beat  off  the  Comte  d'Estaing 
in  three  several  attacks,  though  his  force  was 
inferior  by  almost  one-third  to  that  which  as- 
sailed it.  Here,  the  advantage  of  numbers, 
both  in  ships,  guns,  and  men,  was  in  favour 
of  the  French.  They  had  thirteen  ships  of 
the  line  and  four  frigates,  carrying  1,196  guns, 
aiid  11,230  men.  The  English  had  the  same 
number  of  ships  of  the  line,  and  one  fifty-gun 
ship,  carrying  1,012  guns,  and  8,068  men.  The 
English  ships  were  all  seventy-four;  the 
French  had  three  eighty-gun  ships,  and  one 
three-decker  of  120. 

During  the  whole  pursuit,  it  had  been 
Nelson's  practice,  whenever  circumstances 
would  permit,  to  have  his  captains  on  board  the 
Vanguard,  and  explain  to  them  his  own  ideas  of 
the  different  and  best  modes  of  attack,  and  such 
plans  as  he  proposed  to  execute,  on  falling  in 
with  the  enemy,  whatever  their  situation  might 
be.  There  is  no  possible  position,  it  is  said, 
which  he  did  not  take  into  calculation.  His 
officers  were  thus  fully  acquainted  with  his 
principles  of  tactics:  and  such  was  his  confi- 
dence in  their  abilities,  that  the  only  thing 
determined  upon,  in  case  they  should  find  the 
French  at  anchor,  was  for  the  ships  to  form 
as  most  convenient  for  their  mutual  support, 
and  to  anchor  by  the  stern.  "First  gain  the 
victory,"  he  said,  "and  then  make  the  best  use 
of  it  you  can."  The  moment  he  perceived  the 
position  of  the  French,  that  intuitive  genius 
with  which  Nelson  was  endowed  displayed 
itself;  and  it  instantly  struck  him,  that  where 
there  was  room  for  an  enemy's  ship  to  swing, 
there  was  room  for  one  of  ours  to  anchor. 
The  plan  which  he  intended  to  pursue,  there- 
fore, was  to  keep  entirely  on  the  outer  side  of 
the  French  line,  and  station  his  ships,  as  far  as 
he  was  able,  one  on  the  outer  bow,  and  another 


on  the  outer  quarter,  of  each  of  the  enemy's. 
This  plan  of  doubling  on  the  enemy's  ships 
was  projected  by  Lord  Hood,  when  he  designed 
to  attack  the  French  fleet  at  their  anchor- 
age in  Gourjean  Road.  Lord  Hood  found 
it  impossible  to  make  the  attempt;  but  the 
thought  was  not  lost  upon  Nelson,  who  acknow- 
ledged himself,  on  this  occasion,  indebted  for 
it  to  his  old  and  excellent  commander.  Cap- 
tain Berry,  when  he  comprehended  the  scope 
of  the  design,  exclaimed  with  transport,  "If 
we  succeed,  what  will  the  world  say!"  — 
"There  is  no  if  in  the  case,"  replied  the  Ad- 
miral: "that  we  shall  succeed,  is  certain:  who 
may  live  to  tell  the  story,  is  a  very  different 
question." 

As  the  squadron  advanced,  they  were  assailed 
by  a  shower  of  shot  and  shells  from  the  batteries 
on  the  island,  and  the  enemy  opened  a  steady 
fire  from  the  starboard  side  of  their  whole  line, 
within  half  gun-shot  distance,  full  into  the  bows 
of  our  van  ships.  It  was  received  in  silence: 
the  men  on  board  every  ship  were  employed 
aloft  in  furling  sails,  and  below  in  tending  the 
braces,  and  making  ready  for  anchoring.  A 
miserable  sight  for  the  French;  who,  with  all 
their  skill,  and  all  their  courage,  and  all  their 
advantages  of  numbers  and  situation,  were  upon 
that  element  on  which,  when  the  hour  of  trial 
comes,  a  Frenchman  has  no  hope.  Admiral 
Brueys  was  a  brave  and  able  man ;  yet  the  in- 
delible character  of  his  country  broke  out  in 
one  of  his  letters,  wherein  he  delivered  it  as  his 
private  opinion,  that  the  English  had  missed 
him,  because,  not  being  superior  in  force,  they 
did  not  think  it  prudent  to  try  their  strength 
with  him.  —  The  moment  was  now  come  in 
which  he  was  to  be  undeceived. 

A  French  brig  was  instructed  to  decoy  the 
English,  by  manoeuvring  so  as  to  tempt  them 
toward  a  shoal  lying  off  the  island  of  Bekier; 
but  Nelson  either  knew  the  danger,  or  sus- 
pected some  deceit;  and  the  lure  was  unsuc- 
cessful. Captain  Foley  led  the  way  in  the 
Goliath,  outsailing  the  Zealous,  which  for  some 
minutes  disputed  this  post  of  honour  with  him. 
He  had  long  conceived  that  if  the  enemy  were 
moored  in  line  of  battle  in  with  the  land,  the 
best  plan  of  attack  would  be  to  lead  between 
them  and  the  shore,  because  the  French  guns 
on  that  side  were  not  likely  to  be  manned,  nor 
even  ready  for  action.  Intending,  therefore, 
to  fix  himself  on  the  inner  bow  of  the  Guerrier, 
he  kept  as  near  the  edge  of  the  bank  as  the 
depth  of  water  would  admit;  but  his  anchor 
hung,  and  having  opened  his  fire,  he  drifted 


THE    LIFE    OF    NELSON 


i^Z 


to  the  second  ship,  the  Conqiierant,  before  it 
was  clear;  then  anchored  by  the  stern,  inside 
of  her,  and  in  ten  minutes  shot  away  her  mast. 
Hood,  in  the  Zealous,  perceiving  this,  took,  the 
station  which  the  Goliath  intended  to  have 
occupied,  and  totally  disabled  the  Gucrrier 
in  twelve  minutes.  The  third  ship  which 
doubled  the  enemy's  van  was  the  Orion,  Sir  J. 
Saumarez;  she  passed  to  windward  of  the 
Zealous,  and  opened  her  larboard  guns  as  long 
as  they  bore  on  the  Gnerrier;  then  passing 
inside  the  Goliath,  sunk  a  frigate  which  annoyed 
her,  hauled  round  toward  the  French  line,  and 
anchoring  inside,  between  the  fifth  and  sixth 
ships  from  the  Guerrier,  took  her  station  on  the 
larlDoard  bow  of  the  Franklin,  and  the  quarter 
of  the  Peuple  Souverain,  receiving  and  returning 
the  fire  of  both.  The  sun  was  now  nearly 
down.  The  Audacious,  Captain  Gould,  pour- 
ing a  heavy  fare  into  the  Gucrrier  and  the  Con- 
qiierant, fixed  herself  on  the  larboard  bow  of 
the  latter;  and  when  that  ship  struck,  passed 
on  to  the  Peuple  Souverain.  The  Theseus, 
Captain  Miller,  followed,  brought  down  the 
Guerrier^ s  remaining  main  and  mizzen  masts, 
then  anchored  inside  of  the  Spartiate,  the  third 
in  the  French  line. 

While  these  advanced  ships  doubled  the 
French  line,  the  Vanguard  was  the  first  that 
anchored  on  the  outer  side  of  the  enemy,  within 
half  pistol  shot  of  their  third  ship,  the  Spartiate. 
Nelson  had  six  colours  flying  in  different  parts 
of  his  rigging,  lest  they  should  be  shot  away;  — 
that  they  should  be  struck,  no  British  Admiral 
considers  as  a  possibility.  He  veered  half  a 
cable,  and  instantly  opened  a  tremendous  fire; 
under  cover  of  which  the  other  four  ships  of 
his  division,  the  Minotaur,  Bellerophon,  De- 
fence, and  Majestic,  sailed  on  ahead  of  the 
Admiral.  In  a  few  minutes,  every  man  sta- 
tioned at  the  first  six  guns  in  the  fore  part  of 
the  Vanguard's  deck  was  killed  or  wounded  — 
these  guns  were  three  times  cleared.  Captain 
Louis,  in  the  Minotaur,  anchored  next  ahead, 
and  took  off  the  fire  of  the  Aquilon,  the  fourth 
in  the  enemy's  line.  The  Bclleroplion,  Captain 
Darby,  passed  ahead  and  dropped  her  stern 
anchor  on  the  starboard  bow  of  the  Orient, 
seventh  in  the  line,  Brueys'  own  ship,  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  guns,  whose  difference  of 
force  was  in  proportion  of  more  than  seven  to 
three,  and  whose  weight  of  ball,  from  the  lower 
deck  alone,  exceeded  that  from  the  whole 
broadside  of  the  Bclleroplion.  Captain  Peyton, 
in  the  Defence,  took  his  station  ahead  of  the 
Minotaur,  and  engaged  the  Franklin,  the  sixth 


in  the  line;  by  which  judicious  movement 
the  British  line  remained  unbroken.  The 
Majestic,  Captain  Westcott,  got  entangled  with 
the  main  rigging  of  one  of  the  French  ships 
astern  of  the  Orient,  and  suffered  dreadfully 
from  that  three-decker's  fire:  but  she  swung 
clear,  and  closely  engaging  the  Heureux,  the 
ninth  ship  on  the  starboard  bow,  received  also 
the  fire  of  the  Tonnant,  which  was  the  eighth 
in  the  line.  The  other  four  ships  of  the  British 
squadron,  having  been  detached  previous  to  the 
discovery  of  the  French,  were  at  a  considerable 
distance  when  the  action  began.  It  commenced 
at  half  after  six;  about  seven,  night  closed, 
and  there  was  no  other  light  than  that  of  the 
fire  of  the  contending  fleets. 

Troubridge,  in  the  Cidloden,  then  foremost 
of  the  remaining  ships,  was  two  leagues  astern. 
He  came  on  sounding,  as  the  others  had  done: 
as  he  advanced,  the  increasing  darkness  in- 
creased the  difficulty  of  the  navigation;  and 
suddenly,  after  having  found  eleven  fathoms 
water,  before  the  lead  could  be  hove  again, 
he  was  fast  aground:  nor  could  all  his  own 
exertions,  joined  to  those  of  the  Leander  and 
the  Mutine  brig,  which  came  to  his  assistance, 
get  him  off  in  time  to  bear  a  part  in  the  action. 
His  ship,  however,  ser\'ed  as  a  beacon  to  the 
Alexander  and  Swiftsure,  which  would  else, 
from  the  course  which  they  were  holding,  have 
gone  considerably  farther  on  the  reef,  and  must 
inevitably  have  been  lost.  These  ships  entered 
the  bay,  and  took  their  stations,  in  the  darkness, 
in  a  manner  long  spoken  of  with  admiration 
by  all  who  remembered  it.  Captain  Hallowell, 
in  the  Swiftsure,  as  he  was  bearing  down,  fell 
in  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  strange  sail: 
Nelson  had  directed  his  ships  to  hoist  four 
lights  horizontally  at  the  mizzen -peak,  as  soon 
as  it  became  dark ;  and  this  ^•essel  had  no  such 
distinction.  Hallowell,  however,  with  great 
judgment,  ordered  his  men  not  to  fire:  if  she 
was  an  enemy,  he  said,  she  was  in  too  disabled 
a  state  to  escape;  but,  from  her  sails  being 
loose,  and  the  way  in  which  her  head  was,  it 
was  probable  she  might  be  an  Fnglish  ship. 
It  was  the  Bclleroplion,  overpowered  by  the 
huge  Orient:  her  lights  had  gone  overboard, 
nearly  200  of  her  crew  were  killed  or 
wounded,  all  her  masts  and  cables  had  been 
shot  away;  and  she  was  drifting  out  of  the  line, 
toward  the  lee  side  of  the  bay.  Her  station, 
at  this  important  time,  was  occupied  by  the 
Swiftsure,  which  opened  a  steady  fire  on  the 
quarter  of  the  Franklin,  and  the  bows  of  the 
French  Admiral.     At  the  same  instant,  Cap- 


324 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY 


tain  Ball,  with  the  Alexander,  passed  under  his 
stern,  and  anchored  within  side  on  his  larboard 
quarter,  raking  him,  and  keeping  up  a  severe 
fire  of  musketry  upon  his  decks.  The  last 
ship  which  arrived  to  complete  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  enemy  was  the  Leander.  Captain 
Thompson,  finding  that  nothing  could  be  done 
that  night  to  get  off  the  Cidloden,  advanced 
with  the  intention  of  anchoring  athwart-hawse 
of  the  Orient.  The  Franklin  was  so  near  her 
ahead,  that  there  was  not  room  for  him  to  pass 
clear  of  the  two ;  he,  therefore,  took  his  station 
athwart-hawse  of  the  latter,  in  such  a  position 
as  to  rake  both. 

The  two  first  ships  of  the  French  line  had 
been  dismasted  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
after  the  commencement  of  the  action ;  and  the 
others  had  in  that  time  suffered  so  severely, 
that  victory  was  already  certain.  The  third, 
fourth,  and  fifth  were  taken  possession  of  at 
half-past  eight. 

Meantime  Nelson  received  a  severe  wound 
on  the  head  from  a  piece  of  landridge  shot. 
Captain  Berry  caught  him  in  his  arms  as  he 
was  falling.  The  great  effusion  of  blood 
occasioned  an  apprehension  that  the  wound 
was  mortal:  Nelson  himself  thought  so:  a 
large  flap  of  the  skin  of  the  forehead,  cut  from 
the  bone,  had  fallen  over  one  eye:  and  the 
other  being  blind,  he  was  in  total  darkness. 
When  he  was  carried  down,  the  surgeon,  — 
in  the  midst  of  a  scene  scarcely  to  be  conceived 
by  those  who  have  never  seen  a  cockpit  in  time 
of  action,  and  the  heroism  which  is  displayed 
amid  its  horrors,  —  with  a  natural  and  pardon- 
able eagerness,  quitted  the  poor  fellow  then 
under  his  hands,  that  he  might  instantly  attend 
the  Admiral.  "No  !"  said  Nelson,  "I  will  take 
my  turn  with  my  brave  fellows."  Nor  would 
he  suffer  his  own  wound  to  be  examined  till 
every  man  who  had  been  previously  wounded 
was  properly  attended  to.  Fully  believing  that 
the  wound  was  mortal,  and  that  he  was  about 
to  die,  as  he  had  ever  desired,  in  battle  and  in 
victory,  he  called  the  chaplain,  and  desired 
him  to  deliver  what  he  supposed  to  be  his  dy- 
ing remembrance  to  Lady  Nelson :  he  then  sent 
for  Captain  Louis  on  board  from  the  Minotaur, 
that  he  might  thank  him  personally  for  the  great 
assistance  which  he  had  rendered  to  the  Van- 
guard; and,  ever  mindful  of  those  who  deserved 
to  be  his  friends,  appointed  Captain  Hardy 
from  the  brig  to  the  command  of  his  own  ship, 
Captain  Berry  having  to  go  home  with  the  news 
of  the  victory.  When  the  surgeon  came  in  due 
time  to  examine  his  wound  (for  it  was  in  vain 


to  entreat  him  to  let  it  be  examined  sooner), 
the  most  anxious  silence  prevailed;  and  the 
joy  of  the  wounded  men,  and  of  the  whole 
crew,  when  they  heard  that  the  hurt  was  merely 
superficial,  gave  Nelson  deeper  pleasure,  than 
the  unexpected  assurance  that  his  life  was  in 
no  danger.  The  surgeon  requested,  and  as  far 
as  he  could,  ordered  him  to  remain  quiet :  but 
Nelson  could  not  rest.  He  called  for  his  secre- 
tary, Mr.  Campbell,  to  write  the  despatches. 
Campbell  had  himself  been  wounded;  and 
was  so  affected  at  the  blind  and  suffering 
state  of  the  Admiral,  that  he  was  unable  to 
write.  The  chaplain  was  then  sent  for;  but, 
before  he  came,  Nelson,  with  his  characteristic 
eagerness,  took  the  pen,  and  contrived  to  trace 
a  few  words,  marking  his  devout  sense  of  the 
success  which  had  already  been  obtained.  He 
was  now  left  alone;  when  suddenly  a  cry  was 
heard  on  the  deck,  that  the  Orient  was  on  fire. 
In  the  confusion,  he  found  his  way  up,  unas- 
sisted and  unnoticed,  and,  to  the  astonishment 
of  every  one,  appeared  on  the  quarter-deck, 
where  he  immediately  gave  orders  that  boats 
should  be  sent  to  the  relief  of  the  enemy. 

It  was  soon  after  nine  that  the  fire  on  board 
the  Orient  broke  out.  Brueys  was  dead:  he 
had  received  three  wounds,  yet  would  not  leave 
his  post:  a  fourth  cut  him  almost  in  two. 
He  desired  not  to  be  carried  below,  but  to 
be  left  to  die  upon  deck.  The  flames  soon 
mastered  his  ship.  Her  sides  had  just  been 
painted;  and  the  oil-jars  and  paint-buckets 
were  lying  on  the  poop.  By  the  prodigious 
light  of  this  conflagration,  the  situation  of  the 
two  fleets  could  now  be  perceived,  the  colours 
of  both  being  clearly  distinguishable.  About 
ten  o'clock  the  ship  blew  up,  with  a  shock 
which  was  felt  to  the  verj'  bottom  of  every 
vessel. 

Many  of  her  officers  and  men  jumped  over- 
board, some  clinging  to  the  spars  and  pieces 
of  wreck,  with  which  the  sea  was  strewn, 
others  swimming  to  escape  from  the  destruction 
which  they  momentarily  dreaded.  Some  were 
picked  up  by  our  boats ;  and  some,  even  in  the 
heat  and  fury  of  the  action,  were  dragged  into 
the  lower  ports  of  the  nearest  British  vessel 
by  the  British  sailors.  The  greater  part  of  her 
crew,  however,  stood  the  danger  till  the  last, 
and  continued  to  fire  from  the  lower  deck. 
This  tremendous  explosion  was  followed  by 
a  silence  not  less  awful:  the  firing  immediately 
ceased  on  both  sides;  and  the  first  sound  which 
broke  the  silence  was  the  dash  of  her  shattered 
masts  and  yards,  falling  into  the  water  from 


THE    LIFE    OF   NELSON 


325 


the  vast  height  to  which  they  had  been  exploded. 
It  is  upon  record,  that  a  battle  between  two 
armies  was  once  broken  off  by  an  earthquake: 
such  an  event  would  be  felt  like  a  miracle;  but 
no  incident  in  war,  produced  by  human  means, 
has  ever  equalled  the  sublimity  of  this  co-in- 
stantaneous pause,  and  all  its  circumstances. 

About  seventy  of  the  Orient's  crew  were 
saved  by  the  English  boats.  Among  the  many 
hundreds  who  perished  were  the  Commodore, 
Casa-Bianca,  and  his  son,  a  brave  boy,  only  ten 
years  old.  They  were  seen  floating  on  a  shat- 
tered mast  when  the  ship  blew  up.  She  had 
money  on  board  (the  plunder  of  Malta)  to  the 
amount  of  600,000/.  sterling.  The  masses  of 
burning  wreck,  which  were  scattered  by  the 
explosion,  excited  for  some  moments  appre- 
hensions in  the  English  which  they  had  never 
felt  from  any  other  danger.  Two  large  pieces 
fell  into  the  main  and  fore  tops  of  the  Swift- 
sure,  without  injuring  any  person.  A  port-fire 
also  fell  into  the  main-royal  of  the  Alexander: 
the  fire  which  it  occasioned  was  speedily  ex- 
tinguished. Captain  Ball  had  provided,  as  far 
as  human  foresight  could  provide,  against  any 
such  danger.  All  the  shrouds  and  sails  of  his 
ship,  not  absolutely  necessary  for  its  immediate 
management,  were  thoroughly  wetted,  and  so 
rolled  up,  that  they  were  as  hard  and  as  little 
inflammable  as  so  many  solid  cylinders. 

The  firing  recommenced  with  the  ships  to 
leeward  of  the  centre,  and  continued  till  aljout 
three.  At  daybreak,  the  Guillaume  Tell,  and 
the  Generenx,  the  two  rear  ships  of  the  enemy, 
were  the  only  French  ships  of  the  line  which 
had  their  colours  flying;  they  cut  their  cables 
in  the  forenoon,  not  having  been  engaged,  and 
stood  out  to  sea,  and  two  frigates  with  them. 
The  Zealous  pursued;  but  as  there  was  no 
other  ship  in  a  condition  to  support  Captain 
Hood,  he  was  recalled.  It  was  generally 
believed  by  the  officers,  that  if  Nelson  had  not 
been  wounded,  not  one  of  these  ships  could 
have  escaped:  the  four  certainly  could  not,  if 
the  Culloden  had  got  into  action;  and  if  the 
frigates  belonging  to  the  squadron  had  been 
present,  not  one  of  the  enemy's  fleet  would  have 
left  Aboukir  Bay.  These  four  vessels,  however, 
were  all  that  escaped;  and  the  victory  was  the 
most  complete  and  glorious  in  the  annals  of 
naval  history.  "Victory,"  said  Nelson,  "is 
not  a  name  strong  enough  for  such  a  scene"; 
he  called  it  a  conquest.  Of  thirteen  sail  of  the 
line,  nine  were  taken,  and  two  burnt:  of  the 
four  frigates,  one  was  sunk,  another,  the  Arte- 
mise,  was  burnt  in  a  villainous  manner  by  her 


captain,  M.  Estandlet,  who,  having  fired  a 
broadside  at  the  Theseus,  struck  his  colours, 
then  set  fire  to  the  ship,  and  escaped  with  most 
of  his  crew  to  shore.  The  British  loss,  in  killed 
and  wounded,  amounted  to  895.  Westcott 
was  the  only  captain  who  fell:  3,105  of  the 
French,  including  the  wounded,  were  sent  on 
shore  by  cartel,  and  5,225  perished. 

As  soon  as  the  conquest  was  completed. 
Nelson  sent  orders  through  the  fleet,  to  return 
thanksgiving  in  every  ship  for  the  victory  with 
which  Almighty  God  had  blessed  his  Majesty's 
arms.  The  French  at  Rosetta,  who  with  mis- 
erable fear  beheld  the  engagement,  were  at  a 
loss  to  understand  the  stillness  of  the  fleet 
during  the  performance  of  this  solemn  duty; 
but  it  seemed  to  affect  many  of  the  prisoners, 
officers  as  well  as  men :  and  graceless  and  god- 
less as  the  officers  were,  some  of  them  re- 
marked, that  it  was  no  wonder  such  order  was 
preserved  in  the  British  navy,  when  the  minds 
of  our  men  could  be  impressed  with  such  senti- 
ments after  so  great  a  victor}',  and  at  a  moment 
of  such  confusion.  —  The  French  at  Rosetta, 
seeing  their  four  ships  sail  out  of  the  bay 
unmolested,  endeavoured  to  persuade  them- 
selves that  they  were  in  possession  of  the  place 
of  battle.  But  it  was  in  vain  thus  to  attempt, 
against  their  own  secret  and  certain  conviction, 
to  deceive  themselves:  and  even  if  they  could 
have  succeeded  in  this,  the  bonfires  which  the 
Arabs  kindled  along  the  whole  coast,  and  over 
the  country,  for  the  three  following  nights, 
would  soon  have  undeceived  them.  Thousands 
of  Arabs  and  Egyptians  lined  the  shore,  and 
covered  the  housetops  during  the  action,  re- 
joicing in  the  destruction  which  had  overtaken 
their  invaders.  Long  after  the  battle,  innu- 
merable bodies  were  seen  floating  about  the  bay, 
in  spite  of  all  the  exertions  which  were  made  to 
sink  them,  as  well  from  fear  of  pestilence,  as 
from  the  loathing  and  horror  which  the  sight 
occasioned.  Great  numbers  were  cast  up  upon 
the  Island  of  Bekier  (Nelson's  Island,  it  has 
since  been  called),  and  our  sailors  raised  mounds 
of  sand  over  them.  Even  after  an  interval  of 
nearly  three  years  Dr.  Clarke  saw  them,  and 
assisted  in  interring  heaps  of  human  bodies, 
which,  having  been  thrown  up  by  the  sea, 
where  there  were  no  jackals  to  devour  them, 
presented  a  sight  loathsome  to  humanity.  The 
shore,  for  an  extent  of  four  leagues,  was  cov- 
ered with  wreck;  and  the  Arabs  found  employ- 
ment for  many  days  in  burning  on  the  beach 
the  fragments  which  were  cast  up,  for  the  sake 
of  the  iron.     Part  of  the  Orient's  main-mast 


326 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY 


was  picked  up  by  the  Swiftsure.  Captain 
Hallowell  ordered  his  carpenter  to  make  a 
coffin  of  it ;  the  iron  as  well  as  wood  was  taken 
from  the  wreck  of  the  same  ship;  it  was  fin- 
ished as  well  and  handsomely  as  the  workman's 
skill  and  materials  would  permit;  and  Hal- 
lowell then  sent  it  to  the  Admiral  with  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  —  "Sir,  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
of  presenting  you  a  coffin  made  from  the  main- 
mast of  UOrient,  that  when  you  have  finished 
your  military  career  in  this  world,  you  may 
be  buried  in  one  of  your  trophies.  But  that 
that  period  may  be  far  distant,  is  the  earnest 
wish  of  your  sincere  friend,  Benjamin  Hal- 
lowell." An  offering  so  strange,  and  yet  so 
suited  to  the  occasion,  was  received  by  Nelson 
in  the  spirit  with  which  it  was  sent.  As  he 
felt  it  good  for  him,  now  that  he  was  at  the 
summit  of  his  wishes,  to  have  death  before  his 
eyes,  he  ordered  the  coffin  to  be  placed  upright 
in  his  cabin.  Such  a  piece  of  furniture,  how- 
ever, was  more  suitable  to  his  own  feelings  than 
to  those  of  his  guests  and  attendants;  and  an 
old  favourite  servant  entreated  him  so  earnestly 
to  let  it  be  removed,  that  at  length  he  consented 
to  have  the  coffin  carried  below:  but  he  gave 
strict  orders  that  it  should  be  safely  stowed, 
and  reserved  for  the  purpose  for  which  its  brave 
and  worthy  donor  had  designed  it. 

The  victory  was  complete ;  but  Nelson  could 
not  pursue  it  as  he  would  have  done,  for  want 
of  means.  Had  he  been  provided  with  small 
craft,  nothing  could  have  prevented  the  de- 
struction of  the  store-ships  and  transports  in  the 
port  of  Alexandria :  —  four  bomb-vessels  would 
at  that  time  have  burnt  the  whole  in  a  few  hours. 
"Were  I  to  die  this  moment,"  said  he  in  his 
despatches  to  the  Admiralty,  "want  of  frigates 
would  be  found  stamped  on  my  heart !  No 
words  of  mine  can  express  what  I  have  suffered, 
and  am  suffering,  for  want  of  them."  He  had 
also  to  bear  up  against  great  bodily  suffering; 
the  blow  had  so  shaken  his  head,  that  from  its 
constant  and  violent  aching,  and  the  perpetual 
sickness  which  accompanied  the  pain,  he  could 
scarcely  persuade  himself  that  the  skull  was  not 
fractured.  Had  it  not  been  for  Troubridge, 
Ball,  Hood,  and  Hallowell,  he  declared  that  "he 
should  have  sunk  under  the  fatigue  of  refitting 
the  squadron.  "All,"  he  said,  "had  done  well; 
but  these  officers  were  his  supporters."  But, 
amidst  his  sufferings  and  exertions.  Nelson  could 
yet  think  of  all  the  consequences  of  his  victory; 
and  that  no  advantage  from  it  might  be  lost,  he 
despatched  an  officer  overland  to  India,  with 
letters  to  the  Governor  of  Bombay,  informing 


him  of  the  arrival  of  the  French  in  Egypt,  the 
total  destruction  of  their  fleet,  and  the  conse- 
quent preservation  of  India  from  any  attempt 
against  it  on  the  part  of  this  formidable  arma- 
ment. "He  knew  that  Bombay,'"  he  said,  "was 
their  first  object,  if  they  could  get  there ;  but  he 
trusted  that  Almighty  God  would  overthrow  in 
Egypt  these  pests  of  the  human  race.  Buona- 
parte had  never  yet  had  to  contend  with  an 
English  officer,  and  he  would  endeavour  to 
make  him  respect  us."  This  despatch  he  sent 
upon  his  own  responsibility,  with  letters  of 
credit  upon  the  East  India  Company,  ad- 
dressed to  the  British  consuls,  vice-consuls, 
and  merchants  on  his  route;  Nelson  saying, 
"that  if  he  had  done  wrong,  he  hoped  the  bills 
would  be  paid,  and  he  would  repay  the  Com- 
pany: for,  as  an  Englishman,  he  should  be 
proud  that  it  had  been  in  his  power  to  put  our 
settlements  on  their  guard."  The  information 
which  by  this  means  reached  India  was  of  great 
importance.  Orders  had  just  been  received 
for  defensive  preparations,  upon  a  scale  pro- 
portionate to  the  apprehended  danger;  and 
the  extraordinary  expenses  which  would  other- 
wise have  been  incurred  were  thus  prevented. 
Nelson  was  now  at  the  summit  of  glory: 
congratulations,  rewards,  and  honours  were 
showered  upon  him  by  all  the  states,  and 
princes,  and  powers  to  whom  his  victory  gave 
a  respite.  The  first  communication  of  this 
nature  which  he  received  was  from  the  Turkish 
Sultan :  who,  as  soon  as  the  invasion  of  Egypt 
was  known,  had  called  upon  "all  true  believers 
to  take  arms  against  those  swinish  infidels  the 
French,  that  they  might  deliver  these  blessed 
habitations  from  their  accursed  hands";  and 
who  had  ordered  his  "Pashas  to  turn  night  into 
day  in  their  efforts  to  take  vengeance."  The 
present  of  "his  Imperial  Majesty,  the  power- 
ful, formidable,  and  most  magnificent  Grand 
Seignior,"  was  a  pelisse  of  sables,  with  broad 
sleeves,  valued  at  five  thousand  dollars;  and  a 
diamond  aigrette,  valued  at  eighteen  thousand 
—  the  most  honourable  badge  among  the 
Turks;  and  in  this  instance  more  especially 
honourable,  because  it  was  taken  from  one  of 
the  royal  turbans.  "  If  it  were  worth  a  million," 
said  Nelson  to  his  wife,  "my  pleasure  would 
be  to  see  it  in  your  possession."  The  Sultan 
also  sent,  in  a  spirit  worthy  of  imitation,  a  purse 
of  two  thousand  sequins,  to  be  distributed 
among  the  wounded.  The  mother  of  the 
Sultan  sent  him  a  box,  set  with  diamonds, 
valued  at  one  thousand  pounds.  The  Czar 
Paul,  in  whom  the  better  part  of  his  strangely 


THE    LIFE    OF    NELSON 


327 


compounded  nature  at  this  time  predominated, 
presented  him  with  his  portrait,  set  in  dia- 
monds, in  a  gold  box,  accompanied  with  a  letter 
of  congratulation,  written  by  his  own  hand. 
The  King  of  Sardinia  also  wrote  to  him,  and 
sent  a  gold  box,  set  with  diamonds.  Honours 
in  profusion  were  awaiting  him  at  Naples.  In 
his  own  country  the  king  granted  these  honour- 
able augmentations  to  his  armorial  ensign:  a 
chief  undulated,  argent;  thereon  waves  of  the 
sea  ;  from  which  a  palm-tree  issuant,  between 
a  disabled  ship  on  the  dexter,  and  a  ruinous 
battery  on  the  sinister,  all  proper;  and  for  his 
crest,  on  a  naval  crown,  or,  the  chelengk,  or 
plume,  presented  to  him  by  the  Turk,  with  the 
motto,  Palmam  qui  meruit  fcrat.  And  to  his 
supporters,  being  a  sailor  on  the  dexter,  and  a 
lion  on  the  sinister,  were  given  these  honourable 
augmentations:  a  palm-branch,  in  the  sailor's 
hand,  and  another  in  the  paw  of  the  lion,  both 
proper ;  with  a  tri-coloured  flag  and  staff  in  the 
lion's  mouth.  He  was  created  Baron  Nelson 
of  the  Nile  and  of  Bumham  Thorpe,  with  a 
pension  of  2,000/.  for  his  own  life,  and  those 
of  his  two  immediate  successors.  When  the 
grant  was  moved  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
General  Walpole  expressed  an  opinion,  that  a 
higher  degree  of  rank  ought  to  be  conferred. 
Mr.  Pitt  made  answer,  that  he  thought  it 
needless  to  enter  into  that  question.  "Admiral 
Nelson's  fame,"  he  said,  "would  be  co-equal 
with  the  British  name:  and  it  would  be  re- 
membered that  he  had  obtained  the  greatest 
naval  victory  on  record,  when  no  man  would 
think  of  asking  whether  he  had  been  created  a 
baron,  a  viscount,  or  an  earl ! "  It  was  strange 
that,  in  the  very  act  of  conferring  a  title,  the 
minister  should  have  excused  himself  for  not 
having  conferred  a  higher  one,  by  representing 
all  titles,  on  such  an  occasion,  as  nugatory  and 
superfluous.  True,  indeed,  whatever  title 
had  been  bestowed,  whether  viscount,  earl, 
marquis,  duke,  or  prince,  if  our  laws  had  so 
permitted,  he  who  received  it  would  have  been 
Nelson  still.  That  name  he  had  ennobled 
beyond  all  addition  of  nobility :  it  was  the  name 
by  which  England  loved  him,  France  feared 
him,  Italy,  Egypt,  and  Turkey  celebrated  him; 
and  by  which  he  will  continue  to  be  known 
while  the  present  kingdoms  and  languages  of 
the  world  endure,  and  as  long  as  their  history 
after  them  shall  be  held  in  remembrance.  It 
depended  upon  the  degree  of  rank  what  should 
be  the  fashion  of  his  coronet,  in  what  page  of 
the  red  book  his  name  was  to  be  inserted,  and 
what  precedency  should  be  allowed  his  lady 


in  the  drawing-room  and  at  the  ball.  That 
Nelson's  honours  were  affected  thus  far,  and 
no  farther,  might  be  conceded  to  Mr.  Pitt  and 
his  colleagues  in  administration :  but  the  degree 
of  rank  which  they  thought  proper  to  allot  was 
the  measure  of  their  gratitude,  though  not  of 
his  services.  This  Nelson  felt;  and  this  he 
expressed,  with  indignation,  among  his  friends. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  motives  of  the 
ministry,  and  whatever  the  formalities  with 
which  they  excused  their  conduct  to  themselves, 
the  importance  and  magnitude  of  the  victory 
were  universally  acknowledged.  A  grant  of 
10,000/.  was  voted  to  Nelson  by  the  East  India 
Company;  the  Turkish  Company  presented 
him  with  a  piece  of  plate;  the  City  of  London 
presented  a  sword  to  him,  and  to  each  of  his 
captains;  gold  medals  were  distributed  to  the 
Captains;  and  the  First  Lieutenants  of  all  the 
ships  were  promoted,  as  had  been  done  after 
Lord  Howe's  victor)'.  Nelson  was  exceedingly 
anxious  that  the  Captain  and  First  Lieutenant 
of  the  Culloden  should  not  be  passed  over 
because  of  their  misfortune.  To  Troubridge 
himself  he  said,  "Let  us  rejoice  that  the  ship 
which  got  on  shore  was  commanded  by  an 
officer  whose  character  is  so  thoroughly  estab- 
lished." To  the  Admiralty  he  stated,  that 
Captain  Troubridge's  conduct  was  as  fully 
entitled  to  praise  as  that  of  any  one  officer  in 
the  squadron,  and  as  highly  deserving  of  re- 
ward. "It  was  Troubridge,"  said  he,  "who 
equipped  the  squadron  so  soon  at  Syracuse: 
it  was  Troubridge  who  exerted  himself  for  me 
after  the  action :  it  was  Troubridge  who  saved 
the  Culloden,  when  none  that  I  know  in  the 
service  would  have  attempted  it."  The  gold 
medal,  therefore,  by  the  king's  express  desire, 
was  given  to  Captain  Troubridge,  "for  his  ser- 
vices both  before  and  since,  and  for  the  great 
and  wonderful  exertion  which  he  made  at  the 
time  of  the  action,  in  saving  and  getting  off 
his  ship."  The  private  letter  from  the  Ad- 
miralty to  Nelson  informed  him,  that  the  First 
Lieutenants  of  all  the  ships  engaged  were  to 
be  promoted.  Nelson  instantly  wrote  to  the 
Commander-in-Chief.  "I  sincerely  hope," 
said  he,  "this  is  not  intended  to  exclude  the 
First  Lieutenant  of  the  Culloden.  For  Heaven's 
sake  —  for  my  sake  —  if  it  be  so,  get  it  altered. 
Our  dear  friend  Troubridge  has  endured 
enough.  His  sufferings  were,  in  every  respect, 
more  than  any  of  us."  To  the  Admiralty  he 
wrote  in  terms  equally  warm.  "I  hope,  and 
believe,  the  word  engaged  is  not  intended  to 
exclude  the  Culloden.     The  merit  of  that  ship. 


328 


JANE   AUSTEN 


and  her  gallant  captain  are  too  well  known  to 
benefit  by  anything  I  could  say.  Her  misfor- 
tune was  great  in  getting  aground,  while  her 
more  fortunate  companions  were  in  the  full 
tide  of  happiness.  No;  I  am  confident  that 
my  good  Lord  Spencer  will  never  add  misery 
to  misfortune.  Captain  Troubridge  on  shore 
is  superior  to  captains  afloat :  in  the  midst  of 
his  great  misfortunes  he  made  those  signals 
which  prevented  certainly  the  Alexander  and 
Swiftsure  from  running  on  the  shoals.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  writing  on  a  subject  which,  I 
verily  believe,  has  never  entered  your  lordship's 
head;  but  my  heart,  as  it  ought  to  be,  is  warm 
to  my  gallant  friends."  Thus  feelingly  alive 
was  Nelson  to  the  claims,  and  interests,  and 
feelings  of  others.  The  Admiralty  replied, 
that  the  exception  was  necessary,  as  the  ship 
had  not  been  in  action:  but  they  desired  the 
Commander-in-Chief  to  promote  the  Lieu- 
tenant upon  the  first  vacancy  which  should 
occur     ^    ii^    !i»    a»    H" 


JANE  AUSTEN   (i 775-181 7) 

PRIDE   AND   PREJUDICE 

CHAPTER   I 

It  is  a  truth  universally  acknowledged,  that 
a  single  man  in  possession  of  a  good  fortune 
must  be  in  want  of  a  wife. 

However  little  known  the  feelings  or  views 
of  such  a  man  may  be  on  his  first  entering  a 
neighbourhood,  this  truth  is  so  well  fixed  in  the 
minds  of  the  surrounding  families,  that  he  is 
considered  as  the  rightful  property  of  some 
one  or  other  of  their  daughters. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Bennet,"  said  his  lady  to 
him  one  day,  "Have  you  heard  that  Nether- 
field  Park  is  let  at  last?" 

Mr.  Bennet  replied  that  he  had  not. 

"But  it  is,"  returned  she;  "for  Mrs. 'Long 
has  just  been  here,  and  she  told  me  all  about 
it." 

Mr.  Bennet  made  no  answer. 

"Do  not  you  want  to  know  who  has  taken 
it?"  cried  his  wife  impatiently. 

"  You  want  to  tell  me,  and  I  have  no  objec- 
tion to  hearing  it." 

This  was  invitation  enough. 

"Why,  my  dear,  you  must  know,  Mrs.  Long 
says  that  Netherfield  is  taken  by  a  young  man 
of  large  fortune  from  the  north  of  England; 
that  he  came  down  on  Monday  in  a  chaise  and 
four  to  see  the  place,  and  was  so  much  delighted 


with  it,  that  he  agreed  with  Mr.  Morris  im- 
mediately; that  he  is  to  take  possession  before 
Michaelmas,  and  some  of  his  servants  are  to 
be  in  the  house  by  the  end  of  next  week." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"Bingley." 

"Is  he  married  or  single?" 

"  Oh !  single,  my  dear,  to  be  sure !  A  single 
man  of  large  fortune ;  four  or  five  thousand  a 
year.     What  a  fine  thing  for  our  girls!" 

"How  so?  how  can  it  affect  them?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Bennet,"  replied  his  wife, 
"  how  can  you  be  so  tiresome !  you  must  know 
that  I  am  thinking  of  his  marrying  one  of 
them." 

"Is  that  his  design  in  settling  here?" 

"Design!  nonsense,  how  can  you  talk  so! 
But  it  is  very  likely  that  he  may  fall  in  love 
with  one  of  them,  and  therefore  you  must 
visit  him  as  soon  as  he  comes." 

"I  see  no  occasion  for  that.  You  and  the 
girls  may  go,  or  you  may  send  them  by  them- 
selves, which  perhaps  will  be  still  better,  for  as 
you  are  as  handsome  as  any  of  them,  Mr. 
Bingley  might  like  you  the  best  of  the  party." 

"My  dear,  you  flatter  me.  I  certainly  have 
had  my  share  of  beauty,  but  I  do  not  pretend 
to  be  anything  extraordinary  now.  When  a 
woman  has  five  grown-up  daughters,  she  ought 
to  give  over  thinking  of  her  own  beauty." 

"In  such  cases,  a  woman  has  not  often  much 
beauty  to  think  of." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  must  indeed  go  and  see 
Mr.  Bingley  when  he  comes  into  the  neigh- 
bourhood." 

"It  is  more  than  I  engage  for,  I  assure  you." 

"But  consider  your  daughters.  Only  think 
what  an  establishment  it  would  be  for  one  of 
them.  Sir  William  and  Lady  Lucas  are  de- 
termined to  go,  merely  on  that  account,  for 
in  general,  you  know,  they  visit  no  new-comers. 
Indeed  you  must  go,  for  it  will  be  impossible 
for  us  to  visit  him  if  you  do  not." 

"You  are  over-scrupulous,  surely.  I  dare 
say  Mr.  Bingley  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you; 
and  I  will  send  a  few  lines  by  you  to  assure  him 
of  my  hearty  consent  to  his  marrying  whichever 
he  chooses  of  the  girls:  though  I  must  throw 
in  a  good  word  for  my  little  Lizzy." 

"I  desire  you  will  do  no  such  thing.  Lizzy 
is  not  a  bit  better  than  the  others;  and  I  am 
sure  she  is  not  half  so  handsome  as  Jane,  nor 
half  so  good-humoured  as  Lydia.  But  you  are 
always  giving  her  the  preference." 

"They  have  none  of  them  much  to  recom- 
mend them,"  replied  he;    "they  are  all  silly 


PRIDE   AND    PREJUDICE 


329 


and  ignorant,  like  other  girls;  l)ut  Lizzie  has 
something  more  of  quickness  than  her  sisters." 

"Mr.  Bennet,  how  can  you  abuse  your  own 
children  in  such  a  way!  You  take  delight  in 
vexing  me.  You  have  no  compassion  on  my 
poor  nerves." 

"You  mistake  me,  my  dear.  I  have  a  high 
■  respect  for  your  nerves.  They  are  my  old 
friends.  I  have  heard  you  mention  them  with 
consideration  these  twenty  years  at  least." 

"Ah  !   you  do  not  know  what  I  suffer." 

"But  I  hope  you  will  get  over  it,  and  live  to 
see  many  young  men  of  four  thousand  a  year 
come  into  the  neighbourhood." 

"It  will  be  no  use  to  us,  if  twenty  such  should 
come,  since  you  will  not  visit  them." 

"Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,  that  when  there 
are  twenty,  I  will  visit  them  all." 

Mr.  Bennet  was  so  odd  a  mixture  of  quick 
parts,  sarcastic  humour,  reserve,  and  caprice, 
that  the  experience  of  three-and-twenty  years 
had  been  insufificient  to  make  his  wife  under- 
stand his  character.  Her  mind  was  less  dif- 
ficult to  develope.  She  was  a  woman  of  mean 
understanding,  little  information,  and  uncer- 
tain temper.  When  she  was  discontented,  she 
fancied  herself  nervous.  The  business  of  her 
life  was  to  get  her  daughters  married ;  its  solace 
was  visiting  and  news. 

CHAPTER  II 

Mr.  Bennet  was  among  the  earliest  of  those 
who  waited  on  Mr.  Bingley.  He  had  always 
intended  to  visit  him,  though  to  the  last  always 
assuring  his  wife  that  he  should  not  go;  and 
till  the  evening  after  the  visit  was  paid  she  had 
no  knowledge  of  it.  It  was  then  disclosed  in 
the  following  manner:  —  Observing  his  second 
daughter  employed  in  trimming  a  hat,  he  sud- 
denly addressed  her  with, 

"I  hope  Mr.  Bingley  will  like  it,  Lizzy." 

"We  are  not  in  a  way  to  know  what  Mr. 
Bingley  likes,"  said  her  mother  resentfully, 
"since  we  are  not  to  visit." 

"But  you  forget,  mamma,"  said  Elizabeth, 
"that  we  .shall  meet  him  at  the  assemblies, 
and  that  Mrs.  Long  has  promised  to  introduce 
him." 

"I  do  not  believe  Mrs.  Long  will  do  any  such 
thing.  She  has  two  nieces  of  her  own.  She  is 
a  selfish,  hypocritical  woman,  and  I  have  no 
opinion  of  her." 

"No  more  have  I,"  said  Mr.  Bennet;  "and  I 
am  glad  to  find  that  you  do  not  depend  on  her 
serving  you." 


Mrs.  Bennet  deigned  not  to  make  any  reply, 
but,  unable  to  contain  herself,  began  scoUling 
one  of  her  daughters. 

"Don't  keep  coughing  so,  Kitty,  for  Heaven's 
sake !  Have  a  little  compassion  on  my  nerves. 
You  tear  them  to  pieces." 

"Kitty  has  no  discretion  in  her  coughs," 
said  her  father;   "she  times  them  ill." 

"I  do  not  cough  for  my  own  amusement," 
replied  Kitty  fretfully.  "When  is  your  next 
ball  to  be,  Lizzy?" 

"To-morrow  fortnight." 

"Aye,  so  it  is,"  cried  her  mother,  "and  Mrs. 
Long  does  not  come  back  till  the  day  before; 
so  it  will  be  impossible  for  her  to  introduce  him, 
for  she  will  not  know  him  herself." 

"Then,  my  dear,  you  may  have  the  advan- 
tage of  your  friend,  and  introduce  Mr.  Bingley 
to  her." 

"Impossible,  Mr.  Bennet,  impossible,  when 
I  am  not  acquainted  with  him  myself;  how  can 
you  be  so  teasing?" 

"I  honour  your  circumspection.  A  fort- 
night's acquaintance  is  certainly  very  little. 
One  cannot  know  what  a  man  really  is  by  the 
end  of  a  fortnight.  But  if  we  do  not  venture 
somebody  else  will;  and  after  all,  Mrs.  Long 
and  her  nieces  must  stand  their  chance;  and, 
therefore,  as  she  will  think  it  an  act  of  kindness, 
if  you  decline  the  office,  I  will  take  it  on  myself." 

The  girls  stared  at  their  father.  Mrs.  Ben- 
net said  only,  "Nonsense,  nonsense!" 

"What  can  be  the  meaning  of  that  emphatic 
exclamation?"  cried  he.  "Do  you  consider 
the  forms  of  introduction,  and  the  stress  that 
is  laid  on  them,  as  nonsense?  I  cannot  quite 
agree  with  you  there.  What  say  you,  Mary? 
for  you  are  a  young  lady  of  deep  reflection,  I 
know,  and  read  great  books  and  make  extracts." 

Mary  wished  to  say  something  very  sensible, 
but  knew  not  how. 

"While  Mary  is  adjusting  her  ideas,"  he  con- 
tinued, "let  us  return  to  Mr.  Bingley." 

"I  am  sick  of  Mr.  Bingley,"  cried  his  wife. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that;  but  why  did  not 
you  tell  me  so  before?  If  I  had  known  as 
much  this  morning  I  certainly  would  not  have 
called  on  him.  It  is  very  unlucky;  but  as  I 
have  actually  paid  the  visit,  we  cannot  escape 
the  acquaintance  now." 

The  astonishment  of  the  ladies  was  just  what 
he  wished;  that  of  Mrs.  Bennet  perhaps  sur- 
passing the  rest;  though,  when  the  first  tumult 
of  joy  was  over,  she  began  to  declare  that  it 
was  what  she  had  expected  all  the  while. 

"How  good  it  was  in  you,  my  dear  Mr. 


JANE    AUSTEN 


330 

Bennet!  But  I  knew  I  should  persuade  you 
at  last.  I  was  sure  you  loved  your  girls  too 
well  to  neglect  such  an  acquaintance.  Well, 
how  pleased  I  am !  and  it  is  such  a  good  joke, 
too,  that  you  should  have  gone  this  morning  and 
never  said  a  word  about  it  till  now." 

"Now,  Kitty,  you  may  cough  as  much  as  you 
choose,"  said  Mr.  Bennet;  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  left  the  room,  fatigued  with  the  raptures  of 

his  wife.  •  ,   ,„ 

"What  an  excellent  father  you  have,  girls! 
said  she,  when  the  door  was  shut.  "I  do  not 
know  how  you  will  ever  make  him  amends  for 
his  kindness;  or  me  either,  for  that  matter. 
At  our  time  of  life  it  is  not  so  pleasant,  I  can 
tell  you,  to  be  making  new  acquaintance  every 
day;  but  for  your  sakes,  we  would  do  anything. 
Lydia,  my  love,  though  you  are  the  youngest, 
I  dare  say  Mr.  Bingley  will  dance  with  you  at 
the  ne.xt  ball." 

"Oh  !"  said  Lydia  stoutly,  "I  am  not  afraid; 
for  though  I  am  the  youngest,  I'm  the  tallest." 
The  rest  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  con- 
jecturing how  soon  he  would  return  Mr. 
Bennet's  visit,  and  determining  when  they 
should  ask  him  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  III 

Not  all  that  Mrs.  Bennet,  however,  with  the 
assistance  of  her  five  daughters,  could  ask  on 
the  subject,  was  sufficient  to  draw  from  her 
husband  any  satisfactory  description  of  Mr. 
Bingley.  They  attacked  him  in  various  ways 
—  with  barefaced  questions,  ingenious  sup- 
positions, and  distant  surmises;  but  he  eluded 
the  skill  of  them  all,  and  they  were  at  last 
obliged  to  accept  the  second-hand  intelligence 
of  their  neighbour.  Lady  Lucas.  Her  report 
was  highly  favourable.  Sir  William  had  been 
delighted  with  him.  He  was  quite  young, 
wonderfully  handsome,  extremely  agreeable, 
and,  to  crown  the  whole,  he  meant  to  be  at 
the  next  assembly  with  a  large  party.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  delightful !  To  be  fond  of 
dancing  was  a  certain  step  towards  falling  in 
love;  and  very  lively  hopes  of  Mr.  Bingley's 
heart  were  entertained. 

"If  I  can  but  see  one  of  my  daughters 
happily  settled  at  Netherfield,"  said  Mrs. 
Bennet  to  her  husband,  "and  all  the  others 
equally  well  married,  I  shall  have  nothing  to 
wish  for." 

In  a  few  days  Mr.  Bingley  returned  Mr. 
Bennet's  visit,  and  sat  about  ten  minutes  with 


him  in  his  library.  He  had  entertained  hopes 
of  being  admitted  to  a  sight  of  the  young  ladies, 
of  whose  beauty  he  had  heard  much;  but  he 
saw  only  the  father.  The  ladies  were  some- 
what more  fortunate,  for  they  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  ascertaining  from  an  upper  window 
that  he  wore  a  blue  coat,  and  rode  a  black 
horse. 

An  invitation  to  dinner  was  soon  afterwards 
despatched;  and  already  had  Mrs.  Bennet 
planned  the  courses  that  were  to  do  credit 
to  her  housekeeping,  when  an  answer  arrived 
which  deferred  it  all.  Mr.  Bingley  was  obliged 
to  be  in  town  the  following  day,  and,  conse- 
quently, unable  to  accept  the  honour  of  their 
invitation,  etc.  Mrs.  Bennet  was  quite  dis- 
concerted. She  could  not  imagine  what  busi- 
ness he  could  have  in  town  so  soon  after  his 
arrival  in  Hertfordshire;  and  she  began  to  fear 
that  he  might  be  always  flying  about  from  one 
place  to  another,  and  never  settled  at  Nether- 
field as  he  ought  to  be.  Lady  Lucas  quieted 
her  fears  a  little  by  starting  the  idea  of  his  being 
gone  to  London  only  to  get  a  large  party  for 
the  ball ;  and  a  report  soon  followed,  that  Mr. 
Bingley  was  to  bring  twelve  ladies  and  seven 
gentlemen  with  him  to  the  assembly.  The  girls 
grieved  over  such  a  number  of  ladies,  but  were 
comforted  the  day  before  the  ball  by  hearing, 
that  instead  of  twelve  he  had  brought  only  six 
from  London,  —  his  five  sisters  and  a  cousin. 
And  when  the  party  entered  the  assembly  room 
it  consisted  only  of  five  all  together,  —  Mr. 
Bingley,  his  two  sisters,  the  husband  of  the 
eldest,  and  another  young  man. 

Mr.  Bingley  was  good-looking  and  gentle- 
manlike; he  had  a  pleasant  countenance, 
and  easy,  unaffected  manners.  His  sisters 
were  fine  women,  with  an  air  of  decided  fash- 
ion. His  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Hurst,  merely 
looked  the  gentleman;  but  his  friend  Mr. 
Darcy  soon  drew  the  attention  of  the  room  by 
his  fine,  tall  person,  handsome  features,  noble 
mien,  a-nd  the  report  which  was  in  general 
circulation  within  five  minutes  after  his  en- 
trance, of  his  having  ten  thousand  a  year. 
The  gentlemen  pronounced  him  to  be  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  the  ladies  declared  he  was 
much  handsomer  than  Mr.  Bingley,  and  he  was 
looked  at  with  great  admiration  for  about  half 
the  evening,  till  his  manners  gave  a  disgust 
which  turned  the  tide  of  his  popularity;  for 
he  was  discovered  to  be  proud,  to  be  above  his 
company,  and  above  being  pleased;  and  not  all 
his  large  estate  in  Derbyshire  could  then  save 
him  from  having  a  most  forbidding,  disagree- 


PRIDE    AND    PRKJUDICE 


331 


able  countenance,  and  being  unworthy  to  be 
compared  with  his  friend. 

Mr.  Bingley  had  soon  made  himself  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  principal  people  in  the 
room ;  he  was  lively  and  unreserved,  danced 
every  dance,  was  angry  that  the  ball  closed 
so  early,  and  talked  of  giving  one  himself  at 
Netherfield.  Such  amiable  qualities  must 
speak  for  themselves.  What  a  contrast  between 
him  and  his  friend !  ^Ir.  Darcy  danced  only 
once  with  Mrs.  Hurst  and  once  with  Miss 
Bingley,  declined  being  introduced  to  any  other 
lady,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  walk- 
ing about  the  room,  speaking  occasionally 
to  one  of  his  own  party.  His  character  was 
decided.  He  was  the  proudest,  most  disagree- 
able man  in  the  world,  and  everybody  hoped 
that  he  would  never  come  there  again. 
Amongst  the  most  violent  against  him  was 
Mrs.  Bennet,  whose  dislike  of  his  general  be- 
haviour was  sharpened  into  particular  resent- 
ment by  his  having  slighted  one  of  her  daugh- 
ters. 

Elizabeth  Bennet  had  been  obliged,  by  the 
scarcity  of  gentlemen,  to  sit  down  for  two 
dances;  and  during  part  of  that  time,  Mr. 
Darcy  had  been  standing  near  enough  for  her 
to  overhear  a  conversation  between  him  and 
Mr.  Bingley,  who  came  from  the  dance  for  a 
few  minutes,  to  press  his  friend  to  join  it. 

"Come,  Darcy,"  said  he,  "I  must  have  you 
dance.  I  hate  to  see  you  standing  about  by 
yourself  in  this  stupid  manner.  You  had  much 
better  dance." 

"I  certainly  shall  not.  You  know  how  I 
detest  it,  unless  I  am  particularly  acquainted 
with  my  partner.  At  such  an  assembly  as  this 
it  would  be  insupportable.  Your  sisters  are 
engaged,  and  there  is  not  another  woman  in 
the  room  whom  it  would  not  be  a  punishment 
to  me  to  stand  up  with." 

"I  would  not  be  so  fastidious  as  you  are," 
cried  Bingley,  "for  a  kingdom!  Upon  my 
honour,  I  never  met  with  so  many  pleasant 
girls  in  my  life  as  I  have  this  evening ;  and  there 
are  several  of  them  you  see  uncommonly 
pretty." 

"  Yoti  are  dancing  with  the  only  handsome 
girl  in  the  room,"  said  Mr.  Darcy,  looking  at 
the  eldest  Miss  Bennet. 

"Oh!  she  is  the  most  beautiful  creature  I 
ever  beheld !  But  there  is  one  of  her  sisters 
sitting  down  just  behind  you,  who  is  very  pretty, 
and  I  dare  say  very  agreeable.  Do  let  me  ask 
my  partner  to  introduce  you." 

"Which  do  you  mean?"  and  turning  round 


he  looked  for  a  moment  at  Elizabeth,  till  catch- 
ing her  eye,  he  withdrew  his  own  and  coldly 
said,  "She  is  tolerable,  but  not  handsome 
enough  to  tempt  me;  and  I  am  in  no  humour 
at  present  to  give  consequence  to  young  ladies 
who  are  slighted  by  other  men.  You  had  better 
return  to  your  partner  and  enjoy  her  smiles, 
for  you  are  wasting  your  time  with  me." 

Mr.  Bingley  followed  his  advice.  Mr. 
Darcy  walked  off ;  and  Elizabeth  remained  with 
no  very  cordial  feelings  towards  him.  She  told 
the  story,  however,  with  great  spirit  among  her 
friends;  for  she  had  a  lively,  playful  disposition, 
which  delighted  in  anything  ridiculous. 

The  evening  altogether  passed  off  pleasantly 
to  the  whole  family.  Mrs.  Bennet  had  seen 
her  eldest  daughter  much  admired  by  the 
Netherfield  party.  Mr.  Bingley  had  danced 
with  her  twice,  and  she  had  been  distinguished 
by  his  sisters.  Jane  was  as  much  gratified 
by  this  as  her  mother  could  be,  though  in  a 
quieter  way.  Elizabeth  felt  Jane's  pleasure. 
Mary  had  heard  herself  mentioned  to  Miss 
Bingley  as  the  most  accomplished  girl  in  the 
neighbourhood;  and  Catherine  and  Lydia  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  be  never  without 
partners,  which  was  all  that  they  had  yet  learned 
to  care  for  at  a  ball.  They  returned,  therefore, 
in  good  spirits  to  Longbourn,  the  village  where 
they  lived,  and  of  which  they  were  the  principal 
inhabitants.  They  found  Mr.  Bennet  still  up. 
W^ith  a  book  he  was  regardless  of  time;  and 
on  the  present  occasion  he  had  a  good  deal 
of  curiosity  as  to  the  event  of  an  evening  which 
had  raised  such  splendid  expectations.  He 
had  rather  hoped  that  all  his  wife's  views  on 
the  stranger  would  be  disappointed;  but  he 
soon  found  that  he  had  a  very  different  story 
to  hear. 

"Oh  1  my  dear  Mr.  Bennet,"  as  she  entered 
the  room,  "we  have  had  a  most  delightful 
evening,  a  most  excellent  ball.  I  wish  you  had 
been  there.  Jane  was  so  admired,  nothing 
could  be  like  it.  Everybody  said  how  well  she 
looked;  and  Mr.  Bingley  thought  her  quite 
beautiful,  and  danced  with  her  twice!  Only 
think  of  that,  my  dear;  he  actually  danced 
with  her  twice !  and  she  was  the  only 
creature  in  the  room  that  he  asked  a  second 
time.  First  of  all,  he  asked  Miss  Lucas. 
I  was  so  vexed  to  see  him  stand  up  with  her ! 
but,  however,  he  did  not  admire  her  at  all; 
indeed,  nobody  can,  you  know;  and  he  seemed 
quite  struck  with  Jane  as  she  was  going  down 
the  dance.  So  he  inquired  who  she  was,  and 
got  introduced,  and  asked  her  for  the  two  next. 


32>^ 


JANE   AUSTEN 


Then  the  two  third  he  danced  with  Miss  King 
and  the  two  fourth  with  Maria  Lucas,  and  the 
two  fifth  with  Jane  again,  and  the  two  sixth 
with  Lizzie  and  the  Boulanger." 

"If  he  had  had  any  compassion  for  me,'" 
cried  her  husband  impatiently,  "he  would  not 
have  danced  half  so  much!  For  God's  sake, 
say  no  more  of  his  partners.  O  that  he  had 
sprained  his  ankle  in  the  first  dance!" 

"Oh!  my  dear,"  continued  Mrs.  Bennet, 
"I  am  quite  delighted  with  him.  He  is  so 
excessively  handsome !  and  his  sisters  are 
charming  women.  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
anything  more  elegant  than  their  dresses.  I 
dare  say  the  lace  upon  Mrs.  Hurst's  gown  — " 

Here  she  was  interrupted  again.  Mr. 
Bennet  protested  against  any  description  of 
finery.  She  was  therefore  obliged  to  seek 
another  branch  of  the  subject,  and  related  with 
much  bitterness  of  spirit  and  some  exaggeration, 
the  shocking  rudeness  of  Mr.  Darcy. 

"But  I  can  assure  you,"  she  added,  "that 
Lizzie  does  not  lose  much  by  not  suiting  his 
fancy;  for  he  is  a  most  disagreeable,  horrid 
man,  not  at  all  worth  pleasing.  So  high  and 
so  conceited  that  there  was  no  enduring  him ! 
He  walked  here,  and  he  walked  there,  fancying 
himself  so  very  great !  Not  handsome  enough 
to  dance  with !  I  wish  you  had  been  there, 
my  dear,  to  have  given  him  one  of- your  set- 
downs.     I  quite  detest  the  man." 

CHAPTER  IV 

When  Jane  and  Elizabeth  were  alone,  the 
former,  who  had  been  cautious  in  her  praise 
of  Mr.  Bingley  before,  expressed  to  her  sister 
how  very  much  she  admired  him. 

"He  is  just  what  a  young  man  ought  to  be," 
said  she,  "sensible,  good-humoured,  lively; 
and  I  never  saw  such  happy  manners !  —  so 
much  ease,  with  such  perfect  good-breeding!" 

"He  is  also  handsome,"  replied  Elizabeth; 
"which  a  young  man  ought  likewise  to  be, 
if  he  possibly  can.  His  character  is  thereby 
complete." 

"I  was  very  much  flattered  by  his  asking  me 
to  dance  a  second  time.  I  did  not  expect  such 
a  compliment." 

"Did  not  you?  /  did  for  you.  But  that 
is  one  great  difference  between  us.  Compli- 
ments always  take  you  by  surprise,  and  me 
never.  What  could  be  more  natural  than  his 
asking  you  again?  He  could  not  help  seeing 
that  you  were  about  five  times  as  pretty  as  every 
other  woman  in  the  room.     No  thanks  to  his 


gallantry  for  that.  Well,  he  certainly  is  very 
agreeable,  and  I  give  you  leave  to  like  him. 
You  have  liked  many  a  stupider  person." 

"Dear  Lizzy!" 

"Oh!  you  are  a  great  deal  too  apt,  you 
know,  to  like  people  in  general.  You  never 
see  a  fault  in  anybody.  All  the  world  are 
good  and  agreeable  in  your  eyes.  I  never 
heard  you  speak  ill  of  a  human  being  in  my 
life." 

"I  would  wish  not  to  be  hasty  in  censuring 
any  one;   but  I  always  speak  what  I  think." 

"I  know  you  do;  and  it  is  that  which  makes 
the  wonder.  With  your  good  sense,  to  be  so 
honestly  blind  to  the  follies  and  nonsense  of 
others!  Affectation  of  candour  is  common 
enough  —  one  meets  it  everywhere.  But  to 
be  candid  without  ostentation  or  design  —  to 
take  the  good  of  everybody's  character  and 
make  it  still  better,  and  say  nothing  of  the  bad 
—  belongs  to  you  alone.  And  so  you  like  this 
man's  sisters,  too,  do  you?  Their  manners 
are  not  equal  to  his." 

"Certainly  not  —  at  first.  But  they  are 
very  pleasing  women  when  you  converse  with 
them.  Miss  Bingley  is  to  live  with  her  brother, 
and  keep  his  house;  and  I  am  much  mistaken 
if  we  shall  not  find  a  very  charming  neighbour 
in  her." 

Elizabeth  listened  in  silence,  but  was  not  con- 
vinced; their  behaviour  at  the  assembly  had 
not  been  calculated  to  please  in  general;  and 
with  more  quickness  of  observation  and  less 
pliancy  of  temper  than  her  sister,  and  with  a 
judgment,  too,  unassailed  by  any  attention  to 
herself,  she  was  very  little  disposed  to  approve 
them.  They  were  in  fact  very  fine  ladies; 
not  deficient  in  good  humour  when  they  were 
pleased,  nor  in  the  power  of  being  agreeable 
when  they  chose  it,  but  proud  and  conceited. 
They  were  rather  handsome,  had  been  edu- 
cated in  one  of  the  first  private  seminaries  in 
town,  had  a  fortune  of  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
were  in  the  habit  of  spending  more  than  they 
ought,  and  of  associating  with  people  of  rank, 
and  were  therefore  in  every  respect  entitled  to 
think  well  of  themselves,  and  meanly  of  others. 
They  were  of  a  respectable  family  in  the  north 
of  England;  a  circumstance  more  deeply  im- 
pressed on  their  memories  than  that  their 
brother's  fortune  and  their  own  had  been 
acquired  by  trade. 

Mr.  Bingley  inherited  property  to  the  amount 
of  nearly  an  hundred  thousand  pounds  from 
his  father,  who  had  intended  to  purchase  an 
estate,  but  did  not  live  to  do  it.     Mr.  Bingley 


PRIDE    AND    PREJUDICE 


333 


intended  it  likewise,  and  sometimes  made  choice 
of  his  county ;  but  as  he  was  now  provided  with 
a  good  house  and  the  Hberty  of  a  manor,  it 
was  doubtful  to  many  of  those  who  best  knew 
the  easiness  of  his  temper,  whether  he  might 
not  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  at  Nether- 
field,  and  leave  the  next  generation  to  purchase. 

His  sisters  were  very  anxious  for  his  having 
an  estate  of  his  own ;  but,  though  he  was  now 
estabhshed  only  as  a  tenant.  Miss  Bingley  was 
by  no  means  unwilling  to  preside  at  his  table 
—  nor  was  Mrs.  Hurst,  who  had  married  a 
man  of  more  fashion  than  fortune,  less  disposed 
to  consider  his  house  as  her  home  when  it 
suited  her.  Mr.  Bingley  had  not  been  of  age 
two  years,  when  he  was  tempted  by  an  acci- 
dental recommendation  to  look  at  Netherfield 
House.  He  did  look  at  it,  and  into  it  for  half- 
an-hour  —  was  pleased  with  the  situation  and 
the  principal  rooms,  satisfied  with  what  the 
owner  said  in  its  praise,  and  took  it  imme- 
diately. 

Between  him  and  Darcy  there  was  a  very 
steady  friendship,  in  spite  of  great  opposition 
of  character.  Bingley  was  endeared  to  Darcy 
by  the  easiness,  openness,  and  ductility  of  his 
temper,  though  no  disposition  could  offer  a 
greater  contrast  to  his  own,  and  though  with 
his  own  he  never  appeared  dissatisfied.  On 
the  strength  of  Darcy's  regard,  Bingley  had  the 
firmest  reliance,  and  of  his  judgment  the  high- 
est opinion.  In  understanding,  Darcy  was  the 
superior.  Bingley  was  by  no  means  deficient, 
but  Darcy  was  clever.  He  was  at  the  same 
time  haughty,  reserved,  and  fastidious,  and  his 
manners,  though  well-bred,  were  not  inviting. 
In  that  respect  his  friend  had  greatly  the  ad- 
vantage. Bingley  was  sure  of  being  liked 
wherever  he  appeared,  Darcy  was  continually 
giving  offence. 

The  manner  in  which  they  spoke  of  the 
Meryton  assembly  was  sufificieritly  character- 
istic. Bingley  had  never  met  with  pleasanter 
people  or  prettier  girls  in  his  life;  everybody 
had  been  most  kind  and  attentive  to  him; 
there  had  been  no  formality,  no  stiffness; 
he  had  soon  felt  acquainted  with  all  the  room; 
and  as  to  Miss  Bennet,  he  could  not  conceive 
an  angel  more  beautiful.  Darcy,  on  the 
contrary,  had  seen  a  collection  of  people  in 
whom  there  was  little  beauty  and  no  fashion, 
for  none  of  whom  he  had  felt  the  smallest  in- 
terest, and  from  none  received  either  attention 
or  pleasure.  Miss  Bennet  he  acknowledged  to 
be  pretty,  but  she  smiled  too  much. 

Mrs.  Hurst  and  her  sister  allowed  it  to  be  so 


—  but  still  they  admired  her  and  liked  her, 
and  pronounced  her  to  be  a  sweet  girl,  and  one 
whom  they  should  not  object  to  know  more  of. 
Miss  Bennet  was  therefore  established  as  a 
sweet  girl,  and  their  brother  fell  authorised  by 
such  commendation  to  think  of  her  as  he  chose. 


CHAPTER   V 

Within  a  short  walk  of  Longbourn  lived  a 
family  with  whom  the  Bennets  were  particu- 
larly intimate.  Sir  William  Lucas  had  been 
formerly  in  trade  in  Meryton,  where  he  had 
made  a  tolerable  fortune,  and  risen  to  the 
honour  of  knighthood  by  an  address  to  the  king 
during  his  mayoralty.  The  distinction  had 
perhaps  been  felt  too  strongly.  It  had  given 
him  a  disgust  to  his  business,  and  to  his  resi- 
dence in  a  small  market  town;  and,  quitting 
them  both,  he  had  removed  with  his  family 
to  a  house  about  a  mile  from  Meryton,  denomi- 
nated from  that  period  Lucas  Lodge,  where  he 
could  think  with  pleasure  of  his  own  importance, 
and,  unshackled  by  business,  occupy  himself 
solely  in  being  civil  to  all  the  world.  For, 
though  elated  by  his  rank,  it  did  not  render 
him  supercilious;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  all 
attention  to  everybody.  By  nature  inoffensive, 
friendly,  and  obliging,  his  presentation  at  St. 
James's  had  made  him  courteous. 

Lady  Lucas  was  a  very  good  kind  of  woman, 
not  too  clever  to  be  a  valuable  neighbour 
to  Mrs.  Bennet.  They  had  several  children. 
The  eldest  of  them,  a  sensible,  intelligent  young 
woman,  about  twenty-seven,  was  Elizabeth's 
intimate  friend. 

That  the  Miss  Lucases  and  the  Miss  Bennets 
should  meet  to  talk  over  a  ball  was  absolutely 
necessary;  and  the  morning  after  the  assembly 
brought  the  former  to  Longbourn  to  hear  and 
to  communicate. 

"  You  began  the  evening  well,  Charlotte," 
said  Mrs.  Bennet  with  civil  self-command  to 
Miss  Lucas.  "  You  were  Mr.  Bingley's  first 
choice." 

"Yes;  but  he  seemed  to  like  his  second 
better." 

"Oh!  you  mean  Jane,  I  suppose,  because 
he  danced  with  her  twice.  To  be  sure  that  did 
seem  as  if  he  admired  her  —  indeed  I  rather 
believe  he  did  —  I  heard  something  about  it 
—  but  I  hardly  know  what  —  something  about 
Mr.  Robinson." 

"Perhaps  you  mean  what  I  overheard  be- 
tween him  and  Mr.  Robinson;  did  not  I  men- 


334 


JANE   AUSTEN 


tion  it  to  you?  Mr.  Robinson's  asking  him 
how  he  liked  our  Meryton  assemblies,  and 
whether  he  did  not  think  there  were  a  great 
many  pretty  women  in  the  room,  and  which 
he  thought  the  prettiest?  and  his  answering 
immediately  to  the  last  question  — '  Oh !  the 
eldest  Miss  Bennet,  beyond  a  doubt;  there 
cannot  be  two  opinions  on  that  point.'" 

"Upon  my  word!  —  Well,  that  was  very 
decided  indeed  —  that  does  seem  as  if  —  but, 
however,  it  may  all  come  to  nothing,  you 
know." 

"My  overhearings  were  more  to  the  pur- 
pose than  yours,  Eliza,"  said  Charlotte.  "Mr. 
Darcy  is  not  so  well  worth  listening  to  as  his 
friend,  is  he  ?  —  Poor  Eliza !  —  to  be  only  just 
tolerable.'' 

"I  beg  you  would  not  put  it  into  Lizzy's 
head  to  be  vexed  by  his  ill-treatment,  for  he  is 
such  a  disagreeable  man,  that  it  would  be  quite 
a  misfortune  to  be  liked  by  him.  Mrs.  Long 
told  me  last  night  that  he  sat  close  to  her  for 
half-an-hour  without  once  opening  his  lips." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  ma'am?  —  is  not  there 
a  little  mistake?"  said  Jane.  "I  certainly  saw 
Mr.  Darcy  speaking  to  her." 

"Aye  —  because  she  asked  him  at  last  how 
he  liked  Netherfield,  and  he  could  not  help 
answering  her;  but  she  said  he  seemed  very 
angry  at  being  spoke  to." 

"Miss  Bingley  told  me,"  said  Jane,  "that 
he  never  speaks  much,  unless  among  his  inti- 
mate acquaintance.  With  them  he  is  remark- 
ably agreeable." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,  my  dear.  If 
he  had  been  so  very  agreeable,  he  would  have 
talked  to  Mrs.  Long.  But  I  can  guess  how  it 
was;  everybody  says  that  he  is  eat  up  with 
pride,  and  I  dare  say  he  had  heard  somehow 
that  Mrs.  Long  does  not  keep  a  carriage,  and 
had  come  to  the  ball  in  a  hack  chaise." 

"I  do  not  mind  his  not  talking  to  Mrs.  Long," 
said  Miss  Lucas,  "but  I  wish  he  had  danced 
with  Eliza." 

"Another  time,  Lizzy,"  said  her  mother, 
"I  would  not  dance  with  him,  if  I  were  you." 

"I  believe,  ma'am,  I  may  safely  promise  you 
never  to  dance  with  him." 

"His  pride,"  said  Miss  Lucas,  "does  not 
offend  me  so  much  as  pride  often  does,  because 
there  is  an  excuse  for  it.  One  cannot  wonder 
that  so  very  fine  a  young  man,  with  family, 
fortune,  everything  in  his  favour,  should  think 
highly  of  himself.  If  I  may  so  express  it,  he 
has  a  right  to  be  proud." 

"That  is  very  true,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "and 


I  could  easily  forgive  his  pride,  if  he  had  not 
mortified  mine." 

"Pride,"  observed  Mary,  who  piqued  her- 
self upon  the  solidity  of  her  reflections,  "  is 
a  very  common  failing,  I  believe.  By  all  that 
I  have  ever  read,  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  very 
common  indeed;  that  human  nature  is  par- 
ticularly prone  to  it,  and  that  there  are  very 
few  of  us  who  do  not  cherish  a  feeling  of  self- 
complacency  on  the  score  of  some  quality  or 
the  other,  real  or  imaginary.  Vanity  and  pride 
are  different  things,  though  the  words  are  often 
used  synonymously.  A  person  may  be  proud 
without  being  vain.  Pride  relates  more  to  our 
opinion  of  ourselves,  vanity  to  what  we  would 
have  others  think  of  us." 

"If  I  were  as  rich  as  Mr.  Darcy,"  cried  a 
young  Lucas,  who  came  with  his  sisters,  "I 
should  not  care  how  proud  I  was.  I  would 
keep  a  pack  of  foxhounds,  and  drink  a  bottle 
of  wine  every  day." 

"Then  you  would  drink  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  ought,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet;  "and  if  I 
were  to  see  you  at  it,  I  should  take  away  your 
bottle  directly." 

The  boy  protested  that  she  should  not;  she 
continued  to  declare  that  she  would,  and  the 
argument  ended  only  with  the  visit. 

CHAPTER   VI 

The  ladies  of  Longbourn  soon  waited  on 
those  of  Netherfield.  The  visit  was  returned 
in  due  form.  Miss  Bennet's  pleasing  manners 
grew  on  the  goodwill  of  Mrs.  Hurst  and  Miss 
Bingley;  and  though  the  mother  was  found  to 
be  intolerable,  and  the  younger  sisters  not  worth 
speaking  to,  a  wish  of  being  better  acquainted 
with  them  was  expressed  towards  the  two 
eldest.  By  Jane,  this  attention  was  received 
with  the  greatest  pleasure;  but  Elizabeth  still 
saw  superciliousness  in  their  treatment  of  every- 
body, hardly  excepting  even  her  sister,  and  could 
not  like  them ;  though  their  kindness  to  Jane, 
such  as  it  was,  had  a  value  as  arising  in  all 
probability  from  the  influence  of  their  brother's 
admiration.  It  was  generally  evident  when- 
ever they  met  that  he  did  admire  her;  and  to 
her  it  was  equally  evident  that  Jane  was  yield- 
ing to  the  preference  which  she  had  begun  to 
entertain  for  him  from  the  first,  and  was  in  a 
way  to  be  very  much  in  love ;  but  she  considered 
with  pleasure  that  it  was  not  likely  to  be  dis- 
covered by  the  world  in  general,  since  Jane 
united,  with  great  strength  of  feeling,  a  com- 
posure of  temper  and  a  uniform  cheerfulness 


PRIDE    AND    PREJUDICE 


335 


of  manner  which  would  guard  her  from  the 
suspicions  of  the  impertinent.  She  mentioned 
this  to  her  friend  Miss  Lucas. 

"It  may  perhaps  be  pleasant,"  replied  Char- 
lotte, "to  be  able  to  impose  on  the  public  in 
such  a  case;  but  it  is  sometimes  a  disadvan- 
tage to  be  so  very  guarded.  If  a  woman  con- 
ceals her  affection  with  the  same  skill  from  the 
object  of  it,  she  may  lose  the  opportunity  of 
fixing  him;  and  it  will  then  be  but  poor  con- 
solation to  believe  the  world  equally  in  the  dark. 
There  is  so  much  of  gratitude  or  vanity  in 
almost  every  attachment,  that  it  is  not  safe  to 
leave  any  to  itself.  We  can  all  begin  freely  — 
a  slight  preference  is  natural  enough :  but  there 
are  very  few  of  us  who  have  heart  enough  to 
be  really  in  love  without  encouragement.  In 
nine  cases  out  of  ten  a  woman  had  better  show 
more  affection  than  she  feels.  Bingley  likes 
your  sister,  undoubtedly;  but  he  may  never 
do  more  than  like  her,  if  she  does  not  help 
him  on." 

"But  she  does  help  him  on,  as  much  as  her 
nature  will  allow.  If  /  can  perceive  her  regard 
for  him,  he  must  be  a  simpleton,  indeed,  not 
to  discover  it  too." 

"Remember,  Eliza,  that  he  does  not  know 
Jane's  disposition  as  you  do." 

"But  if  a  woman  is  partial  to  a  man,  and 
does  not  endeavour  to  conceal  it,  he  must  find 
it  out." 

"Perhaps  he  must,  if  he  sees  enough  of  her. 
But,  though  Bingley  and  Jane  meet  tolerably 
often,  it  is  never  for  many  hours  together;  and 
as  they  always  see  each  other  in  large  mixed 
parties,  it  is  impossible  that  every  moment 
should  be  employed  in  conversing  together. 
Jane  should  therefore  make  the  most  of  every 
half-hour  in  which  she  can  command  his 
attention.  When  she  is  secure  of  him,  there 
will  be  leisure  for  falling  in  love  as  much  as 
she  chooses." 

"Your  plan  is  a  good  one,"  replied  Elizabeth, 
"where  nothing  is  in  question  but  the  desire  of 
being  well  married;  and  if  I  were  determined 
to  get  a  rich  husband,  or  any  husband,  I  dare 
say  I  should  adopt  it.  But  these  are  not  Jane's 
feelings;  she  is  not  acting  by  design.  As  yet, 
she  cannot  even  be  certain  of  the  degree  of 
her  own  regard,  nor  of  its  reasonableness.  She 
has  known  him  only  a  fortnight.  She  danced 
four  dances  with  him  at  Meryton;  she  saw 
him  one  morning  at  his  own  house,  and  has 
since  dined  in  company  with  him  four  times. 
This  is  not  quite  enough  to  make  her  under- 
stand his  character." 


"Not  as  you  represent  it.  Had  she  merely 
dined  with  him,  she  might  only  have  discovered 
whether  he  had  a  good  appetite;  l)ut  you  must 
remember  that  four  evenings  have  been  also 
spent  together  —  and  four  evenings  may  do  a 
great  deal." 

"Yes;  these  four  evenings  have  enabled 
them  to  ascertain  that  they  both  like  Vingt-un 
better  than  Commerce ;  but  with  respect  to  any 
other  leading  characteristic,  I  do  not  imagine 
that  much  has  been  unfolded." 

"Well,"  said  Charlotte,  "I  wish  Jane  suc- 
cess with  all  my  heart;  and  if  she  were  married 
to  him  to-morrow,  I  should  think  she  had  as 
good  a  chance  of  happiness  as  if  she  were  to 
be  studying  his  character  for  a  twelve-month. 
Happiness  in  marriage  is  entirely  a  matter  of 
chance.  If  the  dispositions  of  the  parties  are 
ever  so  well  known  to  each  other  or  ever  so 
similar  beforehand,  it  does  not  advance  their 
felicity  in  the  least.  They  always  continue  to 
grow  sufficiently  unlike  afterwards  to  have  their 
share  of  vexation;  and  it  is  better  to  know  as 
little  as  possible  of  the  defects  of  the  person  with 
whom  you  are  to  pass  your  life." 

"You  make  me  laugh,  Charlotte;  but  it  is 
not  sound.  You  know  it  is  not  sound,  and  that 
you  would  never  act  in  this  way  yourself." 

Occupied  in  observing  Mr.  Bingley's  atten- 
tions to  her  sister,  Elizabeth  was  far  from  sus- 
pecting that  she  was  herself  becoming  an  object 
of  some  interest  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend.  Mr. 
Darcy  had  at  first  scarcely  allowed  her  to  be 
pretty;  he  had  looked  at  her  without  admira- 
tion at  the  ball;  and  when  they  next  met,  he 
looked  at  her  only  to  criticise.  But  no  sooner 
had  he  made  it  clear  to  himself  and  his  friends 
that  she  had  hardly  a  good  feature  in  her  face, 
than  he  began  to  find  it  was  rendered  uncom- 
monly intelligent  by  the  beautiful  expression  of 
her  dark  eyes.  To  this  discovery  succeeded 
some  others  equally  mortifying.  Though  he 
had  detected  with  a  critical  eye  more  than  one 
failure  of  perfect  symmetry  in  her  form,  he  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  her  figure  to  be  light  and 
pleasing;  and  in  spite  of  his  asserting  that  her 
manners  were  not  those  of  the  fashionable 
world,  he  was  caught  by  their  easy  playfulness. 
Of  this  she  was  perfectly  unaware;  —  to  her 
he  was  only  the  man  who  made  himself  agree- 
able nowhere,  and  who  had  not  thought  her 
handsome  enough  to  dance  with. 

He  began  to  wish  to  know  more  of  her,  and 
as  a  step  towards  conversing  with  her  him- 
self, attended  to  her  conversation  with  others. 
His  doing  so  drew  her  notice.     It  was  at  Sir 


zz^ 


JANE   AUSTEN 


William   Lucas's,   where   a   large   party  were 
assembled. 

"What  does  Mr.  Darcy  mean,"  said  she  to 
Charlotte,  "by  listening  to  my  conversation 
with  Colonel  Forster?" 

"That  is  a  question  which  Mr.  Darcy  only 
can  answer." 

"But  if  he  does  it  any  more  I  shall  certainly 
let  him  know  that  I  see  what  he  is  about. 
He  has  a  very  satirical  eye,  and  if  I  do  not 
begin  by  being  impertinent  myself,  I  shall  soon 
grow  afraid  of  him." 

On  his  approaching  them  soon  afterwards, 
though  without  seeming  to  have  any  intention 
of  speaking,  Miss  Lucas  defied  her  friend  to 
mention  such  a  subject  to  him;  which  im- 
mediately provoking  Elizabeth  to  do  it,  she 
turned  to  him  and  said :  — 

"Did  not  you  think,  Mr.  Darcy,  that  I 
expressed  myself  uncommonly  well  just  now, 
when  I  was  teasing  Colonel  Forster  to  give 
us  a  ball  at  Meryton?" 

"With  great  energy;  —  but  it  is  a  subject 
which  always  makes  a  lady  energetic." 

"You  are  severe  on  us." 

"It  will  be  her  turn  soon  to  be  teased," 
said  Miss  Lucas.  "I  am  going  to  open  the 
instrument,  Eliza,  and  you  know  what  follows." 

"You  are  a  very  strange  creature  by  way 
of  a  friend !  —  always  wanting  me  to  play  and 
sing  before  anybody  and  everybody !  If  my 
vanity  had  taken  a  musical  turn,  you  would 
have  been  invaluable;  but  as  it  is,  I  would 
really  rather  not  sit  down  before  those  who 
must  be  in  the  habit  of  hearing  the  very  best 
performers."  On  Miss  Lucas's  persevering, 
however,  she  added,  "Very  well;  if  it  must  be 
so,  it  must."  And  gravely  glancing  at  Mr. 
Darcy,  "There  is  a  fine  old  saying,  which 
everybody  here  is  of  course  familiar  with  — 
'Keep  your  breath  to  cool  your  porridge,'  — 
and  I  shall  keep  mine  to  swell  my  song." 

Her  performance  was  pleasing,  though  by 
no  means  capital.  After  a  song  or  two,  and 
before  she  could  reply  to  the  entreaties  of 
several  that  she  would  sing  again,  she  was 
eagerly  succeeded  at  the  instrument  by  her 
sister  Mary,  who  having,  in  consequence  of 
being  the  only  plain  one  in  the  family,  worked 
hard  for  knowledge  and  accomplishments,  was 
always  impatient  for  display. 

Mary  had  neither  genius  nor  taste;  and 
though  vanity  had  given  her  application,  it  had 
given  her  likewise  a  pedantic  air  and  con- 
ceited manner,  which  would  have  injured  a 
higher    degree    of    excellence    than    she    had 


reached.  Elizabeth,  easy  and  unaffected,  had 
been  listened  to  with  much  more  pleasure, 
though  not  playing  half  so  well;  and  Mary, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  concerto,  was  glad  to 
purchase  praise  and  gratitude  by  Scotch  and 
Irish  airs,  at  the  request  of  her  younger  sisters, 
who,  with  some  of  the  Lucases,  and  two  or 
three  ofificers,  joined  eagerly  in  dancing  at  one 
end  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Darcy  stood  near  them  in  silent  indig- 
nation at  such  a  mode  of  passing  the  evening, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  conversation,  and  was 
too  much  engrossed  by  his  thoughts  to  per- 
ceive that  Sir  William  Lucas  was  his  neigh- 
bour, till  Sir  William  thus  began, 

"What  a  charming  amusement  for  young 
people  this  is,  Mr.  Darcy !  There  is  nothing 
like  dancing  after  all.  I  consider  it  as  one  of 
the  first  refinements  of  polished  societies." 

"Certainly,  sir;  and  it  has  the  advantage 
also  of  being  in  vogue  amongst  the  less  pol- 
ished societies  of  the  world.  Every  savage  can 
dance." 

Sir  William  only  smiled.  "Your  friend  per- 
forms delightfully,"  he  continued  after  a  pause, 
on  seeing  Bingley  join  the  group;  —  "and  I 
doubt  not  that  you  are  an  adept  in  the  science 
yourself,  Mr.  Darcy." 

"You  saw  me  dance  at  Meryton,  I  believe, 
sir." 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  received  no  inconsider- 
able pleasure  from  the  sight.  Do  you  often 
dance  at  St.  James's?" 

"Never,  sir." 

"Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  a  proper 
compliment  to  the  place?" 

"It  is  a  compliment  which  I  never  pay  to 
any  place  if  I  can  avoid  it." 

"You  have  a  house  in  town,  I  conclude?" 

Mr.  Darcy  bowed. 

"I  had  once  some  thoughts  of  fixing  in 
town  myself  —  for  I  am  fond  of  superior 
society;  but  I  did  not  feel  quite  certain  that 
the  air  of  London  would  agree  with  Lady 
Lucas." 

He  paused  in  hopes  of  an  answer;  but  his 
companion  was  not  disposed  to  make  any; 
and  Elizabeth  at  that  instant  moving  towards 
them,  he  was  struck  with  the  notion  of  doing 
a  very  gallant  thing,  and  called  out  to  her  — 

"My  dear  Miss  Eliza,  why  are  not  you 
dancing?  —  Mr.  Darcy,  you  must  allow  me 
to  present  this  young  lady  to  you  as  a  very 
desirable  partner.  You  cannot  refuse  to 
dance,  I  am  sure,  when  so  much  beauty  is 
before  you."     And,  taking  her  hand,  he  would 


CHARLES    LAMB 


337 


have  given  it  to  Mr.  Darcy,  who,  tliough  ex- 
tremely surprised,  was  not  unwilling  to  receive 
it,  when  she  instantly  drew  back,  and  said 
with  some  discomposure  to  Sir  William  — 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  have  not  the  least  intention 
of  dancing.  I  entreat  you  not  to  suppose  that 
I  moved  this  way  in  order  to  beg  for  a  partner." 

Mr.  Darcy,  with  grave  propriety,  requested 
to  be  allowed  the  honour  of  her  hand,  but 
in  vain.  Elizabeth  was  determined;  nor  did 
Sir  William  at  all  shake  her  purpose  by  his 
attempt  at  persuasion. 

"You  excel  so  much  in  the  dance,  Miss 
Eliza,  that  it  is  cruel  to  deny  me  the  happiness 
of  seeing  you;  and  though  this  gentleman  dis- 
likes the  amusement  in  general,  he  can  have 
no  objection,  I  am  sure,  to  oblige  us  for  one 
half-hour." 

"Mr.  Darcy  is  all  politeness,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, smiling. 

"He  is  indeed;  but  considering  the  induce- 
ment, my  dear  Miss  Eliza,  we  cannot  wonder 
at  his  complaisance  —  for  who  would  object 
to  such  a  partner?" 

Elizabeth  looked  archly,  and  turned  away. 
Her  resistance  had  not  injured  her  with  the 
gentleman,  and  he  was  thinking  of  her  with 
some  complacency,  when  thus  accosted  by 
Miss  Bingley  — 

"I  can  guess  the  subject  of  your  reverie." 

"I  should  imagine  not." 

"You  are  considering  how  insupportable  it 
would  be  to  pass  many  evenings  in  this  man- 
ner—  in  such  society;  and  indeed  I  am  cjuite 
of  your  opinion.  I  was  never  more  annoyed ! 
The  insipidity,  and  yet  the  noise  —  the  noth- 
ingness, and  yet  the  self-importance  of  all 
these  people !  What  would  I  give  to  hear 
your  strictures  on  them!" 

"Your  conjecture  is  totally  wrong,  I  assure 
you.  My  mind  was  more  agreeably  engaged. 
I  have  been  meditating  on  the  very  great 
pleasure  which  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  in  the  face 
of  a  pretty  woman  can  bestow." 

Miss  Bingley  immediately  fixed  her  eyes 
on  his  face,  and  desired  he  would  tell  her 
what  lady  had  the  credit  of  inspiring  such 
reflections.  Mr.  Darcy  replied  with  great 
intrepidity:  — 

"Miss  Elizabeth  Bennet." 

"Miss  Elizabeth  Bennet!"  repeated  Miss 
Bingley.  "I  am  all  astonishment.  How  long 
has  she  been  such  a  favourite  1  —  and  pray, 
when  am  I  to  wish  you  joy?" 

"That  is  exactly  the  question  which  I  ex- 
pected you  to  ask.     A   lady's  imagination  is 


very  rapid;  it  jumps  from  admiration  to  love, 
from  love  to  matrimony,  in  a  moment.  I  knew 
you  would  be  wishing  me  joy." 

"Nay,  if  you  are  so  serious  about  it,  I  shall 
consider  the  matter  as  absolutely  settled.  You 
will  have  a  charming  mother-in-law,  indeed; 
and,  of  course,  she  will  be  always  at  Pemberly 
with  you." 

He  listened  to  her  with  jjcrfect  indifference 
while  she  chose  to  entertain  herself  in  this 
manner;  and  as  his  composure  convinced  her 
that  all  was  safe,  her  wit  flowed  long. 

CHARLES  LAMB  (17 75-1834) 
THE   TWO    RACES    OF   MEN 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best 
theory  I  can  form  of  it,  is  composed  of  two 
distinct  races,  the  men  who  borrow,  and  the 
men  who  lend.  To  these  two  original  di\er- 
sities  may  be  reduced  all  those  impertinent 
classiiications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes, 
white  men,  black  men,  red  men.  All  the 
dwellers  upon  earth,  "Parthians,  and  Medes, 
and  Elamites,"  flock  hither,  and  do  naturally 
fall  in  with  one  or  other  of  these  primary 
distinctions.  The  infinite  superiority  of  the 
former,  which  I  choose  to  designate  as  the 
great  race,  is  discernible  in  their  figure,  port, 
and  a  certain  instinctive  sovereignty.  The 
latter  are  born  degraded.  "He  shall  serve 
his  brethren."  There  is  something  in  the  air 
of  one  of  this  caste,  lean  and  suspicious;  con- 
trasting with  the  open,  trusting,  generous  man- 
ners of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  bor- 
rowers of  all  ages  —  Alcibiades  —  Ealstaff  — 
Sir  Richard  Steele  —  our  late  incomparable 
Brinsley  —  what  a  family  likeness  in  all  four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your 
borrower !  what  rosy  gills !  what  a  beautiful 
reliance  on  Providence  doth  he  manifest,  — 
taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies!  What 
contempt  for  money,  —  accounting  it  (yours 
and  mine  especially)  no  better  than  dross ! 
What  a  liberal  confounding  of  .those  pedantic 
distinctions  of  maim  and  tuiim !  or  rather, 
what  a  noble  simplification  of  language  (be- 
yond Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed  oppo- 
sites  into  one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjec- 
tive !  —  What  near  approaches  doth  he  make 
to  the  primitive  community,  —  to  the  extent  of 
one-half  of  the  principle  at  least ! 

He  is  the  true  taxcr  "who  calleth  all  the 
world  up  to  be  taxed";    and  the  distance  is 


338 


CHARLES    LAMB 


as  vast  between  him  and  one  of  us,  as  sub- 
sisted betwixt  the  Augustan  Majesty  and  the 
poorest  obolary  Jew  that  paid  it  tribute- 
pittance  at  Jerusalem !  —  His  exactions,  too, 
have  such  a  cheerful,  voluntary  air!  So  far 
removed  from  your  sour  parochial  or  state- 
gatherers,  —  those  ink-horn  varlets,  who  carry 
their  want  of  welcome  in  their  faces !  He 
Cometh  to  you  with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you 
with  no  receipt;  confining  himself  to  no  set 
season.  Every  day  is  his  Candlemas,  or  his 
Feast  of  Holy  Michael.  He  applieth  the  lene 
tormentiim  of  a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse,  — 
which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands  her 
silken  leaves,  as  naturally  as  the  cloak  of  the 
traveller,  for  which  sun  and  wind  contended ! 
He  is  the  true  Propontic  which  never  ebbeth ! 
The  sea  which  taketh  handsomely  at  each 
man's  hand.  In  vain  the  victim,  whom  he 
delighteth  to  honour,  struggles  with  destiny; 
he  is  in  the  net.  Lend  therefore  cheerfully,  O 
man  ordained  to  lend  —  that  thou  lose  not  in 
the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny,  the  reversion 
promised.  Combine  not  preposterously  in 
thine  own  person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and 
of  Dives !  —  but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper 
authority  coming,  meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were 
half-way.  Come,  a  handsome  sacrifice !  See 
how  light  he  makes  of  it !  Strain  not  courtesies 
with  a  noble  enemy. 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced 
upon  my  mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend, 
Ralph  Bigod,  Esq.,  who  departed  this  life  on 
Wednesday  evening;  dying,  as  he  had  lived, 
without  much  trouble.  He  boasted  himself  a 
descendant  from  mighty  ancestors  of  that 
name,  who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in 
this  realm.  In  his  actions  and  sentiments  he 
belied  not  the  stock  to  which  he  pretended. 
Early  in  life  he  found  himself  invested  with 
ample  revenues;  which,  with  that  noble  dis- 
interestedness which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent 
in  men  of  the  great  race,  he  took  almost  im- 
mediate measures  entirely  to  dissipate  and 
bring  to  nothing:  for  there  is  something  re- 
volting in  the  idea  of  a  king  holding  a  private 
purse;  and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all 
regal.  Thus  furnished,  by  the  very  act  of  dis- 
furnishment;  getting  rid  of  the  cumbersome 
luggage  of  riches,  more  apt  (as  one  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge, 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  sets  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his 
great  enterprise,  "borrowing  and  to  borrow!" 


In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress 
throughout  this  island,  it  has  been  calculated 
that  he  laid  a  tithe  part  of  the  inhabitants 
under  contribution.  I  reject  this  estimate  as 
greatly  exaggerated:  but  having  had  the 
honour  of  accompanying  my  friend,  divers 
times,  in  his  perambulations  about  this  vast 
city,  I  own  I  was  greatly  struck  at  first  with 
the  prodigious  number  of  faces  we  met,  who 
claimed  a  sort  of  respectful  acquaintance  with 
us.  He  was  one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain 
the  phenomenon.  It  seems,  these  were  his 
tributaries;  feeders  of  his  exchequer;  gentle- 
men, his  good  friends  (as  he  was  pleased  to 
express  himself),  to  whom  he  had  occasionally 
been  beholden  for  a  loan.  Their  multitudes 
did  no  way  disconcert  him.  He  rather  took  a 
pride  in  numbering  them;  and,  with  Comus, 
seemed  pleased  to  be  "stocked  with  so  fair  a 
herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he 
contrived  to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty. 
He  did  it  by  force  of  an  aphorism,  which  he 
had  often  in  his  mouth,  that  "money  kept 
longer  than  three  days  stinks."  So  he  made 
use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh.  A  good  part  he 
drank  away  (for  he  was  an  excellent  toss-pot), 
some  he  gave  away,  the  rest  he  threw  away, 
literally  tossing  and  hurling  it  violently  from 
him  —  as  boys  do  burs,  or  as  if  it  had  been 
infectious,  —  into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep 
holes,  —  inscrutable  cavities  of  the  earth :  — 
or  he  would  bury  it  (where  he  would  never 
seek  it  again)  by  a  river's  side  under  some 
bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously  observe) 
paid  no  interest  —  but  out  away  from  him  it 
must  go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring 
into  the  wilderness,  while  it  was  sweet.  He 
never  missed  it.  The  streams  were  perennial 
which  fed  his  fisc.  When  new  supplies  be- 
came necessary,  the  first  person  that  had  the 
felicity  to  fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger, 
was  sure  to  contribute  to  the  deficiency.  For 
Bigod  had  an  Undeniable  way  with  him.  He 
had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick  jovial 
eye,  a  bald  forehead,  just  touched  with  grey 
{cana  fides).  He  anticipated  no  excuse,  and 
found  none.  And,  waiving  for  a  while  my 
theory  as  to  the  great  race,  I  would  put  it  to 
the  most  untheorising  reader,  who  may  at 
times  have  disposable  coin  in  his  pocket, 
whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kind- 
liness of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I 
am  describing,  than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  peti- 
tionary rogue  (your  bastard  borrower),  who, 
by  his  mumping  visnomy,   tells  you  that  he 


THE    TWO    RACES    OF    MEN 


339 


expects  nothing  better;  and,  therefore,  whose 
preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you  do 
in  reaUty  so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I  thinlc  of  this  man;  his  fiery  glow 
of  heart;  his  swell  of  feeling;  how  magnifi- 
cent, how  ideal  he  was;  how  great  at  the  mid- 
night hour;  and  when  I  compare  with  him 
the  companions  with  whom  I  have  associated 
since,  I  grudge  the  saving  of  a  few  idle  ducats, 
and  think  that  I  am  fallen  into  the  society  of 
lenders,  and  lillle  men. 

To  one  like  Eha,  whose  treasures  are  rather 
cased  in  leather  covers  than  closed  in  iron 
coffers,  there  is  a  class  of  alienators  more 
formidable  than  that  which  I  have  touched 
upon ;  I  mean  your  borrowers  of  books  —  those 
mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers  of  the  sym- 
metry of  shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  volumes. 
There  is  Comberbatch,  matchless  in  his  depre- 
dations ! 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you, 
like  a  great  eye-tooth  knocked  out  —  (you  are 
now  with  me  in  my  little  back  study  in  Blooms- 
bury,  Reader !)  —  with  the  huge  Switzer-like 
tomes  on  each  side  (like  the  Guildhall  giants, 
in  their  reformed  posture,  guardant  of  noth- 
ing) once  held  the  tallest  of  my  folios,  Opera 
Bonaventurae,  choice  and  massy  divinity,  to 
which  its  two  supporters  (school  divinity  also, 
but  of  a  lesser  calibre,  —  Bellarmine,  and 
Holy  Thomas)  showed  but  as  dwarfs,  —  itself 
an  Ascapart !  —  that  Comberbatch  abstracted 
upon  the  faith  of  a  theory  he  holds,  which  is 
more  easy,  I  confess,  for  me  to  suffer  by  than 
to  refute,  namely,  that  "the  title  to  property 
in  a  book"  (my  Bonaventure,  for  instance) 
"is  in  exact  ratio  to  the  claimant's  powers  of 
understanding  and  appreciating  the  same." 
Should  he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory, 
which  of  our  shelves  is  safe? 

The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left-hand  case  — 
two  shelves  from  the  ceiling  —  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable but  by  the  quick  eye  of  a  loser 
—  was  whilom  the  commodious  resting-place 
of  Browne  on  Urn  Burial.  C.  will  hardly 
allege  that  he  knows  more  about  that  treatise 
than  I  do,  who  introduced  it  to  him,  and  was 
indeed  the  first  (of  the  moderns)  to  discover 
its  beauties  —  but  so  have  I  known  a  foolish 
lover  to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  presence  of 
a  rival  more  qualified  to  carry  her  off  than 
himself.  —  Just  below,  Dodsley's  dramas  want 
their  fourth  volume,  where  Vittoria  Corom- 
bona  is !  The  remainder  nine  are  as  dis- 
tasteful as  Priam's  refuse  sons,  when  the 
fates  borrowed  Hector.     Here  stood  the  Anat- 


omy of  Melancholy,  in  sober  state.  —  There 
loitered  the  Complete  Angler;  quiet  as  in  life, 
by  some  stream  side.  —  In  yonder  nook,  John 
Buncle,  a  widower-volume,  with  "eyes  closed," 
mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he 
sometimes,  like  the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treas- 
ure, at  another  time,  sea-like,  he  throws  up  as 
rich  an  equivalent  to  match  it.  I  have  a  small 
under-collection  of  this  nature  (my  friend's 
gatherings  in  his  various  calls),  picked  up,  he 
has  forgotten  at  what  odd  places,  and  de- 
posited with  as  little  memory  at  mine.  I 
take  in  these  orphans,  the  twice-deserted. 
These  proselytes  of  the  gate  are  welcome  as 
the  true  Hebrews.  There  they  stand  in  con- 
junction; natives,  and  naturalised.  The  latter 
seem  as  little  disposed  to  inquire  out  their 
true  lineage  as  I  am.  —  I  charge  no  ware- 
house-room for  these  deodands,  nor  shall  ever 
put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly  trouble  of 
advertising  a  sale  of  them  to  pay  expenses. 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense 
and  meaning  in  it.  You  are  sure  that  he 
will  make  one  hearty  meal  on  your  viands,  if 
he  can  give  no  account  of  the  platter  after  it. 
But  what  moved  thee,  wayward,  spiteful  K., 
to  be  so  importunate  to  carry  off  with  thee,  in 
spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to  thee  to  for- 
bear, the  Letters  of  that  princely  woman,  the 
thrice  noble  Margaret  Newcastle  ?  —  knowing 
at  the  time,  and  knowing  that  I  knew  also, 
thou  most  assuredly  wouldst  never  turn  over 
one  leaf  of  the  illustrious  folio :  —  what  but 
the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  childish 
love  of  getting  the  better  of  thy  friend  ?_ — 
Then,  worst  cut  of  all!  to  transport  it  with 
thee  to  the  Galilean  land  — 

Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness, 
A  virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt, 
Pure    thoughts,    kind    thoughts,    high  thoughts,  her 
sex's  wonder ! 

—  hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books 
of  jests  and  fancies,  about  thee,  to  keep  thee 
merry,  even  as  thou  keepest  all  companies 
with  thy  quips  and  mirthful  tales?  Child  of 
the  Greenroom,  it  was  unkindly,  unkindly  done 
of  thee.  Thy  wife,  too,  that  part-French, 
better-part-Englishwoman  !  —  that  she  could 
fix  upon  no  other  treatise  to  bear  away,  in 
kindly  token  of  remembering  us,  than  the 
works  of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook  —  of 
which  no  Frenchman,  nor  woman  of  France, 
Italy,  or  England,  w-as  ever  by  nature  con- 


340 


CHARLES    LA:SIB 


stituted  to  comprehend  a  tittle  I     Was  there  not 
Zimmcrmann  an  Solitude? 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a 
moderate  collection,  be  shy  of  showing  it;  or 
if  thy  heart  overfloweth  to  lend  them,  lend 
thy  books;  but  let  it  be  to  such  a  one  as 
S.  T.  C.  —  he  will  return  them  (generally 
anticipating  the  time  appointed)  with  usury; 
enriched  wkh  annotations,  tripling  their  value. 
I  have  had  experience.  Many  are  these 
precious  Mss.  of  his  —  (in  matter  oftentimes, 
and  almost  in  quantity  not  unfrequently,  vying 
with  the  originals)  in  no  very  clerkly  hand  — 
legible  in  my  Daniel;  in  old  Burton;  in  Sir 
Thomas  Browne;  and  those  abstruser  cogi- 
tations of  the  Greville,  now,  alas!  wandering 
in  Pagan  lands.  —  I  counsel  thee,  shut  not  thy 
heart,  nor  thy  library,  against  S.  T.  C. 


MRS.    BATTLE'S    OPINIONS    ON    WHIST 

"A  clear  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigour 
of  the  game."  This  was  the  celebrated  wish 
of  old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with  God),  who, 
next  to  her  devotions,  loved  a  good  game  of 
whist.  She  was  none  of  your  lukewarm 
gamesters,  your  half-and-half  players,  who 
have  no  objection  to  take  a  hand,  if  you  want 
one  to  make  up  a  rubber;  who  affirm  that 
they  have  no  pleasure  in  winning;  that  they 
like  to  win  one  game  and  lose  another;  that 
they  can  while  away  an  hour  very  agreeably 
at  a  card-table,  but  are  indifferent  whether 
they  play  or  no;  and  will  desire  an  adversary 
who  has  slipped  a  wrong  card,  to  take  it  up 
and  play  another.  These  insutTerable  triflers 
are  the  curse  of  a  table.  One  of  these  flies 
will  spoil  a  whole  pot.  Of  such  it  may  be 
said  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but  only 
play  at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She 
detested  them,  as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and 
soul;  and  would  not,  save  upon  a  striking 
emergency,  willingly  seat  herself  at  the  same 
table  with  them.  She  loved  a  thorough-paced 
partner,  a  determined  enemy.  She  took,  and 
gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated  favours. 
She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it 
over  in  her  adversary  without  exacting  the 
utmost  forfeiture.  She  fought  a  good  fight: 
cut  and  thrust.  She  held  not  her  good  sword 
(her  cards)  "like  a  dancer."  She  sat  bolt 
upright;  and  neither  showed  you  her  cards, 
nor  desired  to  see  yours.  AH  people  have 
their  blind  side  —  their  superstitions;    and  I 


have  heard  her  declare,  under  the  rose,  that 
Hearts  was  her  favourite  suit. 

I  never  in  my  life  —  and  I  knew  Sarah 
Battle  many  of  the  best  years  of  it  —  saw  her 
take  out  her  snuff-box  when  it  was  her  turn 
to  play;  or  snuff  a  candle  in  the  middle  of  a 
game;  or  ring  for  a  servant,  till  it  was  fairly 
over.  She  never  introduced,  or  connived  at, 
miscellaneous  conversation  during  its  process. 
As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards  were 
cards;  and  if  I  ever  saw  unmingled  distaste 
in  her  fine  last-century  countenance,  it  was  at 
the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman  of  a  literary 
turn,  who  had  been  with  difficulty  persuaded 
to  take  a  hand;  and  who,  in  his  excess  of 
candour,  declared,  that  he  thought  there  was 
no  harm  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and 
then,  after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of 
that  kind!  She  could  not  bear  to  have  her 
noble  occupation,  to  which  she  wound  up  her 
faculties,  considered  in  that  light.  It  was  her 
business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she  came  into 
the  world  to  do,  —  and  she  did  it.  She  un- 
bent her  mind  afterwards  —  over  a  book. 

Pope  was  her  favourite  author:  his  Rape 
of  the  Lock  her  favourite  work.  She  once 
did  me  the  favour  to  play  over  with  me  (with 
the  cards)  his  celebrated  game  of  Ombre  in 
that  poem;  and  to  explain  to  me  how  far  it 
agreed  with,  and  in  what  points  it  would  be 
found  to  differ  from,  tradrille.  Her  illustra- 
tions were  apposite  and  poignant;  and  1  had 
the  pleasure  of  sending  the  substance  of  them 
to  ISIr.  Bowles;  but  I  suppose  they  came  too 
late  to  be  inserted  among  his  ingenious  notes 
upon  that  author. 

Quadrille,  she  has  often  told  me,  was  her 
first  love;  but  whist  had  engaged  her  maturer 
esteem.  The  former,  she  said,  was  showy  and 
specious,  and  likely  to  allure  young  persons. 
The  uncertainty  and  quick  shifting  of  partners 

—  a  thing  which  the  constancy  of  whist  ab- 
hors; the  dazzling  supremacy  and  regal  in- 
vestiture of  Spadille  —  absurd,  as  she  justly 
observed,  in  the  pure  aristocracy  of  whist, 
where  his  crown  and  garter  give  him  no  proper 
power  above  his  brother-nobility  of  the  Aces; 

—  the  giddy  vanity,  so  taking  to  the  inexperi- 
enced, of  playing  alone;  above  all,  the  over- 
powering attractions  of  a  Sans  Prendre  Vole,  — 
to  the  triumph  of  w^hich  there  is  certainly  noth- 
ing parallel  or  approaching,  in  the  contin- 
gencies of  w'hist;  —  all  these,  she  would  say, 
make  quadrille  a  game  of  captivation  to  the 
young  and  enthusiastic.  But  whist  was  the  sol- 
ider  game:  that  was  her  word.     It  was  a  long 


MRS.    BATTLE'S    OPIXIOXS    ON    WHIST 


341 


meal;  not  like  quadrille,  a  feast  of  snatches. 
One  of  two  rubbers  might  co-extend  in  dura- 
tion with  an  evening.  They  gave  time  to  form 
rooted  friendships,  to  cultivate  steady  enmities. 
She  despi-sed  the  chance-started,  capricious, 
and  ever-fluctuating  alliances  of  the  other. 
The  skirmishes  of  quadrille,  she  would  say, 
reminded  her  of  the  petty  ephemeral  embroil- 
ments of  the  little  Italian  states,  depicted  by 
Machiavel:  perpetually  changing  postures  and 
connections;  bitter  foes  to-day,  sugared  darlings 
to-morrow;  ki.ssing  and  scratching  in  a  breath; 
—  but  the  wars  of  whist  were  comparable  to 
the  long,  steady,  deep-rooted,  rational  antipa- 
thies of  the  great  French  and  English  nations. 

A  grave  simplicity  was  what  she  chiefly 
admired  in  her  favourite  game.  There  was 
nothing  silly  in  it,  like  the  nob  in  cribbage  — 
nothing  superfluous.  Xo  flushes  —  that  most 
irrational  of  all  pleas  that  a  reasonable  being 
can  set  up:  —  that  any  one  should  claim  four 
by  virtue  of  holding  cards  of  the  same  mark 
and  colour,  without  reference  to  the  playing 
of  the  game,  or  the  individual  worth  or  pre- 
tensions of  the  cards  themselves !  She  held 
this  to  be  a  solecLsm;  as  pitiful  an  ambition 
at  cards  as  alliteration  is  in  authorship.  She 
despised  superficiality,  and  looked  deeper  than 
the  colours  of  things.  —  Suits  were  soldiers, 
she  would  say,  and  must  have  a  uniformity  of 
array  to  distinguish  them:  but  what  should 
we  say  to  a  foolish  squire,  who  should  claim 
a  merit  from  dressing  up  his  tenantry  in  red 
jackets,  that  never  were  to  be  marshalled  — 
never  to  take  the  field?  —  She  even  wished  that 
whist  were  more  simple  than  it  is;  and,  in  my 
mind,  would  have  stripped  it  of  some  ap- 
pendages, which,  in  the  state  of  human  frailly, 
may  be  venially,  and  even  commendatjly, 
allowed  of.  She  saw  no  reason  for  the  decid- 
ing of  the  trump  by  the  turn  of  the  card. 
Why  not  one  suit  always  trumps?  —  Why 
two  colours,  when  the  mark  of  the  suit  would 
have  sufliciently  distinguished  them  without  it? 

"But  the  eye,  my  dear  madam,  is  agree- 
ably refreshed  with  the  variety.  Man  is  not 
a  creature  of  pure  reason  —  he  must  have  his 
senses  delightfully  appealed  to.  We  see  it  in 
Roman  Catholic  countries,  where  the  music 
and  the  paintings  draw  in  many  to  worship, 
whom  your  quaker  spirit  of  unsensualising 
would  have  kept  out.  —  You,  yourself,  have  a 
pretty  collection  of  paintings  —  but  confess  to 
me,  whether,  walking  in  your  gallery  at  Sand- 
ham,  among  those  clear  Vandykes,  or  among 
the  Paul  Potters  in  the  ante-room,  you  ever 


felt  your  bosom  glow  with  an  elegant  delight, 
at  all  comparable  to  that  you  have  it  in  your 
power  to  experience  most  evenings  over  a 
well-arranged  assortment  of  the  court-cards? 

—  the  ptretty  antic  habits,  like  heralds  in  a 
procession  —  the  gay  triumph-assuring  scarlets 

—  the  contrasting  deadly-killing  sables  —  the 
'hoary  majesty  of  spades'  —  Pam  in  all  his 
glory !  — 

"All  these  might  be  dispensed  with;  and 
with  their  naked  names  ufxjn  the  drab  paste- 
board, the  game  might  go  on  very  well,  pic- 
tureless;  but  the  beauty  of  cards  would  be 
extinguished  forever.  Stripped  of  all  that  is 
imaginative  in  them,  they  must  degenerate 
into  mere  gambling.  Imagine  a  dull  deal 
board,  or  drum  head,  to  spread  them  on,  in- 
stead of  that  nice  verdant  carpet  Cnext  to 
nature's),  fittest  arena  for  those  courtly  com- 
batants to  play  their  gallant  jousts  and  tourneys 
in  I  —  Exchange  those  delicately-turned  ivory 
markers  —  (work  of  Chinese  artist,  uncon- 
scious of  their  symbol,  —  or  as  profanely 
slighting  their  true  application  as  the  arrant- 
est  Ephesian  journeyman  that  turned  out  those 
little  shrines  for  the  goddessj  —  exchange  them 
for  little  bits  of  leather  four  ancestors'  moneyj, 
or  chalk  and  a  slate  1"  — 

The  old  lady,  with  a  smile,  confessed  the 
soundness  of  my  logic;  and  to  her  approbation 
of  my  arguments  on  her  favourite  topic  that 
evening  I  have  always  fancied  myself  indebted 
for  the  legacy  of  a  curious  cribbage-lx)ard, 
made  of  the  finest  Sienna  marble,  which  her 
maternal  uncle  fold  Walter  Plumer,  whom  I 
have  elsewhere  celebrated)  brought  with  him 
from  Florence :  —  this,  and  a  trifle  of  five 
hundred  [X)unds,  came  to  me  at  her  death. 

The  former  bequest  (which  I  do  not  least 
value)  I  have  kept  with  religious  care;  though 
she  herself,  to  confess  a  truth,  was  never 
greatly  taken  with  cribbage.  It  was  an  essen- 
tially vulgar  game,  I  have  heard  her  say,  — 
disputing  with  her  uncle,  who  was  very  par- 
tial to  it.  She  could  never  heartily  bring  her 
mouth  to  pronounce  "Go,"  or  "That's  a  go." 
She  called  it  an  ungrammatical  game.  The 
pegging  teased  her.  I  once  knew  her  to  for- 
feit a  rubljer  (a  five-dollar  stake)  because  she 
would  not  take  advantage  of  the  turn-up 
knave,  which  would  have  given  it  her,  but 
which  she  must  have  claimed  by  the  disgrace- 
ful tenure  of  declaring  "two  for  his  heels." 
There  is  something  extremely  genteel  in  this 
sort  of  self-denial.  Sarah  Battle  was  a  gentle- 
woman born. 


342 


CHARLES    LAMB 


Piquet  she  held  the  best  game  at  the  cards 
for  two  j)ersons,  though  she  would  ridicule  the 
pedantry  of  the  terms  —  such  as  pique  —  re- 
pique  —  the  capot  —  they  savoured  (she 
thought)  of  affectation.  But  games  for  two, 
or  even  three,  she  never  greatly  cared  for. 
She  loved  the  quadrate,  or  square.  She  would 
argue  thus:  —  Cards  are  warfare:  the  ends 
are  gain,  with  glory.  But  cards  are  war,  in 
disguise  of  a  sport:  when  single  adversaries 
encounter,  the  ends  proposed  are  too  palpable. 
By  themselves,  it  is  too  close  a  fight;  with 
spectators,  it  is  not  much  bettered.  No 
looker-on  can  be  interested,  except  for  a  bet, 
and  then  it  is  a  mere  affair  of  money;  he 
cares  not  for  your  luck  sympathetically,  or  for 
your  play. — Three  are  still  worse;  a  mere 
naked  war  of  every  man  against  every  man, 
as  in  cribbage,  without  league  or  alliance;  or 
a  rotation  of  petty  and  contradictory  interests, 
a  succession  of  heartless  leagues,  and  not 
much  more  hearty  infractions  of  them,  as  in 
tradrille.  —  But  in  square  games  {she  yneant 
whist),  all  that  is  possible  to  be  attained  in 
card-playing  is  accomplished.  There  are  the 
incentives  of  profit  with  honour,  common  to 
every  species  —  though  the  latter  can  be  but 
very  imperfectly  enjoyed  in  those  other  games, 
where  the  spectator  is  only  feebly  a  partici- 
pator. But  the  parties  in  whist  are  specta- 
tors and  principals  too.  They  are  a  theatre  to 
themselves,  and  a  looker-on  is  not  wanted. 
He  is  rather  worse  than  nothing,  and  an  im- 
pertinence. Whist  abhors  neutrality,  or  in- 
terests beyond  its  sphere.  You  glory  in  some 
surprising  stroke  of  skill  or  fortune,  not  because 
a  cold  —  or  even  an  interested  —  bystander 
witnesses  it,  but  because  your  partner  sym- 
pathises in  the  contingency.  You  win  for  two. 
You  triumph  for  two.  Two  are  exalted. 
Two  again  are  mortified;  which  divides  their 
disgrace,  as  the  conjunction  doubles  (by  tak- 
ing off  the  invidiousness)  your  glories.  Two 
losing  to  two  are  better  reconciled,  than  one 
to  one  in  that  close  butchery.  The  hostile  feel- 
ing is  weakened  by  multiplying  the  channels. 
War  becomes  a  civil  game.  By  such  reason- 
ings as  these  the  old  lady  was  accustomed  to 
defend  her  favourite  pastime. 

No  inducement  could  ever  prevail  upon  her 
to  play  at  any  game,  where  chance  entered 
into  the  composition,  for  nothing.  Chance, 
she  would  argue  —  and  here  again,  admire 
the  subtlety  of  her  conclusion ;  —  chance  is 
nothing,  but  where  something  else  depends 
upon  it.     It  is  obvious,  that  cannot  be  glory. 


What  rational  cause  of  exultation  could  it 
give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size  ace  a  hundred 
times  together  by  himself?  or  before  specta- 
tors, where  no  stake  was  depending  ?  —  Make 
a  lottery  of  a  hundred  thousand  tickets  with 
but  one  fortunate  number  —  and  what  pos- 
sible principle  of  our  nature,  except  stupid 
wonderment,  could  it  gratify  to  gain  that 
number  as  many  times  successively  without  a 
prize?  Therefore  she  disliked  the  mixture  of 
chance  in  backgammon,  where  it  was  not 
played  for  money.  She  called  it  foolish,  and 
those  people  idiots,  who  were  taken  with  a 
lucky  hit  under  such  circumstances.  Games 
of  pure  skill  were  as  little  to  her  fancy.  Played 
for  a  stake,  they  were  a  mere  system  of  over- 
reaching. Played  for  glory,  they  were  a  mere 
setting  of  one  man's  wit,  —  his  memory,  or 
combination-faculty  rather  —  against  another's ; 
like  a  mock-engagement  at  a  review,  bloodless 
and  profitless.  She  could  not  conceive  a  game 
wanting  the  spritely  infusion  of  chance,  the 
handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune.  Two 
people  playing  at  chess  in  a  comer  of  a  room, 
whilst  whist  was  stirring  in  the  centre,  would 
inspire  her  with  insufferable  horror  and  ennui. 
Those  well-cut  similitudes  of  Castles  and 
Knights,  the  imagery  of  the  board,  she  would 
argue  (and  I  think  in  this  case  justly),  were 
entirely  misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard- 
head contests  can  in  no  instance  ally  with 
the  fancy.  They  reject  form  and  colour.  A 
pencil  and  dr)-  slate  (she  used  to  say)  were 
the  proper  arena  for  such  combatants. 

To  those  puny  objectors  against  cards,  as 
nurturing  the  bad  passions,  she  would  retort, 
that  man  is  a  gaming  animal.  He  must  be 
always  trying  to  get  the  better  in  something 
or  other:  —  that  this  passion  can  scarcely  be 
more  safely  expended  than  upon  a  game  at 
cards:  that  cards  are  a  temporary  illusion; 
in  truth,  a  mere  drama;  for  we  do  but  play 
at  being  mightily  concerned,  where  a  few  idle 
shillings  are  at  stake,  yet,  during  the  illusion, 
we  are  as  mightily  concerned  as  those  whose 
stake  is  crow'ns  and  kingdoms.  They  are  a 
sort  of  dream-fighting;  much  ado;  great 
battling,  and  little  bloodshed;  mighty  means 
for  disproportioned  ends:  quite  as  diverting, 
and  a  great  deal  more  innoxious,  than  many 
of  those  more  serious  games  of  life,  which  men 
play  without  esteeming  them  to  be  such. 

With  great  deference  to  the  old  lady's  judg- 
ment in  these  matters,  I  think  I  have  experi- 
enced some  moments  in  my  life  when  playing 
at  cards /or  nothing  has  even  been  agreeable. 


A    CHAPTER    ON    EARS 


543 


When  I  am  in  sickness,  or  not  in  the  best 
spirits,  I  sometimes  call  for  the  cards,  and 
play  a  game  at  piquet  for  love  with  my  cousin 
Bridget  —  Bridget  Elia. 

I  grant  there  is  something  sneaking  in  it ;  but 
with  a  tooth-ache,  or  a  sprained  ankle,  —  when 
you  are  subdued  and  humble,  —  you  are  glad 
to  put  up  with  an  inferior  spring  of  action. 

There  is  such  a  thing  in  nature,  I  am  con- 
vinced, as  sick  whist. 

I  grant  it  is  not  the  highest  style  of  man  —  I 
deprecate  the  manes  of  Sarah  Battle  —  she 
lives  not,  alas!   to  whom  I  should  apologise. 

At  such  times,  those  terms  which  my  old 
friend  objected  to,  come  in  as  something  ad- 
missible — ■  I  love  to  get  a  tierce  or  a  quatorze, 
though  they  mean  nothing.  I  am  subdued  to 
an  inferior  interest.  Those  shadows  of  win- 
ning amuse  me. 

That  last  game  I  had  with  my  sweet  cousin 
(I  capotted  her)  —  (dare  I  tell  thee,  how 
foolish  I  am  ?)  —  I  wished  it  might  have  lasted 
forever,  though  we  gained  nothing,  and  lost 
nothing,  though  it  was  a  mere  shade  of  play: 
I  would  be  content  to  go  on  in  that  idle  folly 
for  ever.  The  pipkin  should  be  ever  boiling, 
that  was  to  prepare  the  gentle  lenitive  to  my 
foot,  which  Bridget  was  doomed  to  apply  after 
the  game  was  over:  and,  as  I  do  not  much 
relish  appliances,  there  it  should  ever  bubble. 
Bridget  and  I  should  be  ever  playing. 

A   CHAPTER    ON   EARS 

I  have  no  ear.  — 

Mistake  me  not.  Reader  —  nor  imagine  that 
I  am  by  nature  destitute  of  those  exterior 
twin  appendages,  hanging  ornaments,  and 
(architecturally  speaking)  handsome  volutes  to 
the  human  capital.  Better  my  mother  had 
never  borne  me.  —  I  am,  I  think,  rather  deli- 
cately than  copiously  provided  with  those 
conduits;  and  I  feel  no  disposition  to  envy 
the  mule  for  his  plenty,  or  the  mole  for  her 
exactness,  in  those  ingenious  labyrinthine  in- 
lets —  those  indispensable  side-intelligencers. 

Neither  have  I  incurred,  or  done  anything 
to  incur,  with  Defoe,  that  hideous  disfigure- 
ment, which  constrained  him  to  draw  upon 
assurance  —  to  feel  "quite  unabashed,"  and  at 
ease  upon  that  article.  I  was  never,  I  thank 
my  stars,  in  the  pillor\';  nor,  if  I  read  them 
aright,  is  it  within  the  compass  of  my  destiny, 
that  I  ever  should  be. 

When  therefore  I  say  that  I  have  no  ear, 
you  will  understand  me  to  mean  — for  music. 


To  say  that  this  heart  never  melted  at  the 
concord  of  sweet  sounds,  would  be  a  foul  self- 
libel.  "Water  parted  from  the  sea"  never 
fails  to  move  it  strangely.  So  does  "In  in- 
fancy." But  they  were  used  to  be  sung  at 
her  harpsichord  (the  old-fashioned  instrument 
in  vogue  in  those  days)  by  a  gentlewoman  — 
the  gentlest,  sure,  that  ever  merited  the  ap- 
pellation —  the  sweetest  —  why  should  I  hesi- 
tate to  name  Mrs.  S ,  once  the  blooming 

Fanny  Weatheral  of  the  Temple  —  who  had 
power  to  thrill  the  soul  of  Elia,  small  imp  as 
he  was,  even  in  his  long  coats;  and  to  make 
him  glow,  tremble,  and  blush  with  a  passion, 
that  not  faintly  indicated  the  dayspring  of  that 
absorbing  sentiment  which  was  afterwards 
destined  to  overwhelm  and  subdue  his  nature 
quite  for  Alice  W n. 

I  even  think  that  sentimentally  I  am  dis- 
posed to  harmony.  But  organically  I  am  in- 
capable of  a  tune.  I  have  been  practising 
"God  save  the  King"  all  my  life;  whistling 
and  humming  of  it  over  to  myself  in  solitary 
corners;  and  am  not  yet  arrived,  they  tell 
me,  within  many  quavers  of  it.  Yet  hath  the 
loyalty  of  Elia  never  been  impeached. 

I  am  not  without  suspicion,  that  I  have 
an  undeveloped  faculty  of  music  within  me. 
For,  thrumming,  in  my  wild  way,  on  my  friend 
A.'s  piano,  the  other  morning,  while  he  was 
engaged  in  an  adjoining  parlour,  —  on  his  re- 
turn he  was  pleased  to  say,  "he  thought  it 
could  not  be  the  maid!"  On  his  first  surprise 
at  hearing  the  keys  touched  in  somewhat  an 
airy  and  masterful  way,  not  dreaming  of  me, 
his  suspicions  had  lighted  on  Jenny.  But  a 
grace,  snatched  from  a  superior  refinement, 
soon  convinced  him  that  some  being  —  tech- 
nically perhaps  deficient,  but  higher  informed 
from  a  principle  common  to  all  the  fine  arts 
—  had  swayed  the  keys  to  a  mood  which 
Jenny,  with  all  her  (less  cultivated)  enthusiasm, 
could  never  have  elicited  from  them.  I  men- 
tion this  as  a  proof  of  my  friend's  penetration, 
and  not  with  any  view  of  disparaging  Jenny. 

Scientifically  I  could  never  be  made  to 
understand  (yet  have  I  taken  some  pains) 
what  a  note  in  music  is;  or  how  one  note 
should  differ  from  another.  Much  less  in 
voices  can  I  distinguish  a  soprano  from  a  tenor. 
Only  sometimes  the  thorough-bass  I  contrive 
to  guess  at,  from  its  being  supereminently 
harsh  and  disagreeable.  I  tremble,  however, 
for  my  misapplication  of  the  simplest  terms 
of  that  which  I  disclaim.  While  I  profess  my 
ignorance,  I  scarce  know  what  to  say  I  am 


344 


CHARLES    LAMB 


ignorant  of.  I  hate,  perhaps,  by  misnomers. 
Sosknuto  and  adagio  stand  in  the  Hke  relation 
of  obscurity  to  me;  and  Sol,  Fa,  Mi,  Re,  is 
as  conjuring  as  Baralipton. 

It  is  hard  to  stand  alone  in  an  age  like  this, 
—  (constituted  to  the  quick  and  critical  per- 
ception of  all  harmonious  combinations,  I 
verily  believe,  beyond  all  preceding  ages,  since 
Jubal  stumbled  upon  the  gamut,)  to  remain, 
as  it  were,  singly  unimpressible  to  the  magic 
influences  of  an  art,  which  is  said  to  have 
such  an  especial  stroke  at  soothing,  elevating, 
and  refining  the  passions.  —  Yet,  rather  than 
break  the  candid  current  of  my  confessions,  I 
must  avow  to  you  that  I  have  received  a  great 
deal  more  pain  than  pleasure  from  this  so 
cried-up  faculty. 

I  am  constitutionally  susceptible  of  noises. 
A  carpenter's  hammer,  in  a  warm  summer 
noon,  will  fret  me  into  more  than  midsum- 
mer madness.  But  those  unconnected,  unset 
sounds  are  nothing  to  the  measured  malice 
of  music.  The  ear  is  passive  to  those  single 
strokes;  willingly  enduring  stripes,  while  it 
hath  no  task  to  con.  To  music  it  cannot  be 
passive.  It  will  strive  —  mine  at  least  will  — 
spite  of  its  inaptitude,  to  thrid  the  maze;  like 
an  unskilled  eye  painfully  poring  upon  hiero- 
glyphics. I  have  sat  through  an  Italian  Opera, 
till,  for  sheer  pain,  and  inexplicable  anguish, 
I  have  rushed  out  into  the  noisiest  places  of 
the  crowded  streets,  to  solace  myself  with 
sounds,  which  I  was  not  obliged  to  follow, 
and  get  rid  of  the  distracting  torment  of  end- 
less, fruitless,  barren  attention  !  I  take  refuge 
in  the  unpretending  assemblage  of  honest 
common-life  sounds;  —  and  the  purgatory  of 
the   Enraged  Musician  becomes   my  paradise. 

I  have  sat  at  an  Oratorio  (that  profanation 
of  the  purposes  of  the  cheerful  playhouse) 
watching  the  faces  of  the  auditory  in  the  pit 
(what  a  contrast  to  Hogarth's  Laughing  Au- 
dience!)  immovable,  or  afTecting  some  faint 
emotion  —  till  (as  some  have  said,  that  our 
occupations  in  the  next  world  will  be  but  a 
shadow  of  what  delighted  us  in  this)  I  have 
imagined  myself  in  some  cold  Theatre  in  Hades, 
where  some  of  the  forms  of  the  earthly  one 
should  be  kept  us,  with  none  of  the  enjoyment; 
or  like  that 

—  Party  in  a  parlour 

All  silent,  and  all  damned. 

Above  all,  those  insufferable  concertos,  and 
pieces  of  music,  as  they  are  called,  do  plague 
and  embitter  my  apprehension.  —  Words  are 


something;  but  to  be  exposed  to  an  endless 
battery  of  mere  sounds;  to  be  long  a-dying; 
to  lie  stretched  upon  a  rack  of  roses;  to  keep 
up  languor  by  unintermitted  effort;  to  pile 
honey  upon  sugar,  and  sugar  upon  honey,  to 
an  interminable  tedious  sweetness;  to  fill  up 
sound  with  feeling,  and  strain  ideas  to  keep 
pace  with  it;  to  gaze  on  empty  frames,  and 
be  forced  to  make  the  pictures  for  yourself; 
to  read  a  book,  all  stops,  and  be  obliged  to 
supply  the  verbal  matter;  to  invent  extempore 
tragedies  to  answer  to  the  vague  gestures  of  an 
inexplicable  rambling  mime  —  these  are  faint 
shadows  of  what  I  have  undergone  from  a 
series  of  the  ablest-executed  pieces  of  this 
empty  instrumental  music. 

I  deny  not,  that  in  the  opening  of  a  concert, 
I  have  experienced  something  vastly  lulling 
and  agreeable:  —  afterwards  followeth  the 
languor  and  the  oppression.  Like  that  dis- 
appointing book  in  Patmos;  or,  like  the 
comings  on  of  melancholy,  described  by  Bur- 
ton, doth  music  make  her  first  insinuating 
approaches:  —  "Most  pleasant  it  is  to  such  as 
are  melancholy  given,  to  walk  alone  in  some 
solitary  grove,  betwixt  wood  and  water,  by 
some  brook  side,  and  to  meditate  upon  some 
delightsome  and  pleasant  subject,  which  shall 
affect  him  most,  amabilis  insania,  and  mentis 
gratissimus  error.  A  most  incomparable  de- 
light to  build  castles  in  the  air,  to  go  smil- 
ing to  themselves,  acting  an  infinite  variety 
of  parts,  which  they  suppose,  and  strongly 
imagine,  they  act,  or  that  they  see  done.  — 
So  delightsome  these  toys  at  first,  they  could 
spend  whole  days  and  nights  without  sleep, 
even  whole  years  in  such  contemplations,  and 
fantastical  meditations,  which  are  like  so 
many  dreams,  and  will  hardly  be  drawn  from 
them  —  winding  and  unwinding  themselves  as 
so  many  clocks,  and  still  pleasing  their  hu- 
mours, until  at  the  last  the  scene  turns  upon 
a  sudden,  and  they  being  now  habitated  to 
such  meditations  and  solitary  places,  can  en- 
dure no  company,  can  think  of  nothing  but 
harsh  and  distasteful  subjects.  Fear,  sorrow, 
suspicion,  subrusticus  pudor,  discontent,  cares, 
and  weariness  of  life,  surprise  them  on  a 
sudden,  and  they  can  think  of  nothing  else: 
continually  suspecting,  no  sooner  are  their 
eyes  open,  but  this  infernal  plague  of  melan- 
choly seizeth  on  them,  and  terrifies  their  souls, 
representing  some  dismal  object  to  their  minds ; 
which  now,  by  no  means,  no  labour,  no  persua- 
sions, they  can  avoid,  they  cannot  be  rid  of, 
they  cannot  resist." 


.ESOP    AND    RHODOPE 


345 


Something  like  this  "scene  turning"  I  have 
experienced    at    the    evening    parties,    at    the 

house  of  my  good  Catholic  friend  Nov ; 

who,  by  the  aid  of  a  capital  organ,  himself 
the  most  finished  of  players,  converts  his 
drawing-room  into  a  chapel,  his  week  days 
into  Sundays,  and  these  latter  into  minor 
heavens. 

When  my  friend  commences  upon  one  of 
those  solemn  anthems,  which  peradventure 
struck  upon  my  heedless  ear,  rambling  in  the 
side  aisles  of  the  dim  Abbey,  some  five-and- 
thirty  years  since,  waking  a  new  sense,  and 
putting  a  soul  of  old  religion  into  my  young 
apprehension  —  (whether  it  be  that,  in  which 
the  Psalmist,  weary  of  the  persecutions  of  bad 
men,  wisheth  to  himself  dove's  wings  —  or 
that  other  which,  with  a  like  measure  of  so- 
briety and  pathos,  inquireth  by  what  means 
the  young  man  shall  best  cleanse  his  mind)  — • 
a  holy  calm  pervadeth  me.  —  I  am  for  the 
time 

—  rapt  above  earth, 
And  possess  joys  not  promised  at  my  birth. 

But  when  this  master  of  the  spell,  not  con- 
tent to  have  laid  a  soul  prostrate,  goes  on,  in 
his  power,  to  inflict  more  bliss  than  lies  in  her 
capacity  to  receive  —  impatient  to  overcome 
her  "earthly"  with  his  "heavenly,"  —  still 
pouring  in,  for  protracted  hours,  fresh  waves 
and  fresh  from  the  sea  of  sound,  or  from  that 
inexhausted  German  ocean,  above  which,  in 
triumphant  progress,  dolphin-seated,  ride  those 
Arions  Haydn  and  Mozart,  with  their  attend- 
ant Tritons,  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  a  countless 
tribe,  whom  to  attempt  to  reckon  up  would 
but  plunge  me  again  in  the  deeps,  —  I  stagger 
under  the  weight  of  harmony,  reeling  to  and 
fro  at  my  wits'  end;  —  clouds,  as  of  frankin- 
cense, oppress  me  —  priests,  altars,  censers 
dazzle  before  me  —  the  genius  of  his  religion 
hath  me  in  her  toils  —  a  shadowy  triple  tiara 
invests  the  brow  of  my  friend,  late  so  naked, 
so  ingenuous  —  he  is  Pope,  —  and  by  him 
sits,  like  as  in  the  anomaly  of  dreams,  a  she- 
Pope  too,  —  tri-coroneted  like  himself !  —  I  am 
converted,  and  yet  a  Protestant ;  —  at  once 
malleus  hereticorum,  and  myself  grand  heresi- 
arch:  or  three  heresies  centre  in  my  person: 
—  I  am  Marcion,  Ebion,  and  Cerinthus  — 
Gog  and  Magog  —  what  not  ?  —  till  the  com- 
ing in  of  the  friendly  supper-tray  dissipates 
the  figment,  and  a  draught  of  true  Lutheran 
beer  (in  which  chiefly  my  friend  shows  himself 
no  bigot)  at  once  reconciles  me  to  the  ration- 


alities of  a  purer  faith;  and  restores  to  me  the 
genuine  unterrifying  aspects  of  my  pleasant- 
countenanced  host  and  hostess. 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 
(1775-1864) 

.ESOP   AND    RHODOPE 

SECOND    CONVERSATION 

Msop.  And  so,  our  fellow-slaves  are  given 
to  contention  on  the  score  of  dignity? 

Rhodope.  I  do  not  believe  they  are  much 
addicted  to  contention:  for,  whenever  the 
good  Xanthus  hears  a  signal  of  such  misbe- 
haviour, he  either  brings  a  scourge  into  the 
midst  of  them  or  sends  our  lady  to  scold  them 
smartly  for  it. 

Msop.  Admirable  evidence  against  their 
propensity ! 

Rhodope.  I  will  not  have  you  find  them  out 
so,  nor  laugh  at  them. 

yEsop.  Seeing  that  the  good  Xanthus  and 
our  lady  are  equally  fond  of  thee,  and  always 
visit  thee  both  together,  the  girls,  however 
envious,  cannot  well  or  safely  be  arrogant,  but 
must  of  necessity  yield  the  first  place  to  thee. 

Rhodope.  They  indeed  are  observant  of  the 
kindness  thus  bestowed  upon  me:  yet  they 
afflict  me  by  taunting  me  continually  with 
what  I  am  unable  to  deny. 

yEsop.  If  it  is  true,  it  ought  little  to  trouble 
thee;  if  untrue,  less.  I  know,  for  I  have 
looked  into  nothing  else  of  late,  no  evil  can 
thy  heart  have  admitted:  a  sigh  of  thine  be- 
fore the  gods  would  remove  the  heaviest  that 
could  fall  on  it.  .  Pray  tell  me  what  it  may  be. 
Come,  be  courageous ;  be  cheerful.  I  can  eas- 
ily pardon  a  smile  if  thou  impleadest  me  of 
curiosity. 

Rhodope.  They  remark  to  me  that  enemies 
or  robbers  took  them  forcibly  from  their  par- 
ents .  .  .  and  that  .  .  .  and  that  .  .  . 

/Esop.  Likely  enough:  what  then?  Why 
desist  from  speaking?  why  cover  thy  face  with 
thy  hair  and  hands?  Rhodope!  Rhodope! 
dost  thou  weep  moreover? 

Rhodope.    It  is  so  sure  I 

Also  p.   Was  the  fault  thine? 

Rhodope.  O  that  it  were !  ...  if  there  was 
any. 

/Esop.  While  it  pains  thee  to  tell  it,  keep 
thy  silence;  but  when  utterance  is  a  solace, 
then  impart  it. 

Rhodope.   They  remind  me  (oh!   who  could 


346 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 


have  had  the  cruelty  to  relate  it?)  that  my 
father,  my  own  dear  father  .  .  . 

^sop.  Say  not  the  rest :  I  know  it :  his  day 
was  come. 

Rhodopi.  .  .  .  sold  me,  sold  me.  You 
start:  you  did  not  at  the  lightning  last  night, 
nor  at  the  rolling  sounds  above.  And  do  you, 
generous  /Esop !  do  you  also  call  a  misfortune 
a  disgrace? 

JLsop.  If  it  is,  I  am  among  the  most  dis- 
graceful of  men.  Didst  thou  dearly  love  thy 
father? 

RhodopL  All  loved  him.  He  was  very  fond 
of  me. 

jEsop.  And  yet  sold  thee!  sold  thee  to  a 
stranger ! 

Rhodope.  He  was  the  kindest  of  all  kind 
fathers,  nevertheless.  Nine  summers  ago,  you 
may  have  heard  perhaps,  there  was  a  grievous 
famine  in  our  land  of  Thrace. 

yEsop.    I  remember  it  perfectly. 

Rhodope.  O  poor  JEsop !  and  were  you  too 
famishing  in  your  native  Phrygia? 

Msop.  The  calamity  extended  beyond  the 
narrow  sea  that  separates  our  countries.  My 
appetite  was  sharpened;  but  the  appetite 
and  the  wits  are  equally  set  on  the  same 
grindstone. 

Rhodope.  I  was  then  scarcely  five  years  old : 
my  mother  died  the  year  before:  my  father 
sighed  at  every  funereal,  but  he  sighed  more 
deeply  at  every  bridal,  song.  He  loved  me 
because  he  loved  her  who  bore  me:  and  yet 
I  made  him  sorrowful  whether  I  cried  or 
smiled.  If  ever  I  vexed  him,  it  was  because 
I  would  not  play  when  he  told  me,  but  made 
him,  by  my  weeping,  weep  again. 

jEsop.  And  yet  he  could  endure  to  lose  thee  ! 
he,  thy  father!  Could  any  other?  could  any 
who  lives  on  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  endure 
it  ?  O  age,  that  art  incumbent  over  me !  blessed 
be  thou ;  thrice  blessed !  Not  that  thou  stillest 
the  tumults  of  the  heart,  and  promisest  eternal 
calm,  but  that,  prevented  by  thy  beneficence, 
I  never  shall  experience  this  only  intolerable 
wretchedness. 

Rhodope.   Alas !   alas ! 

.^sop.  Thou  art  now  happy,  and  shouldst 
not  utter  that  useless  exclamation. 

Rhodope.  You  said  something  angrily  and 
vehemently  when  you  stepped  aside.  Is  it 
not  enough  that  the  handmaidens  doubt  the 
kindness  of  my  father?  Must  so  virtuous  and 
so  wise  a  man  as  ^sop  blame  him  also  ? 

yEsop.  Perhaps  he  is  little  to  be  blamed; 
certainly  he  is  much  to  be  pitied. 


Rhodope.  Kind  heart !  on  which  mine  must 
never  rest ! 

yEsop.  Rest  on  it  for  comfort  and  for  counsel 
when  they  fail  thee:  rest  on  it,  as  the  deities 
on  the  breast  of  mortals,  to  console  and  purify 
it. 

Rhodope.  Could  I  remove  any  sorrow  from 
it,  I  should  be  contented. 

yEsop.  Then  be  so ;  and  proceed  in  thy  nar- 
rative. 

Rhodope.  Bear  with  me  a  little  yet.  My 
thoughts  have  overpowered  my  words,  and  now 
themselves  are  overpowered  and  scattered. 

Forty-seven  days  ago  (this  is  only  the  forty- 
eighth  since  I  beheld  you  first)  I  was  a  child; 
I  was  ignorant,  I  was  careless. 

yEsop.  If  these  qualities  are  signs  of  child- 
hood, the  universe  is  a  nursery. 

Rhodope.  Affliction,  which  makes  many 
wiser,  had  no  such  effect  on  me.  But  rever- 
ence and  love  (why  should  I  hesitate  at  the  one 
avowal  more  than  at  the  other?)  came  over 
me,  to  ripen  my  understanding. 

yEsop.  O  Rhodope !  we  must  loiter  no  longer 
upon  this  discourse. 

Rhodope.    Why  not? 

yEsop.  Pleasant  is  yonder  beanfield,  seen 
over  the  high  papyrus  when  it  waves  and 
bends:  deep  laden  with  the  sweet  heaviness  of 
its  odour  is  the  listless  air  that  palpitates  diz- 
zily above  it:  but  Death  is  lurking  for  the 
slumberer  beneath  its  blossoms. 

Rhodope.  You  must  not  love  then!  .  .  . 
but  may  not  I? 

yEsop.   We  will  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

Rhodope.  We!  O  sound  that  is  to  vibrate 
on  my  breast  forever !  O  hour !  happier  than 
all  other  hours  since  time  began !  O  gracious 
Gods !  who  brought  me  into  bondage ! 

yEsop.  Be  calm,  be  composed,  be  circum- 
spect. We  must  hide  our  treasure  that  we 
may  not  lose  it. 

Rhodope.  I  do  not  think  that  you  can  love 
me;  and  I  fear  and  tremble  to  hope  so.  Ah, 
yes;  you  have  said  you  did.  But  again  you 
only  look  at  me,  and  sigh  as  if  you  repented. 

yEsop.  Unworthy  as  I  may  be  of  thy  fond 
regard,  I  am  not  unworthy  of  thy  fullest  con- 
fidence :  why  distrust  me  ? 

Rhodope.  Never  will  I  .  .  .  never,  never. 
To  know  that  I  possess  your  love,  surpasses  all 
other  knowledge,  dear  as  is  all  that  I  receive 
from  you.  I  should  be  tired  of  my  own  voice 
if  I  heard  it  on  aught  beside:  and,  even  yours 
is  less  melodious  in  any  other  sound  than 
Rhodope. 


^SOP    AND    RHODOPE 


347 


Msop.   Do  such  little  girls  leafn  to  flatter? 

RhodopL  Teach  me  how  to  speak,  since  you 
could  not  teach  me  how  to  be  silent. 

Jlsop.  Speak  no  longer  of  me,  but  of  thy- 
self;  and  only  of  things  that  never  pain  thee. 

Rhodope.    Nothing  can  pain  me  now. 

yEsop.    Relate  thy  story  then,  from  infancy. 

Rhodope.  I  must  hold  your  hand:  I  am 
afraid  of  losing  you  again. 

Aisop.    Now  begin.     Why  silent  so  long? 

Rhodope.  I  have  dropped  all  memory  of 
what  is  told  by  me  and  what  is  untold. 

JLsop.  Recollect  a  little.  I  can  be  patient 
with  this  hand  in  mine. 

Rhodope.  I  am  not  certain  that  yours  is  any 
help  to  recollection. 

Msop.    Shall  I  remove  it? 

Rhodope.  O !  now  I  think  I  can  recall  the 
whole  story.  What  did  you  say?  did  you  ask 
any  question? 

JLsop.  None,  excepting  what  thou  hast  an- 
swered. 

Rhodope.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  morning 
when  my  father,  sitting  in  the  coolest  part  of 
the  house,  exchanged  his  last  measure  of  grain 
for  a  chlamys  of  scarlet  cloth  fringed  with 
silver.  He  watched  the  merchant  out  of  the 
door,  and  then  looked  wistfully  into  the  corn- 
chest.  I,  who  thought  there  was  something 
worth  seeing,  looked  in  also,  and,  finding  it 
empty,  expressed  my  disappointment,  not 
thinking  however  about  the  corn.  A  faint  and 
transient  smile  came  over  his  countenance  at 
the  sight  of  mine.  He  unfolded  the  chlamys, 
stretched  it  out  with  both  hands  before  me,  and 
then  cast  it  over  my  shoulders.  I  looked  down 
on  the  glittering  fringe  and  screamed  with 
joy.  He  then  went  out ;  and  I  know  not  what 
flowers  he  gathered,  but  he  gathered  many; 
and  some  he  placed  in  my  bosom,  and  some  in 
my  hair.  But  I  told  him  with  captious  pride, 
first  that  I  could  arrange  them  better,  and  again 
that  I  would  have  only  the  white.  However, 
when  he  had  selected  all  the  white,  and  I  had 
placed  a  few  of  them  according  to  my  fancy, 
I  told  him  (rising  in  my  slipper)  he  might 
crown  me  with  the  remainder.  The  splen- 
dour of  my  apparel  gave  me  a  sensation  of  au- 
thority. Soon  as  the  flowers  had  taken  their 
station  on  my  head,  I  expressed  a  dignified 
satisfaction  at  the  taste  displayed  by  my  father, 
just  as  if  I  could  have  seen  how  they  appeared ! 
But  he  knew  that  there  was  at  least  as  much 
pleasure  as  pride  in  it,  and  perhaps  we  divided 
the  latter  (alas!  not  both)  pretty  equally. 
He  now  took  me  into  the  market-place,  where 


a  concourse  of  people  was  waiting  for  the  j)ur- 
chase  of  slaves.  Merchants  came  and  looked 
at  me;  some  commending,  others  disparaging; 
but  all  agreeing  that  I  was  slender  and  delicate, 
that  I  could  not  live  long,  and  that  I  should 
give  much  trouble.  Many  would  have  bought 
the  chlamys,  but  there  was  something  less 
salable  in  the  child  and  flowers. 

Msop.  Had  thy  features  been  coarse  and 
thy  voice  rustic,  they  would  all  have  patted 
thy  cheeks  and  found  no  fault  in  thee. 

Rhodope.  As  it  was,  ev'ery  one  had  bought 
exactly  such  another  in  time  past,  and  been  a 
loser  by  it.  At  these  speeches  I  perceived  the 
flowers  tremble  slightly  on  my  bosom,  from 
my  father's  agitation.  Although  he  scofTed  at 
them,  knowing  my  healthiness,  he  was  troubled 
internally,  and  said  many  short  prayers,  not 
very  unlike  imprecations,  turning  his  head  aside. 
Proud  was  I,  prouder  than  ever,  when  at  last 
several  talents  were  offered  for  me,  and  by  the 
very  man  who  in  the  beginning  had  under- 
valued me  the  most,  and  prophesied  the  worst 
of  me.  My  father  scowled  at  him,  and  re- 
fused the  money.  I  thought  he  was  playing  a 
game,  and  began  to  wonder  what  it  could  be, 
since  I  never  had  seen  it  played  before.  Then 
I  fancied  it  might  be  some  celebration  because 
plenty  had  returned  to  the  city,  insomuch  that 
my  father  had  bartered  the  last  of  the  corn  he 
hoarded.  I  grew  more  and  more  delighted 
at  the  sport.  But  soon  there  advanced  an 
elderly  man,  who  said  gravely,  "Thou  hast 
stolen  this  child:  her  vesture  alone  is  worth 
above  a  hundred  drachmas.  Carry  her  home 
again  to  her  parents,  and  do  it  directly,  or 
Nemesis  and  the  Eumenides  will  overtake  thee." 
Knowing  the  estimation  in  which  my  father 
had  always  been  holden  by  his  fellow-citizens, 
I  laughed  again,  and  pinched  his  ear.  He, 
although  naturally  choleric,  burst  forth  into 
no  resentment  at  these  reproaches,  but  said 
calmly,  "I  think  I  know  thee  by  name,  O 
guest !  Surely  thou  art  Xanthus  the  Samian. 
Deliver  this  child  from  famine." 

Again  I  laughed  aloud  and  heartily;  and, 
thinking  it  was  now  my  part  of  the  game,  I 
held  out  both  my  arms  and  protruded  my 
whole  body  towards  the  stranger.  He  would 
not  receive  me  from  my  father's  neck,  but 
he  asked  me  with  benignity  and  solicitude 
if  I  was  hungry:  at  whith  I  laughed  again, 
and  more  than  ever:  for  it  was  early  in  the 
morning,  soon  after  the  first  meal,  and  my 
father  had  nourished  mc  most  carefully  and 
plentifully  in  all  the  days  of  the  famine.     But 


348 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 


Xanthus,  waiting  for  no  answer,  took  out  of 
a  sack,  which  one  of  his  slaves  carried  at  his 
side,  a  cake  of  wheaten  bread  and  a  piece  of 
honey-comb,  and  gave  them  to  me.  I  held  the 
honey-comb  to  my  father's  mouth,  thinking  it 
the  most  of  a  dainty.  He  dashed  it  to  the 
ground;  but,  seizing  the  bread,  he  began  to 
devour  it  ferociously.  This  also  I  thought  was 
in  play;  and  I  clapped  my  hands  at  his  dis- 
tortions. But  Xanthus  looked  on  him  hke  one 
afraid,  and  smote  the  cake  from  him,  crying 
aloud,  "Name  the  price."  My  father  now 
placed  me  in  his  arms,  naming  a  price  much 
below  what  the  other  had  offered,  saying, 
"The  gods  are  ever  with  thee,  O  Xanthus; 
therefore  to  thee  do  I  consign  my  child."  But 
while  Xanthus  was  counting  out  the  silver, 
my  father  seized  the  cake  again,  which  the 
slave  had  taken  up  and  was  about  to  replace 
in  the  wallet.  His  hunger  was  exasperated 
by  the  taste  and  the  delay.  Suddenly  there 
arose  much  tumult.  Turning  round  in  the 
old  woman's  bosom  who  had  received  me  from 
Xanthus,  I  saw  my  beloved  father  struggling 
on  the  ground,  livid  and  speechless.  The 
more  violent  my  cries,  the  more  rapidly  they 
hurried  me  away ;  and  many  were  soon  between 
us.  Little  was  I  suspicious  that  he  had  suf- 
fered the  pangs  of  famine  long  before:  alas! 
and  he  had  suffered  them  for  me.  Do  I  weep 
while  I  am  telling  you  they  ended?  I  could 
not  have  closed  his  eyes;  I  was  too  young; 
but  I  might  have  received  his  last  breath;  the 
only  comfort  of  an  orphan's  bosom.  Do  you 
now  think  him  blamable,  O  /Esop? 

Msop.  It  was  sublime  humanity :  it  was  for- 
bearance and  self-denial  which  even  the  im- 
mortal gods  have  never  shown  us.  He  could 
endure  to  perish  by  those  torments  which  alone 
are  both  acute  and  slow;  he  could  number 
the  steps  of  death  and  miss  not  one:  but  he 
could  never  see  thy  tears,  nor  let  thee  see  his. 
O  weakness  above  all  fortitude !  Glory  to  the 
man  who  rather  bears  a  grief  corroding  his 
breast,  than  permits  it  to  prowl  beyond,  and 
to  prey  on  the  tender  and  compassionate ! 
Women  commiserate  the  brave,  and  men  the 
beautiful.  The  dominion  of  Pity  has  usually 
this  extent,  no  wider.  Thy  father  was  ex- 
posed to  the  obloquy  not  only  of  the  malicious, 
but  also  of  the  ignorant  and  thoughtless, 
who  condemn  in  the\mfortunate  what  they  ap- 
plaud in  the  prosperous.  There  is  no  shame 
in  poverty  or  in  slavery,  if  we  neither  make 
ourselves  poor  by  our  improvidence  nor  slaves 
by  our  venality.     The  lowest  and  highest  of 


the  human  race  are  sold:  most  of  the  inter- 
mediate are  also  slaves,  but  slaves  who  bring 
no  money  in  the  market. 

Rhodope.  Surely  the  great  and  powerful 
are  never  to  be  purchased:   are  they? 

jEsop.  It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  vision,  but 
I  cannot  see  greatness  on  the  earth.  What 
they  tell  me  is  great  and  aspiring,  to  me  seems 
little  and  crawling.  Let  me  meet  thy  question 
with  another.  What  monarch  gives  his  daughter 
for  nothing?  Either  he  receives  stone  walls 
and  unwilling  cities  in  return,  or  he  barters  her 
for  a  parcel  of  spears  and  horses  and  horse- 
men, waving  away  from  his  declining  and  help- 
less age  young  joyous  life,  and  trampling  down 
the  freshest  and  the  sweetest  memories.  Midas 
in  the  highth  of  prosperity  would  have  given 
his  daughter  to  Lycaon,  rather  than  to  the 
gentlest,  the  most  virtuous,  the  most  intelligent 
of  his  subjects.  Thy  father  threw  wealth  aside, 
and,  placing  thee  under  the  protection  of  Virtue, 
rose  up  from  the  house  of  Famine  to  partake 
in  the  festivals  of  the  Gods. 

Release  my  neck,  O  Rhodope !  for  I  have 
other  questions  to  ask  of  thee  about  him. 

Rhodope.  To  hear  thee  converse  on  him  in 
such  a  manner,  I  can  do  even  that. 

yEsop.  Before  the  day  of  separation  was  he 
never  sorrowful?  Did  he  never  by  tears  or 
silence  reveal  the  secret  of  his  soul? 

Rhodope.  I  was  too  infantine  to  perceive 
or  imagine  his  intention.  The  night  before 
I  became  the  slave  of  Xanthus,  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  my  bed.  I  pretended  to  be  asleep:  he 
moved  away  silently  and  softly.  I  saw  him 
collect  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  the  crumbs  I 
had  wasted  on  the  floor,  and  then  eat  them,  and 
then  look  if  any  were  remaining.  I  thought  he 
did  so  out  of  fondness  for  me,  remembering 
that,  even  before  the  famine,  he  had  often  swept 
up  off  the  table  the  bread  I  had  broken,  and 
had  made  me  put  it  between  his  lips.  I  would 
not  dissemble  very  long,  but  said: 

"Come,  now  you  have  wakened  me,  you  must 
sing  me  asleep  again,  as  you  did  when  I  was 
little." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  this,  and,  after  some 
delay,  when  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the 
chamber,  thus  began: 

"I  will  sing  to  thee  one  song  more,  my  wake- 
ful Rhodope !  my  chirping  bird !  over  whom 
is  no  mother's  wing!  That  it  may  lull  thee 
asleep,  I  will  celebrate  no  longer,  as  in  the 
days  of  wine  and  plenteousness,  the  glory  of 
Mars,  guiding  in  their  invisibly  rapid  onset  the 
dappled  steeds  of  Rhaesus.     What  hast  thou 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 


349 


to  do,  my  little  one,  with  arrows  tired  of  clus- 
tering in  the  quiver?  How  much  quieter  is 
thy  pallet  than  the  tents  which  whitened  the 
plain  of  Simois!  What  knowest  thou  about 
the  river  Eurotas?  What  knowest  thou  al)out 
its  ancient  palace,  once  trodden  by  assembled 
Gods,  and  then  polluted  by  the  Phrygian  ? 
What  knowest  thou  of  perfidious  men  or  of 
sanguinary  deeds? 

"Pardon  me,  O  goddess  who  presidest  in 
Cythera !  I  am  not  irreverent  to  thee,  but  ever 
grateful.  May  she  upon  whose  brow  I  lay  my 
hand,  praise  and  bless  thee  for  evermore ! 

"Ah  yes!  continue  to  hold  up  above  the 
coverlet  those  fresh  and  rosy  palms  clasped 
together:  her  benefits  have  descended  on  thy 
beauteous  head,  my  child !  The  Fates  also 
have  sung,  beyond  thy  hearing,  of  pleasanter 
scenes  than  snow-fed  Hebrus;  of  more  than  dim 
grottos  and  sky-bright  waters.  Even  now  a 
low  murmur  swells  upward  to  my  ear:  and 
not  from  the  spindle  comes  the  sound,  but  from 
those  who  sing  slowly  over  it,  bending  all  three 
their  tremulous  heads  together.  I  wish  thou 
couldst  hear  it;  for  seldom  are  their  voices  so 
sweet.  Thy  pillow  intercepts  the  song  per- 
haps: lie  down  again,  lie  down,  my  Rhodope! 
I  will  repeat  what  they  are  saying: 

"'Happier  shalt  thou  be,  nor  less  glorious, 
than  even  she,  the  truly  beloved,  for  whose 
return  to  the  distafT  and  the  lyre  the  portals 
of  Taenarus  flew  open.  In  the  woody  dells  of 
Ismarus,  and  when  she  bathed  among  the  swans 
of  Strymon,  the  nymphs  called  her  Eurydice. 
Thou  shalt  behold  that  fairest  and  that  fond- 
est one  hereafter.  But  first  thou  must  go 
unto  the  land  of  the  lotos,  where  famine  never 
Cometh,  and  where  alone  the  works  of  man  are 
immortal.' 

"O  my  child!  the  undeceiving  Fates  have 
uttered  this.  Other  powers  have  visited  me, 
and  have  strengthened  my  heart  with  dreams 
and  visions.  We  shall  meet  again,  my  Rhodope, 
in  shady  groves  and  verdant  meadows,  and  we 
shall  sit  by  the  side  of  those  who  loved  us." 

He  was  rising:  I  threw  my  arms  about  his 
neck,  and,  before  I  would  let  him  go,  I  made 
him  promise  to  place  me,  not  by  the  side,  but 
between  them :  for  I  thought  of  her  who  had 
left  us.  At  that  time  there  were  but  two,  O 
JEsop. 

You  ponder:  you  are  about  to  reprove  my 
assurance  in  having  thus  repeated  my  own 
praises.  I  would  have  omitted  some  of  the 
words,  only  that  it  might  have  disturbed  the 
measure  and  cadences,  and  have  put  me  out. 


They  are  the  very  words  my  dearest  father 
sang;  and  they  are  the  last:  yet,  shame  upon 
me!  the  nurse  (the  same  who  stood  listening 
near,  who  attended  me  into  this  country) 
could  remember  them  more  perfectly:  it  is 
from  her  I  have  learnt  them  since;  she  often 
sings  them,  even  by  herself. 

Aisop.  So  shall  others.  There  is  much  both 
in  them  and  in  thee  to  render  them  memorable. 

Rhodope.    Who  flatters  now? 

Aisop.  Flattery  often  runs  beyond  Truth, 
in  a  hurry  to  embrace  her;  but  not  here. 
The  dullest  of  mortals,  seeing  and  hearing  thee, 
would  never  misinterpret  the  prophecy  of  the 
Fates. 

If,  turning  back,  I  could  overpass  the  vale 
of  years,  and  could  stand  on  the  mountain-top, 
and  could  look  again  far  before  me  at  the  bright 
ascending  morn,  we  would  enjoy  the  prospect 
together;  we  would  walk  along  the  summit 
hand  in  hand,  O  Rhodope,  and  we  would  only 
sigh  at  last  when  we  found  ourselves  below 
with  others. 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT   (1778-1830) 
MR.    COLERIDGE 

The  present  is  an  age  of  talkers,  and  not 
of  doers;  and  the  reason  is,  that  the  world  is 
growing  old.  We  are  so  far  advanced  in  the 
Arts  and  Sciences,  that  we  live  in  retrospect, 
and  doat  on  past  achievements.  The  accumula- 
tion of  knowledge  has  been  so  great,  that  we 
are  lost  in  wonder  at  the  height  it  has  reached, 
instead  of  attempting  to  climb  or  add  to  it; 
while  the  variety  of  objects  distracts  and  daz- 
zles the  looker-on.  What  niche  remains  unoc- 
cupied? What  path  untried?  W'hat  is  the 
use  of  doing  anything,  unless  we  could  do  bet- 
ter than  all  those  who  have  gone  before  us? 
What  hope  is  there  of  this?  We  are  like  those 
who  have  been  to  see  some  noble  monument 
of  art,  who  are  content  to  admire  without 
thinking  of  rivalling  it;  or  like  guests  after  a 
feast,  who  praise  the  hospitality  of  the  donor 
"and  thank  the  bounteous  Pan"  —  perhaps 
carrying  away  some  trifling  fragments;  or 
like  the  spectators  of  a  mighty  battle,  who  still 
hear  its  sound  afar  off,  and  the  clashing  of 
armour  and  the  neighing  of  the  war-horse 
and  the  shout  of  victory  is  in  their  ears,  like 
the  rushing  of  innumerable  waters! 

Mr.  Coleridge  has  "a  mind  reflecting  ages 
past";  his  voice  is  like  the  echo  of  the  con- 
gregated   roar    of    the    "dark    rearward    and 


350 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 


abyss"  of  thought.  He  who  has  seen  a  mould- 
ering tower  by  the  side  of  a  crystal  lake,  hid 
by  the  mist,  but  glittering  in  the  wave  below, 
may  conceive  the  dim,  gleaming,  uncertain 
intelligence  of  his  eye;  he  who  has  marked  the 
evening  clouds  uprolled  (a  world  of  vapours) 
has  seen  the  picture  of  his  mind,  unearthly, 
unsubstantial,  with  gorgeous  tints  and  ever- 
varying  forms  — 

"That  which  was  now  a  horse,  even  with  a  thought 
The  rack  dislimns,  and  makes  it  indistinct 
As  water  is  in  water." 

Our  author's  mind  is  (as  he  himself  might 
e.xpress  it)  tangential.  There  is  no  subject  on 
which  he  has  not  touched,  none  on  which 
he  has  rested.  With  an  understanding  fertile, 
subtle,  expansive,  "quick,  forgetive,  appre- 
hensive," beyond  all  living  precedent,  few 
traces  of  it  will  perhaps  remain.  He  lends 
himself  to  all  impressions  alike;  he  gives  up 
his  mind  and  liberty  of  thought  to  none.  He  is 
a  general  lover  of  art  and  science,  and  wedded 
to  no  one  in  particular.  He  pursues  knowledge 
as  a  mistress,  with  outstretched  hands  and 
winged  speed;  but  as  he  is  about  to  embrace 
her,  his  Daphne  turns  —  alas !  not  to  a  lau- 
rel !  Hardly  a  speculation  has  been  left  on 
record  from  the  earliest  time,  but  it  is  loosely 
folded  up  in  Mr.  Coleridge's  memory,  like  a 
rich,  but  somewhat  tattered  piece  of  tapestry: 
we  might  add  (with  more  seeming  than  real 
extravagance)  that  scarce  a  thought  can  pass 
through  the  mind  of  man,  but  its  sound  has  at 
some  time  or  other  passed  over  his  head  with 
rustling  pinions. 

On  whatever  question  or  author  you  speak, 
he  is  prepared  to  take  up  the  theme  with  ad- 
vantage —  from  Peter  Abelard  down  to  Thomas 
Moore,  from  the  subtlest  metaphysics  to  the 
politics  of  the  Courier.  There  is  no  man  of 
genius,  in  whose  praise  he  descants,  but  the 
critic  seems  to  stand  above  the  author,  and 
"what  in  him  is  weak,  to  strengthen,  what  is 
low,  to  raise  and  support":  nor  is  there  any 
work  of  genius  that  does  not  come  out  of  his 
hands  like  an  illuminated  Missal,  sparkling 
even  in  its  defects.  If  Mr.  Coleridge  had  not 
been  the  most  impressive  talker  of  his  age,  he 
would  probably  have  been  the  finest  writer; 
but  he  lays  down  his  pen  to  make  sure  of 
an  auditor,  and  mortgages  the  admiration  of 
posterity  for  the  stare  of  an  idler.  If  he  had 
not  been  a  poet,  he  would  have  been  a  power- 
ful logician ;    if  he  had  not  dipped  his  wing  in 


the  Unitarian  controversy,  he  might  have  soared       1 
to  the  very  summit  of  fancy.     But,  in  writing 
verse,  he  is  trying  to  subject  the  Muse  to  tran- 
scendental theories:    in  his  abstract  reasoning, 
he  misses  his  way  by  strewing  it  with  flowers. 

All  that  he  has  done  of  moment,  he  had  ■ 
done  twenty  years  ago:  since  then,  he  may  be  ■ 
said  to  have  lived  on  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice.  Mr.  Coleridge  is  too  rich  in  intellectual 
wealth,  to  need  to  task  himself  to  any  drudg- 
ery: he  has  only  to  draw  the  slides  of  his 
imagination,  and  a  thousand  subjects  expand 
before  him,  startling  him  with  their  brilliancy, 
or  losing  themselves  in  endless  obscurity  — 

"  And  by  the  force  of  blear  illusion, 
They  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion." 

What  is  the  little  he  could  add  to  the  stock, 
compared  with  the  countless  stores  that  lie 
about  him,  that  he  should  stoop  to  pick  up 
a  name,  or  to  polish  an  idle  fancy?  He  walks 
abroad  in  the  majesty  of  an  universal  under- 
standing, eying  the  "rich  strond"  or  golden  sky 
above  him,  and  "goes  sounding  on  his  way," 
in  eloquent  accents,  uncompelled  and  free  1 

Persons  of  the  greatest  capacity  are  often 
those  who  for  this  reason  do  the  least;  for 
surveying  themselves  from  the  highest  point  of 
view,  amidst  the  infinite  variety  of  the  universe, 
their  own  share  in  it  seems  trifling,  and  scarce 
worth  a  thought;  and  they  prefer  the  contem- 
plation of  all  that  is,  or  has  been,  or  can  be,  to 
the  making  a  coil  about  doing  what,  when  done, 
is  no  better  than  vanity.  It  is  hard  to  con- 
centrate all  our  attention  and  eff^orts  on  one 
pursuit,  except  from  ignorance  of  others;  and 
without  this  concentration  of  our  faculties  no 
great  progress  can  be  made  in  any  one  thing. 
It  is  not  merely  that  the  mind  is  not  capable  of 
the  eff^ort;  it  does  not  think  the  effort  worth 
making.  Action  is  one;  but  thought  is  mani- 
fold. He  whose  restless  eye  glances  through  the 
wide  compass  of  nature  and  art,  will  not  con- 
sent to  have  "his  own  nothings  monstered": 
but  he  must  do  this  before  he  can  give  his  whole 
soul  to  them.  The  mind,  after  "letting  con- 
templation have  its  fill,"  or 

"Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air," 

sinks  down  on  the  ground,  breathless,  ex- 
hausted, powerless,  inactive ;  or  if  it  must  have 
some  vent  to  its  feelings,  seeks  the  most  easy  and 
obvious;    is  soothed  by  friendly  flattery,  lulled 


MR.    COLERIDGE 


351 


by  the  murmur  of  immediate  applause :  thinks, 
as  it  were,  aloud,  and  babbles  in  its  dreams ! 

A  scholar  (so  to  speak)  is  a  more  disinterested 
and  abstracted  character  than  a  mere  author. 
The  first  looks  at  the  numberless  volumes 
of  a  library,  and  says,  "All  these  are  mine": 
the  other  points  to  a  single  volume  (perhaps  it 
may  be  an  immortal  one)  and  says,  "My  name 
is  written  on  the  back  of  it."  This  is  a  puny 
and  grovelling  ambition,  beneath  the  lofty 
amplitude  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  mind.  No,  he 
revolves  in  his  wayward  soul,  or  utters  to  the 
passing  wind,  or  discourses  to  his  own  shadow, 
things  mightier  and  more  various !  —  Let  us 
draw  the  curtain,  and  unlock  the  shrine. 

Learning  rocked  him  in  his  cradle,  and  while 
yet  a  child, 

"He  b'sped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came." 

At  sixteen  he  wrote  his  Ode  on  Chatterton,  and 
he  still  reverts  to  that  period  with  delight,  not 
so  much  as  it  relates  to  himself  (for  that  string 
of  his  own  early  promise  of  fame  rather  jars 
than  otherwise)  but  as  exemplifying  the  youth 
of  a  poet.  Mr.  Coleridge  talks  of  himself  with- 
out being  an  egotist;  for  in  him  the  individual 
is  always  merged  in  the  abstract  and  general. 
He  distinguished  himself  at  school  and  at  the 
University  by  his  knowledge  of  the  classics, 
and  gained  several  prizes  for  Greek  epigrams. 
How  many  men  are  there  (great  scholars, 
celebrated  names  in  literature)  who,  having 
done  the  same  thing  in  their  youth,  have  no 
other  idea  all  the  rest  of  their  lives  but  of  this 
achievement,  of  a  fellowship  and  dinner,  and 
who,  installed  in  academic  honours,  would 
look  down  on  our  author  as  a  mere  strolling 
bard !  At  Christ's  Hospital,  where  he  was 
brought  up,  he  was  the  idol  of  those  among  his 
schoolfellows  who  mingled  with  their  bookish 
studies  the  music  of  thought  and  of  humanity; 
and  he  was  usually  attended  round  the  cloisters 
by  a  group  of  these  (inspiring  and  inspired) 
whose  hearts  even  then  burnt  within  them  as  he 
talked,  and  where  the  sounds  yet  linger  to  mock 
Elia  on  his  way,  still  turning  pensive  to  the  past ! 
One  of  the  finest  and  rarest  parts  of  Mr. 
Coleridge's  conversation  is,  when  he  expatiates 
on  the  Greek  tragedians  (not  that  he  is  not 
well  acquainted,  when  he  pleases,  with  the  epic 
poets,  or  the  philosophers,  or  orators,  or  histo- 
rians of  antiquity)  —  on  the  subtle  reasonings 
and  melting  pathos  of  Euripides,  on  the  har- 
monious gracefulness  of  Sophocles,  tuning 
his  love-laboured  song,  like  sweetest  warblings 


from  a  sacred  grove;  on  the  high-wrought, 
trumpet-tongued  eloquence  of  .-Eschylus,  whose 
Prometheus,  above  all,  is  like  an  Ode  to  Fate 
and  a  pleading  with  Providence,  his  thoughts 
being  let  loose  as  his  body  is  chained  on  his 
solitary  rock,  and  his  afflicted  will  (the  emblem 
of  mortality) 

"Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny." 

As  the  impassioned  critic  speaks  and  rises  in 
his  theme,  you  would  think  you  heard  the  voice 
of  the  Man  hated  by  the  Gods,  contending  with 
the  wild  winds  as  they  roar;  and  his  eye  glitters 
with  the  spirit  of  Antiquity  ! 

Next,  he  was  engaged  with  Hartley's  tribes 
of  mind,  "etherial  braid,  thought-woven,"  — 
and  he  busied  himself  for  a  year  or  two  with 
vibrations  and  vibratiuncles,  and  the  great  law 
of  association  that  binds  all  things  in  its  mys- 
tic chain,  and  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  (the 
mild  teacher  of  Charity)  and  the  Millennium, 
anticipative  of  a  life  to  come;  and  he  plunged 
deep  into  the  controversy  on  Matter  and  Spirit, 
and,  as  an  escape  from  Dr.  Priestley's  Material- 
ism, where  he  felt  himself  imprisoned  by  the 
logician's  spell,  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine- 
tree,  he  became  suddenly  enamoured  of  Bishop 
Berkeley's  fairy-world,  and  used  in  all  com- 
panies to  build  the  universe,  like  a  brave  poet- 
ical fiction,  of  fine  words.  And  he  was  deep- 
read  in  Malebranche,  and  in  Cudworth's 
Intellectual  System  (a  huge  pile  of  learning, 
unwieldy,  enormous)  and  in  Lord  Brook's 
hieroglyphic  theories,  and  in  Bishop  Butler's 
Sermons,  and  in  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle's 
fantastic  folios,  and  in  Clarke  and  South,  and 
Tillotson,  and  all  the  fine  thinkers  and  mascu- 
line reasoners  of  that  age ;  and  Leibnitz's  Pre- 
established  Harmony  reared  its  arch  above  his 
head,  like  the  rainbow  in  the  cloud,  covenanting 
with  the  hopes  of  man. 

And  then  he  fell  plumb,  ten  thousand  fath- 
oms down  (but  his  wings  saved  him  harm- 
less) into  the  hortus  siccus  of  Dissent,  where  he 
pared  religion  down  to  the  standard  of  reason, 
and  stripped  faith  of  mystery,  and  preached 
Christ  crucified  and  the  Unity  of  the  Godhead, 
and  so  dwelt  for  a  while  in  the  spirit  with  John 
Huss  and  Jerome  of  Prague  and  Socinus  and 
old  John  Zisca,  and  ran  through  Neal's  History 
of  the  Puritans  and  Calamy's  Non-Conform- 
ists^ }femorial,  having  like  thoughts  and  pas- 
sions with  them.  But  then  Spinoza  became  his 
God,  and  he  took  up  the  vast  chain  of  being 
in  his  hand,  and  the  round  world  became  the 


352 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 


centre  and  the  soul  of  all  things  in  some  shad- 
owy sense,  forlorn  of  meaning,  and  around 
him  he  beheld  the  living  traces  and  the  sky- 
pointing  proportions  of  the  mighty  Pan ;  but 
poetry  redeemed  him  from  this  spectral  phi- 
losophy, and  he  bathed  his  heart  in  beauty, 
and  gazed  at  the  golden  light  of  heaven,  and 
drank  of  the  spirit  of  the  universe,  and  wandered 
at  eve  by  fairy-stream  or  fountain, 

"  —  When  he  saw  nought  but  beauty, 
When  he  heard  the  voice  of  that  Almighty  One 
In    every  breeze    that    blew,    or  wave    that    mur- 
mured "  — 


and  wedded  with  truth  in  Plato's  shade,  and  in 
the  writings  of  Proclus  and  Plotinus  saw  the 
ideas  of  things  in  the  eternal  mind,  and  un- 
folded all  mysteries  with  the  Schoolmen  and 
fathomed  the  depths  of  Duns  Scotus  and 
Thomas  Aquinas,  and  entered  the  third  heaven 
with  Jacob  Behmen,  and  walked  hand  in  hand 
with  Swedenborg  through  the  pavilions  of 
the  New  Jerusalem,  and  sang  his  faith  in  the 
promise  and  in  the  word  in  his  Religious  Mus- 
ings. 

And  lowering  himself  from  that  dizzy  height, 
he  poised  himself  on  Milton's  wings,  and 
spread  out  his  thoughts  in  charity  with  the  glad 
prose  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  wept  over  Bowles's 
Sonnets,  and  studied  Cowper's  blank  verse, 
and  betook  himself  to  Thomson's  Castle 
of  Indolence,  and  sported  with  the  wits  of 
Charles  the  Second's  days  and  of  Queen  Anne, 
and  relished  Swift's  style  and  that  of  the  John 
Bull  (Arbuthnot's  we  mean,  not  Mr.  Croker's), 
and  dallied  with  the  British  Essayists  and 
Novelists,  and  knew  all  qualities  of  more  mod- 
ern writers  with  a  learned  spirit:  Johnson,  and 
Goldsmith,  and  Junius,  and  Burke,  and  God- 
win, and  the  Sorrows  of  Werter,  and  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau,  and  Voltaire,  and  Mari- 
vaux,  and  Crebillon,  and  thousands  more:  now 
"laughed  with  Rabelais  in  his  easy  chair" 
or  pointed  to  Hogarth,  or  afterwards  dwelt  on 
Claude's  classic  scenes,  or  spoke  with  rapture 
of  Raphael,  and  compared  the  women  at  Rome 
to  figures  that  had  walked  out  of  his  pictures, 
or  visited  the  Oratory  of  Pisa,  and  described 
the  works  of  Giotto  and  Ghirlandaio  and 
Masaccio,  and  gave  the  moral  of  the  picture 
of  the  Triumph  of  Death,  where  the  beggars  and 
the  wretched  invoke  his  dreadful  dart,  but  the 
rich  and  mighty  of  the  earth  quail  and  shrink 
before  it;  and  in  that  land  of  siren  sights  and 
sounds,  saw  a  dance  of  peasant  girls,  and  was 


charmed  with  lutes  and  gondolas,  —  or  wan- 
dered into  Germany  and  lost  himself  in  the  laby- 
rinths of  the  Hartz  Forest  and  of  the  Kantean 
philosophy,  and  amongst  the  cabalistic  names 
of  Fichte  and  Schelling  and  Lessing,  and  God 
knows  who.  This  was  long  after;  but  all  the 
former  while  he  had  nerved  his  heart  and  filled 
his  eyes  with  tears,  as  he  hailed  the  rising  orb 
of  liberty,  since  quenched  in  darkness  and  in 
blood,  and  had  kindled  his  affections  at  the 
blaze  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  sang  for 
joy,  when  the  towers  of  the  Bastille  and  the 
proud  places  of  the  insolent  and  the  oppressor 
fell,  and  would  have  floated  his  bark,  freighted 
with  fondest  fancies,  across  the  Atlantic  wave 
with  Southey  and  others  to  seek  for  peace  and 
freedom  — 

"  In  Philharmonia's  undivided  dale  !  " 

Alas!  "Frailty,  thy  name  is  Genius!''  — 
What  is  become  of  all  this  mighty  heap  of  hope, 
of  thought,  of  learning  and  humanity?  It  has 
ended  in  swallowing  doses  of  oblivion  and  in 
writing  paragraphs  in  the  Courier.  Such  and 
so  little  is  the  mind  of  man ! 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Coleridge 
could  keep  on  at  the  rate  he  set  off.  He  could 
not  realise  all  he  knew  or  thought,  and  less 
could  not  fix  his  desultory  ambition.  Other 
stimulants  supplied  the  place,  and  kept  up  the 
intoxicating  dream,  the  fever  and  the  madness 
of  his  early  impressions.  Liberty  (the  phi- 
losopher's and  the  poet's  bride)  had  fallen  a 
victim,  meanwhile,  to  the  murderous  practices 
of  the  hag  Legitimacy.  Proscribed  by  court- 
hirelings,  too  romantic  for  the  herd  of  vulgar 
politicians,  our  enthusiast  stood  at  bay,  and  at 
last  turned  on  the  pivot  of  a  subtle  casuistry 
to  the  unclean  side:  but  his  discursive  reason 
would  not  let  him  trammel  himself  into  a  poet- 
laureate  or  stamp-distributor;  and  he  stopped, 
ere  he  had  quite  passed  that  well-known  ' '  bourne 
from  whence  no  traveller  returns"  —  and  so  has 
sunk  into  torpid,  uneasy  repose,  tantalised  by 
useless  resources,  haunted  by  vain  imaginings, 
his  lips  idly  moving,  but  his  heart  forever  still, 
or,  as  the  shattered  chords  vibrate  of  them- 
selves, making  melancholy  music  to  the  ear  of 
memory !  Such  is  the  fate  of  genius  in  an  age 
when,  in  the  unequal  contest  with  sovereign 
wrong,  every  man  is  ground  to  powder  who  is 
not  either  a  born  slave,  or  who  does  not  willingly 
and  at  once  offer  up  the  yearnings  of  humanity 
and  the  dictates  of  reason  as  a  welcome  sacrifice 
to  besotted  prejudice  and  loathsome  power. 


MR.    COLERIDGE 


\53 


Of  all  Mr.  Coleridge's  productions,  the  Ati- 
cient  Mariner  is  the  only  one  that  we  could 
with  confidence  put  into  any  person's  hands, 
on  whom  we  wished  to  impress  a  favourable 
idea  of  his  extraordinary  powers.  Let  what- 
ever other  objections  be  made  to  it,  it  is  un- 
questionably a  work  of  genius  —  of  wild, 
irregular,  overwhelming  imagination,  and  has 
that  rich,  varied  movement  in  the  verse,  which 
gives  a  distant  idea  of  the  lofty  or  changeful 
tones  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  voice.  In  the  Chris- 
iabel,  there  is  one  splendid  passage  on  divided 
friendship.  The  Translation  of  Schiller's  Wal- 
lenstein  is  also  a  masterly  production  in  its  kind, 
faithful  and  spirited.  Among  his  smaller 
pieces  there  are  occasional  bursts  of  pathos  and 
fancy,  equal  to  what  we  might  expect  from  him ; 
but  these  form  the  exception,  and  not  the  rule. 
Such,  for  instance,  is  his  affecting  Sonnet  to  the 
author  of  the  Robbers. 

"  Schiller  !  that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shudd'ring  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry  — 
That  in  no  after-moment  aught  less  vast 
Might  stamp  me  mortal !     A  triumphant  shout 
Black  horror  scream'd,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
From  the  more  with'ring  scene  diminish'd  pass'd. 

"Ah  !  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity  ! 
Could  I  behold  thee  in  thy  loftier  mood, 
Wand'ring  at  eve,  with  finely  frenzied  eye, 
Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-swinging  wood! 
Awhile,  with  mute  awe  gazing,  I  would  brood, 
Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  ecstasy." 

His  Tragedy,  entitled  Remorse,  is  full  of 
beautiful  and  striking  passages;  but  it  does  not 
place  the  author  in  the  first  rank  of  dramatic 
writers.  But  if  Mr.  Coleridge's  works  do  not 
place  him  in  that  rank,  they  injure  instead  of 
conveying  a  just  idea  of  the  man;  for  he  him- 
self is  certainly  in  the  first  class  of  general 
intellect. 

If  our  author's  poetry  is  inferior  to  his  con- 
versation, his  prose  is  utterly  abortive.  Hardly 
a  gleam  is  to  be  found  in  it  of  the  brilliancy  and 
richness  of  those  stores  of  thought  and  language 
that  he  pours  out  incessantly,  when  they  are 
lost  like  drops  of  water  in  the  ground.  The 
principal  work,  in  which  he  has  attempted 
to  embody  his  general  views  of  things,  is  the 
Friend,  of  which,  though  it  contains  some  noble 
passages  and  fine  trains  of  thought,  prolixity  and 
obscurity  are  the  most  frequent  characteristics. 

No  two  persons  can  be  conceived  more 
opposite  in  character  or  genius  than  the  sub- 


ject of  the  present  and  of  the  preceding  sketch. 
Mr.  Godwin,  with  less  natural  capacity  and 
with  fewer  acquired  advantages,  by  concen- 
trating his  mind  on  some  given  object,  and 
doing  what  he  had  to  do  with  all  his  might, 
has  accomplished  much,  and  will  leave  more 
than  one  monument  of  a  powerful  intellect 
behind  him;  Mr.  Coleridge,  by  dissipating  his, 
and  dallying  with  every  subject  by  turns,  has 
done  little  or  nothing  to  justify  to  the  world 
or  to  posterity  the  high  opinion  which  all  who 
have  ever  heard  him  converse,  or  known  him 
intimately,  with  one  accord  entertain  of  him. 
IVIr.  Godwin's  faculties  have  kept  at  home,  and 
plied  their  task  in  the  workshop  of  the  brain, 
diligently  and  elTectually:  Mr.  Coleridge's 
have  gossiped  away  their  time,  and  gadded 
about  from  house  to  house,  as  if  life's  business 
were  to  melt  the  hours  in  listless  talk.  Mr. 
Godwin  is  intent  on  a  subject,  only  as  it  con- 
cerns himself  and  his  reputation;  he  works  it 
out  as  a  matter  of  duty,  and  discards  from 
his  mind  whatever  does  not  forward  his  main 
object  as  impertinent  and  vain. 

Mr.  Coleridge,  on  the  other  hand,  delights 
in  nothing  but  episodes  and  digressions, 
neglects  whatever  he  undertakes  to  perform, 
and  can  act  only  on  spontaneous  impulses 
without  object  or  method.  "He  cannot  be 
constrained  by  mastery."  While  he  should  be 
occupied  with  a  given  pursuit,  he  is  thinking 
of  a  thousand  other  things:  a  thousand  tastes, 
a  thousand  objects  tempt  him,  and  distract  his 
mind,  which  keeps  open  house,  and  entertains 
all  comers;  and  after  being  fatigued  and 
amused  with  morning  calls  from  idle  visitors, 
he  finds  the  day  consumed  and  its  business 
unconcluded.  Mr.  Godwin,  on  the  contrary, 
is  somewhat  exclusive  and  unsocial  in  his  hab- 
its of  mind,  entertains  no  company  but  what 
he  gives  his  whole  time  and  attention  to,  and 
wisely  writes  over  the  doors  of  his  understand- 
ing, his  fancy,  and  his  senses  —  "No  admittance 
except  on  business."  He  has  none  of  that  fas- 
tidious refinement  and  false  delicacy,  which 
might  lead  him  to  balance  between  the  endless 
variety  of  modern  attainments.  He  does  not 
throw  away  his  life  (nor  a  single  half  hour  of  it) 
in  adjusting  the  claims  of  different  accom- 
plishments, and  in  choosing  between  them  or 
making  himself  master  of  them  all.  He  sets 
about  his  task  (whatever  it  may  be),  and  goes 
through  it  with  spirit  and  fortitude.  He  has 
the  happiness  to  think  an  author  the  greatest 
character  in  the  world,  and  himself  the  greatest 
author  in  it. 


354 


LEIGH    HUNT 


Mr.  Coleridge,  in  writing  an  harmonious 
stanza,  would  stop  to  consider  whether  there 
was  not  more  grace  and  beauty  in  a  Pas  de 
Irois,  and  would  not  proceed  till  he  had  re- 
solved this  question  by  a  chain  of  metaphysical 
reasoning  without  end.  Not  so  Mr.  Godwin. 
That  is  best  to  him,  which  he  can  do  best.  He 
docs  not  waste  himself  in  vain  aspirations 
and  effeminate  sympathies.  He  is  blind,  deaf, 
insensible  to  all  but  the  trump  of  Fame.  Plays, 
operas,  painting,  music,  ball-rooms,  wealth, 
fashion,  titles,  lords,  ladies,  touch  him  not. 
All  these  are  no  more  to  him  than  to  the  magi- 
cian in  his  cell,  and  he  writes  on  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter  through  good  report  and  evil  report. 
Pingo  in  eternitatem  is  his  motto.  He  neither 
envies  nor  admires  what  others  are,  but  is 
contented  to  be  what  he  is,  and  strives  to  do  the 
utmost  he  can.  Mr.  Coleridge  has  flirted  with 
the  Muses  as  with  a  set  of  mistresses:  Mr. 
Godwin  has  been  married  twice,  to  Reason 
and  to  Fancy,  and  has  to  boast  no  short-lived 
progeny  by  each. 

So  to  speak,  he  has  valves  belonging  to  his 
mind,  to  regulate  the  quantity  of  gas  admitted 
into  it,  so  that  like  the  bare,  unsightly,  but  well- 
compacted  steam-vessel,  it  cuts  its  liquid  way, 
and  arrives  at  its  promised  end:  while  Mr. 
Coleridge's  bark,  "taught  with  the  little  nauti- 
lus to  sail,"  the  sport  of  every  breath,  dancing 
to  every  wave, 

"Youth  at  its  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  its  helm," 

flutters  its  gaudy  pennons  in  the  air,  glitters  in 
the  sun,  but  we  wait  in  vain  to  hear  of  its  arrival 
in  the  destined  harbour.  Mr.  Godwin,  with 
less  variety  and  vividness,  with  less  subtlety 
and  susceptibility  both  of  thought  and  feeling, 
has  had  firmer  nerves,  a  more  determined  pur- 
pose, a  more  comprehensive  grasp  of  his  sub- 
ject; and  the  results  are  as  we  find  them. 
Each  has  met  with  his  reward:  for  justice 
has,  after  all,  been  done  to  the  pretensions 
of  each;  and  we  must,  in  all  cases,  use  means 
to  ends! 

It  was  a  misfortune  to  any  man  of  talent  to 
be  born  in  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century. 
Genius  stopped  the  way  of  Legitimacy,  and 
therefore  it  was  to  be  abated,  crushed,  or  set 
aside  as  a  nuisance.  The  spirit  of  the  mon- 
archy was  at  variance  with  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
The  flame  of  liberty,  the  light  of  intellect,  was 
to  be  extinguished  with  the  sword  —  or  with 
slander,  whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword. 
The  war  between  power  and  reason  was  carried 
on  by  the  first  of  these  abroad,  by  the  last  at 


home.  No  quarter  was  given  (then  or  now) 
by  the  Government-critics,  the  authorised  cen- 
sors of  the  press,  to  those  who  followed  the 
dictates  of  independence,  who  listened  to  the 
voice  of  the  tempter  Fancy.  Instead  of  gath- 
ering fruits  and  flowers,  immortal  fruits  and 
amaranthine  flowers,  they  soon  found  them- 
selves beset  not  only  by  a  host  of  prejudices, 
but  assailed  with  all  the  engines  of  power :  by 
nicknames,  by  lies,  by  all  the  arts  of  malice, 
interest,  and  hypocrisy,  without  the  possibility 
of  their  defending  themselves  "from  the  pelting 
of  the  pitiless  storm,"  that  poured  down  upon 
them  from  the  strongholds  of  corruption  and 
authority. 

The  philosophers,  the  dry  abstract  reason- 
ers,  submitted  to  this  reverse  pretty  well,  and 
armed  themselves  with  patience  "as  with  triple 
steel,"  to  bear  discomfiture,  persecution,  and 
disgrace.  But  the  poets,  the  creatures  of 
sympathy,  could  not  stand  the  frowns  both 
of  king  and  people.  They  did  not  like  to  be 
shut  out  when  places  and  pensions,  when  the 
critic's  praises,  and  the  laurel  wreath  were 
about  to  be  distributed.  They  did  not  stom- 
ach being  sent  to  Coventry,  and  Mr.  Coleridge 
sounded  a  retreat  for  them  by  the  help  of 
casuistry  and  a  musical  voice.  —  "His  words 
were  hollow,  but  they  pleased  the  ear"  of  his 
friends  of  the  Lake  School,  who  turned  back 
disgusted  and  panic-struck  from  the  dry  des- 
ert of  unpopularity,  like  Hassan  the  camel- 
driver, 

"  And  curs'd  the  hour,  and  curs'd  the  luckless  day, 
When  first  from  Shiraz'  walls  they  bent  their  way." 

They  are  safely  enclosed  there.  But  Mr. 
Coleridge  did  nor  enter  with  them ;  pitching 
his  tent  upon  the  barren  waste  without,  and 
having  no  abiding  place  nor  city  of  refuge  I 


LEIGH  HUNT   (i 784-1859) 
THE   DAUGHTER   OF   HIPPOCRATES  » 

In  the  time  of  the  Norman  reign  in  Sicily, 
a  vessel  bound  from  that  island  for  Smyrna 
was  driven  by  a  westerly  wind  upon  the  island 
of  Cos.  The  crew  did  not  know  where  they 
were,  though  they  had  often  visited  the  island; 
for  the  trading  towns  lay  in  other  quarters,  and 

'  Compare  the  other  versions  of  this  story,  one  by 
Mandeville  (p.  6,  above),  the  other  by  William  Morris 
(English  Poetry,  p.  551). 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    HIPPOCRATES 


355 


they  saw  nothing  before  them  but  woods  and 
soHtudes.  They  found,  however,  a  corofort- 
able  harbour;  and  the  wind  having  fallen  in 
the  night,  they  went  on  shore  next  morning  for 
water.  The  country  proved  as  soUtary  as  they 
thought  it;  which  was  the  more  extraordinary, 
inasmuch  as  it  was  very  luxuriant,  full  of  wild 
figs  and  grapes,  with  a  rich  uneven  ground, 
and  stocked  with  goats  and  other  animals, 
who  fled  whenever  they  appeared.  The  bees 
were  remarkably  numerous;  so  that  the  wild 
honey,  fruits,  and  delicious  water,  especially 
one  spring  which  fell  into  a  beautiful  marble 
basin,  made  them  more  and  more  wonder, 
at  every  step,  that  they  could  see  no  human 
inhabitants. 

Thus  idling  about  and  wondering,  stretching 
themselves  now  and  then  among  the  wild  thyme 
and  grass,  and  now  getting  up  to  look  at  some 
specially  fertile  place  which  another  called  them 
to  see,  and  which  they  thought  might  be  turned 
to  fine  trading  purpose,  they  came  upon  a 
mound  covered  with  trees,  which  looked  into  a 
flat,  wide  lawn  of  rank  grass,  with  a  house  at 
the  end  of  it.  They  crept  nearer  towards  the 
house  along  the  mound,  still  continuing  among 
the  trees,  for  fear  they  were  trespassing  at  last 
upon  somebody's  property.  It  had  a  large 
garden  wall  at  the  back,  as  much  covered  with 
ivy  as  if  it  had  been  built  of  it.  Fruit-trees 
looked  over  the  wall  with  an  unpruned  thick- 
ness; and  neither  at  the  back  nor  front  of  the 
house  were  there  any  signs  of  humanity.  It 
was  an  ancient  marble  building,  where  glass 
was  not  to  be  expected  in  the  windows;  but 
it  was  much  dilapidated,  and  the  grass  grew  up 
over  the  steps.  They  listened  again  and  again ; 
but  nothing  was  to  be  heard  like  a  sound  of 
men ;  nor  scarcely  of  anything  else.  There  was 
an  intense  noonday  silence.  Only  the  hares 
made  a  rustling  noise  as  they  ran  about  the 
long  hiding  grass.  The  house  looked  like  the 
tomb  of  human  nature  amidst  the  vitality  of 
earth. 

"Did  you  see?"  said  one  of  the  crew,  turning 
pale,  and  hastening  to  go.  "See  what?"  said 
the  others.  "What  looked  out  of  the  window." 
They  all  turned  their  faces  towards  the  house, 
but  saw  nothing.  Upon  this  they  laughed  at 
their  companion,  who  persisted,  however,  with 
great  earnestness,  and  with  great  reluctance  at 
stopping,  to  say  that  he  saw  a  strange,  hideous 
kind  of  face  look  out  of  the  window.  "  Let  us 
go,  sir,"  said  he,  to  the  Captain;  —  "  for  I  tell 
ye  what:  I  know  this  place  now:  and  you, 
Signor  Gualtier,"  continued  he,  turning   to  a 


young  man,  "may  now  follow  that  adventure 
I  have  often  heard  you  wish  to  l)e  engaged  in." 
The  crew  turned  pale,  and  Gualtier  among 
them.  "Yes,"  added  the  man,  "we  are  fallen 
upon  the  enchanted  part  of  the  island  of  Cos, 
where  the  daughter  of  —  Hush  1  Look  there !" 
They  turned  their  faces  again,  and  beheld  the 
head  of  a  large  serpent  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Its  eyes  were  direct  ufmn  them;  and 
stretching  out  of  the  window,  it  lifted  back  its 
head  with  little  sharp  jerks  like  a  fowl;  and 
so  stood  keenly  gazing. 

The  terrified  sailors  would  have  begun  to 
depart  quicklier  than  they  did,  had  not  fear 
itself  made  them  move  slowly.  Their  legs 
seemed  melting  from  under  them.  Gualtier 
tried  to  rally  his  voice.  "They  say,"  said  he, 
"it  is  a  gentle  creature.  The  hares  that  feed 
right  in  front  of  the  house  are  a  proof  of  it ;  — 
let  us  all  stay."  The  others  shook  their  heads, 
and  spoke  in  whispers,  still  continuing  to  de- 
scend the  mound  as  well  as  they  could.  "There 
is  something  unnatural  in  that  very  thing," 
said  the  Captain:  "but  we  will  wait  for  you  in 
the  vessel,  if  you  stay.  We  will,  by  St.  Ermo." 
The  Captain  had  not  supposed  that  Gualtier 
would  stay  an  instant;  but  seeing  him  linger 
more  than  the  rest,  he  added  the  oath  in  cjues- 
tion,  and  in  the  meantime  was  hastening  with 
the  others  to  get  away.  The  truth  is,  Gualtier 
was,  in  one  respect,  more  frightened  than  any 
of  them.  His  legs  were  more  rooted  to  the 
spot.  But  the  same  force  of  imagination  that 
helped  to  detain  him,  enabled  him  to  muster 
up  courage  beyond  those  who  found  their  will 
more  powerful:  and  in  the  midst  of  his  terror 
he  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  fine  adven- 
ture this  would  be  to  tell  in  Salerno,  even  if  he 
did  but  conceal  himself  a  little,  and  stay  a  few 
minutes  longer  than  the  rest.  The  thought, 
however,  had  hardly  come  upon  him,  when  it 
was  succeeded  by  a  fear  still  more  lively;  and 
he  was  preparing  to  follow  the  others  with  all 
the  expedition  he  could  contrive,  when  a  fierce 
rustling  took  place  in  the  trees  behind  him,  and 
in  an  instant  the  serpent's  head  was  at  his  feet. 
Gualtier's  brain  as  well  as  heart  seemed  to 
sicken,  as  he  thought  the  monstrous  object 
scented  him  like  a  bear;  but  despair  coming  in 
aid  of  a  courage  naturally  fanciful  and  chival- 
rous, he  bent  his  eyes  more  steadily,  and  found 
the  huge  jaws  and  fangs  not  only  abstaining 
from  hurting  him,  but  crouching  and  fawning 
at  his  feet  like  a  spaniel.  At  the  same  time 
he  called  to  mind  the  old  legend  respecting  the 
creature,  and,  corroborated  as  he  now  saw  it, 


356 


LEIGH    HUNT 


he  ejaculated  with  good  firmness,  "In  the  name 
of  God  and  his  saints,  what  art  thou?" 

"Hast  thou  not  licard  of  me?"  answered 
the  serpent  in  a  voice  whose  singular  human 
slenderness  made  it  seem  the  more  horrible. 
"I  guess  who  thou  art,"  answered  Gualtier;  — 
"the  fearful  thing  in  the  island  of  Cos." 

"I  am  that  loathly  thing,"  replied  the  ser- 
pent; "once  not  so."  And  Gualtier  thought 
that  its  voice  trembled  sorrowfully. 

The  monster  told  Gualtier  that  what  was  said 
of  her  was  true;  that  she  had  been  a  serpent 
hundreds  of  years,  feeling  old  age  and  renewing 
her  youth  at  the  end  of  each  century;  that  it 
was  a  curse  of  Diana's  which  had  changed  her; 
and  that  she  was  never  to  resume  a  human  form, 
till  somebody  was  found  kind  and  bold  enough 
to  kiss  her  on  the  mouth.  As  she  spoke  this 
word,  she  raised  her  crest,  and  sparkled  so  with 
her  fiery  green  eyes,  dilating  at  the  same  time 
the  corners  of  her  jaws,  that  the  young  man 
thrilled  through  his  very  scalp.  He  stepped 
back,  with  a  look  of  the  utmost  horror  and 
loathing.  The  creature  gave  a  sharp  groan 
inwardly,  and  after  rolling  her  neck  frantically 
on  the  ground,  withdrew  a  little  back  likewise, 
and  seemed  to  be  looking  another  way.  Gual- 
tier heard  two  or  three  little  sounds  as  of  a  per- 
son weeping  piteously,  yet  trying  to  subdue  its 
voice;  and  looking  with  breathless  curiosity, 
he  saw  the  side  of  the  loathly  creature's  face 
bathed  in  tears. 

"Why  speakest  thou,  lady,"  said  he,  "if 
lady  thou  art,  of  the  curse  of  the  false  goddess 
Diana,  who  never  was,  or  only  a  devil?  I 
cannot  kiss  thee,"  —  and  he  shuddered  with 
a  horrible  shudder  as  he  spoke,  "but  I  will 
bless  thee  in  the  name  of  the  true  God,  and  even 
mark  thee  with  his  cross." 

The  serpent  shook  her  head  mournfully, 
still  keeping  it  turned  round.  She  then  faced 
him  again,  hanging  her  head  in  a  dreary  and 
desponding  manner.  "Thou  knowest  not," 
said  she,  "what  I  know.  Diana  both  was  and 
never  was ;  and  there  are  many  other  things  on 
earth  which  are  and  yet  are  not.  Thou  canst 
not  comprehend  it,  even  though  thou  art 
kind.  But  the  heavens  alter  not,  neither  the 
sun  nor  the  strength  of  nature;  and  if  thou 
wert  kinder,  I  should  be  as  I  once  was,  happy 
and  human.  Suffice  it,  that  nothing  can  change 
me  but  what  I  said." 

"Why  wert  thou  changed,  thou  fearful  and 
mysterious  thing?"  said  Gualtier. 

"Because  I  denied  Diana,  as  thou  dost," 
answered  the  serpent;  "and  it  was  pronounced 


an  awful  crime  in  me,  though  it  is  none  in  thee ; 
and  I  was  to  be  made  a  thing  loathsome  in 
men's  eyes.  Let  me  not  catch  thine  eye,  I 
beseech  thee;  but  go  thy  way  and  be  safe; 
for  I  feel  a  cruel  thought  coming  on  me,  which 
will  shake  my  innermost  soul,  though  it  shall 
not  harm  thee.  But  I  could  make  thee  suffer 
for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  thine  anguish;  even 
as  some  tyrants  do:  and  is  not  that  dreadful?" 
And  the  monster  openly  shed  tears,  and  sobbed. 

There  was  something  in  this  mixture  of 
avowed  cruelty,  and  weeping  contradiction  to 
it,  which  made  Gualtier  remain  in  spite  of 
himself.  But  fear  was  still  uppermost  in  his 
mind  when  he  looked  upon  the  mouth  that  was 
to  be  kissed;  and  he  held  fast  round  the  tree 
with  one  hand,  and  his  sword  as  fast  in  the 
other,  watching  the  movements  of  her  neck  as 
he  conversed.  "How  did  thy  father,  the  sage 
Hippocrates,"  asked  he,  "suffer  thee  to  come 
to  this?"  "My  father,"  replied  she,  "sage 
and  good  as  he  was,  was  but  a  Greek  mortal; 
and  the  great  Virgin  was  a  worshipped  Goddess. 
I  pray  thee,  go."  She  uttered  the  last  word  in 
a  tone  of  loud  anguish ;  but  the  very  horror  of 
it  made  Gualtier  hesitate,  and  he  said,  "How 
can  I  know  that  it  is  not  thy  destiny  to 
deceive  the  merciful  into  this  horrible  kiss, 
that  then  and  then  only  thou  mayest  devour 
them?" 

But  the  serpent  rose  higher  at  this,  and 
looking  around  loftily,  said,  in  a  mild  and 
majestic  tone  of  voice,  "O  ye  green  and  happy 
woods,  breathing  like  sleep !  O  safe  and 
quiet  population  of  these  leafy  places,  dying 
brief  deaths !  O  sea !  O  earth !  O  heavens, 
never  uttering  syllable  to  man !  Is  there  no 
way  to  make  better  known  the  meaning  of  your 
gentle  silence,  of  your  long  basking  pleasures 
and  brief  pains?  And  must  the  want  of  what 
is  beautiful  and  kind  from  others,  ever  remain 
different  from  what  is  beautiful  and  kind  in 
itself?  And  must  form  obscure  essence;  and 
human  confidence  in  good  from  within  never 
be  bolder  than  suspicion  of  evil  from  without  ? 
O  ye  large-looking  and  grand  benignities  of 
creation,  is  it  that  we  are  atoms  in  a  dream,  or 
that  your  largeness  and  benignity  are  in  those 
only  who  see  them,  and  that  it  is  for  us  to  hang 
over  ye  till  we  wake  you  into  a  voice  with  our 
kisses?  I  yearn  to  be  made  beautiful  by  one 
kind  action,  and  beauty  itself  will  not  believe 
me!" 

Gualtier,  though  not  a  foolish  youth,  under- 
stood little  or  nothing  of  this  mystic  apostrophe ; 
but  something  made  him  bear  in  mind,  and 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


357 


really  incline  to  believe,  that  it  was  a  trans- 
formed woman  speaking  to  him ;  and  he  was 
making  a  violent  internal  effort  to  conquer  his 
repugnance  to  the  kiss,  when  some  hares, 
starting  from  him  as  they  passed,  ran  and 
cowered  behind  the  folds  of  the  monster: 
and  she  stooped  her  head,  and  licked  them. 
"By  Christ,"  exclaimed  he,  "whom  the  wormy 
grave  gathered  into  its  arms  to  save  us  from  our 
corruptions,  I  will  do  this  thing;  so  may  he 
have  mercy  on  my  soul,  whether  I  live  or  die: 
for  the  very  hares  take  refuge  in  her  shadow." 
And  shuddering  and  shutting  his  eyes,  he  put 
his  mouth  out  for  her  to  meet;  and  he  seemed 
to  feel,  in  his  blindness,  that  dreadful  mouth 
approaching;  and  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross;  and  he  murmured  internally  the  name 
of  him  who  cast  seven  devils  out  of  Mary 
Magdalen,  that  afterwards  anointed  his  feet; 
and  in  the  midst  of  his  courageous  agony  he 
felt  a  small  mouth  fast  and  warm  upon  his,  and 
a  hand  about  his  neck,  and  another  on  his  left 
hand;  and  opening  his  eyes,  he  dropped  them 
upon  two  of  the  sweetest  that  ever  looked  into 
the  eye  of  man.  But  the  hares  fled;  for  they 
had  loved  the  serpent,  but  knew  not  the  beau- 
tiful human  being. 

Great  was  the  fame  of  Gualtier,  not  only 
throughout  the  Grecian  islands,  but  on  both 
continents;  and  most  of  all  in  Sicily,  where 
every  one  of  his  countrymen  thought  he  had 
had  a  hand  in  the  enterprise,  for  being  born  on 
the  same  soil.  The  Captain  and  his  crew  never 
came  again;  for,  alas!  they  had  gone  off  with- 
out waiting  as  they  promised.  But  Tancred, 
Prince  of  Salerno,  came  himself  with  a  knightly 
train  to  see  Gualtier,  who  lived  with  his  lady 
in  the  same  place,  all  her  past  sufferings  ap- 
pearing as  nothing  to  her  before  a  month  of 
love;  and  even  sorrowful  habit  had  endeared 
it  to  her.  Tancred,  and  his  knights  and 
learned  clerks,  came  in  a  noble  ship,  every  oar 
having  a  painted  scutcheon  over  the  rowlock; 
and  Gualtier  and  his  lady  feasted  them  nobly, 
and  drank  to  them  amidst  music  in  cups  of 
Hippocras  —  that  knightly  liquor  afterwards 
so  renowned,  which  she  retained  the  secret  of 
making  from  her  sage  father,  whose  name  it 
bore.  And  when  King  Tancred,  with  a  gentle 
gravity  in  the  midst  of  his  mirth,  expressed  a 
hope  that  the  beautiful  lady  no  longer  wor- 
shipped Diana,  Gualtier  said,  "No,  indeed, 
sir;"  and  she  looked  in  Gualtier's  face,  as  she 
sat  next  him,  with  the  sweetest  look  in  the 
world,  as  who  should  say,  "No,  indeed:  —  I 
worship  thee  and  thy  kind  heart." 


THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY  (i  785-1859) 

'From  CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH 
OPIUM-EATER 

INTRODUCTION   TO   THE    PAINS   OF 
OPIU'M 

If  any  man,  poor  or  rich,  were  to  say  that  he 
would  tell  us  what  had  been  the  happiest  day 
in  his  life,  and  the  why  and  the  wherefore,  I 
suppose  that  we  should  all  cry  out,  Hear  him ! 
hear  him  !  As  to  the  happiest  day,  that  must  be 
very  difficult  for  any  wise  man  to  name;  be- 
cause any  event,  that  could  occupy  so  distin- 
guished a  place  in  a  man's  retrospect  of  his  life, 
or  be  entitled  to  have  shed  a  special  felicity  on 
any  one  day,  ought  to  be  of  such  an  enduring 
character,  as  that  (accidents  apart)  it  shoukl 
have  continued  to  shed  the  same  felicity,  or 
one  not  distinguishably  less,  on  many  years 
together.  To  the  happiest  lustrum,  however, 
or  even  to  the  happiest  year,  it  may  be  allowed 
to  any  man  to  point  without  discountenance 
from  wisdom.  This  year,  in  my  case,  reader, 
was  the  one  which  we  have  now  reached; 
though  it  stood,  I  confess,  as  a  parenthesis 
between  years  of  a  gloomier  character.  It  was 
a  year  of  brilliant  w-ater  (to  speak  after  the 
manner  of  jewellers),  set,  as  it  were,  and  in- 
sulated, in  the  gloom  and  cloudy  melancholy 
of  opium.  Strange  as  it  may  sound,  I  had  a 
little  before  this  time  descended  suddenly,  and 
without  any  considerable  effort,  from  three 
hundred  and  twenty  grains  of  opium  (that  is, 
eight  thousand  drops  of  laudanum)  per  day, 
to  forty  grains,  or  one-eighth  part.  Instanta- 
neously, and  as  if  by  magic,  the  cloud  of  pro- 
foundest  melancholy  which  rested  upon  my 
brain,  like  some  black  vapours  that  I  have  seen 
roll  away  from  the  summits  of  mountains, 
drew  off  in  one  day;  passed  off  with  its  murky 
banners  as  simultaneously  as  a  ship  that  has 
been  stranded,  and  is  floated  off  by  a  spring 
tide,  — 

That  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all. 

Now,  then,  I  was  again  happy:  I  now  took 
only  one  thousand  drops  of  laudanum  per  day, 
—  and  what  was  that  ?  A  latter  spring  had 
come  to  close  up  the  season  of  youth :  my  brain 
performed  its  functions  as  healthily  as  ever 
before.  I  read  Kant  again,  and  again  I  under- 
stood him,  or  fancied  that  I  did.  Again  my 
feelings  of  pleasure  expanded  themselves  to  all 
around  me;    and,  if  any  man  from  Oxford  or 


358 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


Cambridge,  or  from  neither,  had  been  announced 
to  me  in  my  unpretending  cottage,  I  should  have 
welcomed  him  with  as  sumptuous  a  reception  as 
so  poor  a  man  could  offer.  Whatever  else  was 
wanting  to  a  wise  man's  happiness,  of  laudanum 
I  would  have  given  him  as  much  as  he  wished, 
and  in  a  golden  cup.  And,  by  the  way,  now 
that  I  speak  of  giving  laudanum  away,  I  re- 
member, about  this  time,  a  little  incident,  which 
I  mention,  because,  trifling  as  it  was,  the  reader 
will  soon  meet  it  again  in  my  dreams,  which  it 
influenced  more  tearfully  than  could  be  im- 
agined. One  day  a  Malay  knocked  at  my  door. 
What  business  a  Malay  could  have  to  transact 
amongst  English  mountains,  I  cannot  conjec- 
ture; but  possibly  he  was  on  his  road  to  a 
seaport  about  forty  miles  distant. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  him 
was  a  young  girl,  born  and  bred  amongst  the 
mountains,  who  had  never  seen  an  Asiatic 
dress  of  any  sort:  his  turban,  therefore,  con- 
founded her  not  a  little ;  and  as  it  turned  out 
that  his  attainments  in  English  were  exactly 
of  the  same  extent  as  hers  in  the  Malay,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  impassable  gulf  fixed  between 
all  communication  of  ideas,  if  either  party  had 
happened  to  possess  any.  In  this  dilemma, 
the  girl,  recollecting  the  reputed  learning  of  her 
master  (and,  doubtless,  giving  me  credit  for  a 
knowledge  of  all  the  languages  of  the  earth, 
besides,  perhaps,  a  few  of  the  lunar  ones), 
came  and  gave  me  to  understand  that  there 
was  a  sort  of  demon  below,  whom  she  clearly 
imagined  that  my  art  could  exorcise  from 
the  house.  I  did  not  immediately  go  down ;  but 
when  I  did,  the  group  which  presented  itself, 
arranged  as  it  was  by  accident,  though  not  very 
elaborate,  took  hold  of  my  fancy  and  my  eye 
in  a  way  that  none  of  the  statuesque  attitudes  ex- 
hibited in  the  ballets  at  the  opera-house,  though 
so  ostentatiously  complex,  had  ever  done. 
In  a  cottage  kitchen,  but  panelled  on  the  wall 
with  dark  wood,  that  from  age  and  rubbing 
resembled  oak,  and  looking  more  like  a  rus- 
tic hall  of  entrance  than  a  kitchen,  stood  the 
Malay,  his  turban  and  loose  trousers  of  dingy 
white  relieved  upon  the  dark  panelling;  he 
had  placed  himself  nearer  to  the  girl  than  she 
seemed  to  relish,  though  her  native  spirit  of 
mountain  intrepidity  contended  with  the  feeling 
of  simple  awe  which  her  countenance  expressed, 
as  she  gazed  upon  the  tiger-cat  before  her. 
And  a  more  striking  picture  there  could  not  be 
imagined,  than  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the 
girl,  and  its  exquisite  fairness,  together  with 
her  erect  and  independent  attitude,  contrasted 


with  the  sallow  and  bilious  skin  of  the  Malay, 
enamelled  or  veneered  with  mahogany  by 
marine  air,  his  small,  fierce,  restless  eyes,  thin 
lips,  slavish  gestures,  and  adorations.  Half 
hidden  by  the  ferocious-looking  Malay,  was 
a  little  child  from  a  neighbouring  cottage,  who 
had  crept  in  after  him,  and  was  now  in  the  act 
of  reverting  its  head  and  gazing  upwards 
at  the  turban  and  the  fiery  eyes  beneath  it, 
whilst  with  one  hand  he  caught  at  the  dress  of 
the  young  woman  for  protection. 

My  knowledge  of  the  Oriental  tongues  is  not 
remarkably  extensive,  being,  indeed,  confined  to 
two  words,  —  the  Arabic  word  for  barley,  and 
the  Turkish  for  opium  (madjoon),  which  I  have 
learnt  from  Anastasius.  And,  as  I  had  neither 
a  Malay  dictionary,  nor  even  Adelung's  Mith- 
ridates,  which  might  have  helped  me  to  a  few 
words,  I  addressed  him  in  some  lines  from 
the  Iliad ;  considering  that,  of  such  language  as 
I  possessed,  the  Greek,  in  point  of  longitude, 
came  geographically  nearest  to  an  Oriental 
one.  He  worshipped  me  in  a  devout  manner, 
and  replied  in  what  I  suppose  was  Malay.  In 
this  way  I  saved  my  reputation  with  my  neigh- 
bours; for  the  Malay  had  no  means  of  betraying 
the  secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor  for  about 
an  hour,  and  then  pursued  his  journey.  On 
his  departure,  I  presented  him  with  a  piece  of 
opium.  To  him,  as  an  Orientalist,  I  concluded 
that  opium  must  be  familiar,  and  the  expression 
of  his  face  convinced  me  that  it  was.  Never- 
theless, I  was  struck  with  some  little  consterna- 
tion when  I  saw  him  suddenly  raise  his  hand 
to  his  mouth,  and  (in  the  school-boy  phrase) 
bolt  the  whole,  divided  into  three  pieces,  at 
one  mouthful.  The  quantity  was  enough 
to  kill  three  dragoons  and  their  horses,  and  I 
felt  some  alarm  for  the  poor  creature;  but  what 
could  be  done?  I  had  given  him  the  opium  in 
compassion  for  his  solitary  life,  on  recollecting 
that,  if  he  had  travelled  on  foot  from  London, 
it  must  be  nearly  three  weeks  since  he  could 
have  exchanged  a  thought  with  any  human 
being.  I  could  not  think  of  violating  the  laws 
of  hospitality  by  having  him  seized  and  drenched 
with  an  emetic,  and  thus  frightening  him  into 
a  notion  that  we  were  going  to  sacrifice  him  to 
some  English  idol.  No;  there  was  clearly  no 
help  for  it.  He  took  his  leave,  and  for  some 
days  I  felt  anxious;  but,  as  I  never  heard  of  any 
Malay  being  found  dead,  I  became  convinced 
that  he  was  used  to  opium,  and  that  I  must  have 
done  him  the  service  I  designed,  by  giving  him 
one  night  of  respite  from  the  pains  of  wander- 
ing. 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN    ENGLISH    OPIUM-EATER 


359 


This  incident  I  have  digressed  to  mention, 
because  this  Malay  (partly  from  the  picturesque 
exhibition  he  assisted  to  frame,  partly  from  the 
anxiety  I  connected  with  his  image  for  some 
days)  fastened  afterwards  upon  my  dreams, 
and  brought  other  Malays  with  him  worse  than 
himself,  that  ran  "a-muck"  at  me,  and  led  me 
into  a  world  of  troubles.  But,  to  quit  this 
episode,  and  to  return  to  my  intercalary  year 
of  happiness.  I  have  said  already,  that  on  a 
subject  so  important  to  us  all  as  happiness,  we 
should  listen  with  pleasure  to  any  man's  ex- 
perience or  experiments,  even  though  he  were 
but  a  ploughboy,  who  cannot  be  supposed  to 
have  ploughed  very  deep  in  such  an  intractable 
soil  as  that  of  human  pains  and  pleasures,  or 
to  have  conducted  his  researches  upon  any  very 
enlightened  principles.  But  I,  who  have  taken 
happiness,  both  in  a  solid  and  a  liquid  shape, 
both  boiled  and  unboiled,  both  East  India 
and  Turkey,  —  who  have  conducted  my  ex- 
periments upon  this  interesting  subject  with  a 
sort  of  galvanic  battery,  —  and  have,  for  the 
general  benefit  of  the  world,  inoculated  myself, 
as  it  were,  with  the  poison  of  eight  hundred 
drops  of  laudanum  per  day  (just  for  the  same 
reason  as  a  French  surgeon  inoculated  himself 
lately  with  a  cancer,  —  an  English  one,  twenty 
years  ago,  with  plague,  —  and  a  third,  I 
know  not  of  what  nation,  with  hydrophobia),  — 
I,  it  will  be  admitted,  must  surely  know  what 
happiness  is,  if  anybody  does.  And  therefore 
I  will  here  lay  down  an  analysis  of  happiness; 
and,  as  the  most  interesting  mode  of  com- 
municating it,  I  will  give  it,  not  didactically, 
but  wrapt  up  and  involved  in  a  picture  of  one 
evening,  as  I  spent  every  evening  during  the 
intercalary  year  when  laudanum,  though  taken 
daily,  was  to  me  no  more  than  the  elixir  of 
pleasure.  This  done,  I  shall  quit  the  subject 
of  happiness  altogether,  and  pass  to  a  very 
different  one,  —  the  pains  of  opium. 

Let  there  be  a  cottage,  standing  in  a  valley, 
eighteen  miles  from  any  town;  no  spacious 
valley,  but  about  two  miles  long  by  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  in  average  width,  —  the 
benefit  of  which  provision  is,  that  all  the  fam- 
ilies resident  within  its  circuit  will  compose, 
as  it  were,  one  larger  household,  personally 
familiar  to  your  eye,  and  more  or  less  interest- 
ing to  your  affections.  Let  the  mountains  be 
real  mountains,  between  three  and  four  thou- 
sand feet  high,  and  the  cottage  a  real  cottage, 
not  (as  a  witty  author  has  it)  "a  cottage  with 
a  double  coach-house";  let  it  be,  in  fact  (for 
I  must  abide  by  the  actual  scene),   a  white 


cottage,  embowered  with  flowering  shrubs,  so 
chosen  as  to  unfold  a  succession  of  flowers  upon 
the  walls,  and  clustering  around  the  windows, 
through  all  the  months  of  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn;  beginning,  in  fact,  with  May  roses, 
and  ending  with  jasmine.  Let  it,  however, 
not  be  spring,  nor  summer,  nor  autumn;  but 
winter,  in  its  sternest  shape.  This  is  a  most 
important  point  in  the  science  of  happiness. 
And  I  am  surprised  to  see  people  overlook  it, 
and  think  it  matter  of  congratulation  that 
winter  is  going,  or,  if  coming,  is  not  likely  to 
be  a  severe  one.  On  the  contrary,  I  put  up 
a  petition,  annually,  for  as  much  snow,  hail, 
frost,  or  storm  of  one  kind  or  other,  as  the  skies 
can  possibly  afford  us.  Surely  everybody  is 
aware  of  the  divine  pleasures  which  attend 
a  winter  fireside,  —  candles  at  four  o'clock, 
warm  hearth-rugs,  tea,  a  fair  tea-maker, 
shutters  closed,  curtains  flowing  in  ample 
draperies  on  the  floor,  whilst  the  wind  and  rain 
are  raging  audibly  without. 

And  at  the  doors  and  windows  seem  to  call 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell; 
Yet  the  least  entrance  find  they  none  at  all; 
Whence  sweeter  grows  our  rest  secure  in  massy  hall. 
—  Castle  of  Indolence. 

All  these  are  items  in  the  description  of  a 
winter  evening  which  must  surely  be  familiar 
to  everybody  born  in  a  high  latitude.  And  it 
is  evident  that  most  of  these  delicacies,  like  ice- 
cream, require  a  very  low  temperature  of  the 
atmosphere  to  produce  them:  they  are  fruits 
which  cannot  be  ripened  without  weather  stormy 
or  inclement,  in  some  way  or  other.  I  am  not 
''particular  "  as  people  say,  whether  it  be  snow, 
or    black    frost,   or    wind  so    strong    that   (as 

Mr. says)  "you  may  lean  your  back  against 

it  like  a  post."  I  can  put  up  even  with  rain,  pro- 
vided that  it  rains  cats  and  dogs;  but  something 
of  the  sort  I  must  have;  and  if  I  have  not,  I 
think  myself  in  a  manner  ill  used :  for  why  am 
I  called  on  to  pay  so  heavily  for  winter,  in  coals, 
and  candles,  and  various  privations  that  will 
occur  even  to  gentlemen,  if  I  am  not  to  have 
the  article  good  of  its  kind?  No:  a  Canadian 
winter,  for  my  money;  or  a  Russian  one,  where 
every  man  is  but  a  co-proprietor  with  the  north 
wind  in  the  fee-simple  of  his  own  ears.  Indeed, 
so  great  an  epicure  am  I  in  this  matter,  that  I 
cannot  relish  a  winter  night  fully,  if  it  be  much 
past  St.  Thomas'  day,  and  have  degenerated 
into  disgusting  tendencies  to  vernal  appear- 
ances; —  no,  it  must  be  divided  by  a  thick  wall 


360 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


of  dark  nights  from  all  return  of  light  and 
sunshine.  From  the  latter  weeks  of  October 
to  Christmas-eve,  therefore,  is  the  period  dur- 
ing which  happiness  is  in  season,  which,  in  my 
judgment,  enters  the  room  with  the  tea-tray; 
for  tea,  though  ridiculed  by  those  who  are 
naturally  of  coarse  nerves,  or  are  become  so 
from  wine-drinking,  and  are  not  susceptible 
of  influence  from  so  refined  a  stimulant,  will 
always  be  the  favourite  beverage  of  the 
intellectual;  and,  for  my  part,  I  would  have 
joined  Dr.  Johnson  in  a  bcllinn  intcrneciniim 
against  Jonas  Hanway,  or  any  other  im- 
pious person  who  should  presume  to  dispar- 
age it.  But  here,  to  save  myself  the  trouble 
of  too  much  verbal  description,  I  will  intro- 
duce a  painter,  and  give  him  directions  for 
the  rest  of  the  picture.  Painters  do  not  like 
white  cottages,  unless  a  good  deal  weather- 
stained;  but,  as  the  reader  now  understands 
that  it  is  a  winter  night,  his  services  will 
not  be  required  except  for  the  inside  of  the 
house. 

Paint  me,  then,  a  room  seventeen  feet  by 
twelve,  and  not  more  than  seven  and  a  half 
feet  high.  This,  reader,  is  somewhat  am- 
bitiously styled,  in  my  family,  the  drawing- 
room;  but  being  contrived  "a  double  debt  to 
pay,"  it  is  also,  and  more  justly,  termed  the 
library;  for  it  happens  that  books  are  the  only 
article  of  property  in  which  I  am  richer  than 
my  neighbours.  Of  these  I  have  about  five 
thousand,  collected  gradually  since  my  eigh- 
teenth year.  Therefore,  painter,  put  as  many 
as  you  can  into  this  room.  Make  it  populous 
with  books,  and,  furthermore,  paint  me  a  good 
fire;  and  furniture  plain  and  modest,  befitting 
the  unpretending  cottage  of  a  scholar.  And 
near  the  fire  paint  me  a  tea-table ;  and  (as  it  is 
clear  that  no  creature  can  come  to  see  one,  such 
a  stormy  night)  place  only  two  cups  and  saucers 
on  the  tea-tray;  and,  if  you  know  how  to  paint 
such  a  thing  symboHcally,  or  otherwise,  paint 
me  an  eternal  tea-pot,  —  eternal  a  parte  ante, 
and  a  parte  post;  for  I  usually  drink  tea  from 
eight  o'clock  at  night  to  four  in  the  morning. 
And,  as  it  is  very  unpleasant  to  make  tea,  or  to 
pour  it  out  for  one's  self,  paint  me  a  lovely 
young  woman,  sitting  at  the  table.  Paint  her 
arms  like  Aurora's,  and  her  smiles  like  Hebe's; 
—  but  no,  dear  M.,  not  even  in  jest  let  me  in- 
sinuate that  thy  power  to  illuminate  my  cottage 
rests  upon  a  tenure  so  perisha]:)le  as  mere  per- 
sonal beauty;  or  that  the  witchcraft  of  angelic 
smiles  lies  within  the  empire  of  any  earthly 
pencil.     Pass,  then,  my  good  painter,  to  some- 


thing more  within  its  power;  and  the  next 
article  brought  forward  should  naturally  be 
myself,  —  a  picture  of  the  Opium-eater,  with 
his  "little  golden  receptacle  of  the  pernicious 
drug"  lying  beside  him  on  the  table.  As  to  the 
opium,  I  have  no  objection  to  see  a  picture  of 
that,  though  I  would  rather  see  the  original; 
you  may  paint  it,  if  you  choose;  but  I  apprise 
you  that  no  "little"  receptacle  would,  even  in 
1816,  answer  my  purpose,  who  was  at  a  distance 
from  the  "stately  Pantheon,"  and  all  druggists 
(mortal  or  otherwise).  No:  you  may  as  well 
paint  the  real  receptacle,  which  was  not  of 
gold,  but  of  glass,  and  as  much  like  a  wine- 
decanter  as  possible.  Into  this  you  may  put 
a  quart  of  ruby-coloured  laudanum ;  that,  and  a 
book  of  German  metaphysics  placed  by  its 
side,  will  sufficiently  attest  my  being  in  the 
neighbourhood ;  but  as  to  myself,  there  I  demur. 
I  admit  that,  naturally,  I  ought  to  occupy  the 
foreground  of  the  picture;  that  being  the  hero 
of  the  piece,  or  (if  you  choose)  the  criminal  at 
the  bar,  my  body  should  be  had  into  court. 
This  seems  reasonable;  but  why  should  I 
confess,  on  this  point,  to  a  painter?  or,  why 
confess  at  all?  If  the  public  (into  whose  private 
ear  I  am  confidentially  whispering  my  confes- 
sions, and  not  into  any  painter's)  should  chance 
to  have  framed  some  agreeable  picture  for  itself 
of  the  Opium-eater's  exterior,  —  should  have 
ascribed  to  him,  romantically,  an  elegant  person, 
or  a  handsome  face,  why  should  I  barbarously 
tear  from  it  so  pleasing  a  delusion,  —  pleasing 
both  to  the  public  and  to  me  ?  No :  paint  me, 
if  at  all,  according  to  your  own  fancy;  and,  as 
a  painter's  fancy  should  teem  with  beautiful 
creations,  I  cannot  fail,  in  that  way,  to  be  a 
gainer.  And  now,  reader,  we  have  run 
through  all  the  categories  of  my  condition, 
as  it  stood  about  1816-1817,  up  to  the  mid- 
dle of  which  latter  year  I  judge  myself  to 
have  been  a  happy  man;  and  the  elements 
of  that  happiness  I  have  endeavoured  to 
place  before  you,  in  the  above  sketch  of 
the  interior  of  a  scholar's  library,  —  in  a 
cottage  among  the  mountains,  on  a  stormy 
winter  evening. 

But  now  farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  happiness, 
winter  or  summer !  farewell  to  smiles  and 
laughter !  farewell  to  peace  of  mind !  farewell 
to  hope  and  to  tranquil  dreams,  and  to  the 
blessed  consolations  of  sleep !  For  more 
than  three  years  and  a  half  I  am  sum- 
moned away  from  these ;  I  am  now  arrived 
at  an  Iliad  of  woes:  for  I  have  now  to 
record 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN    ENGLISH    OPIUM-EATER 


361 


THE   PAINS   OF  OPIUM 

I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject  of 
these  latter  confessions,  to  the  history  and 
journal  of  what  took  place  in  my  dreams; 
for  these  were  the  immediate  and  proximate 
cause  of  my  acutest  suffering. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important 
change  going  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical 
economy,  was  from  the  re-awaking  of  a  state 
of  eye  generally  incident  to  childhood,  or 
exalted  states  of  irritability-  I  know  not 
whether  my  reader  is  aware  that  many  children, 
perhaps  most,  have  a  power  of  painting,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  darkness,  all  sorts  of  phantoms: 
in  some  that  power  is  simply  a  mechanic  affec- 
tion of  the  eye ;  others  have  a  voluntary  or  semi- 
voluntary  power  to  dismiss  or  summon  them ; 
or,  as  a  child  once  said  to  me,  when  I  questioned 
him  on  this  matter,  "I  can  tell  them  to  go,  and 
they  go;  but  sometimes  they  come  when  I  don't 
tell  them  to  come."  Whereupon  I  told  him 
that  he  had  almost  as  unlimited  a  command 
over  apparitions  as  a  Roman  centurion  over 
his  soldiers.  In  the  middle  of  181 7,  I  think 
it  was,  that  this  faculty  became  positively 
distressing  to  me:  at  night,  when  I  lay  awake 
in  bed,  vast  processions  passed  along  in  mourn- 
ful pomp;  friezes  of  never-ending  stories,  that 
to  my  feelings  were  as  sad  and  solemn  as  if 
they  were  stories  drawn  from  times  before 
(Edipus  or  Priam,  before  Tyre,  before  Memphis. 
And,  at  the  same  time,  a  corresponding  change 
took  place  in  my  dreams;  a  theatre  seemed 
suddenly  opened  and  lighted  up  within  my  brain, 
which  presented,  nightly,  spectacles  of  more 
than  earthly  splendour.  And  the  four  following 
facts  may  be  mentioned,  as  noticeable  at  this  time : 

I.  That,  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye 
increased,  a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise  between 
the  waking  and  the  dreaming  states  of  the  brain 
in  one  point,  —  that  whatsoever  I  happened 
to  call  up  and  to  trace  by  a  voluntary  act  upon 
the  darkness  was  very  apt  to  transfer  itself  to 
my  dreams;  so  that  I  feared  to  exercise  this 
faculty;  for,  as  Midas  turned  all  things  to  gold, 
that  yet  bafiied  his  hopes  and  defrauded  his 
human  desires,  so  whatsoever  things  capable 
of  being  visually  represented  I  did  but  think  of 
in  the  darkness,  immediately  shaped  themselves 
into  phantoms  of  the  eye;  and,  by  a  process 
apparently  no  less  inevitable,  when  thus  once 
traced  in  faint  and  visionary  colours,  like  writings 
in  sympathetic  ink,  they  were  drawn  out,  by 
the  fierce  chemistry  of  my  dreams,  into  insuf- 
ferable splendour  that  fretted  my  heart. 


II.  For  this,  and  all  other  changes  in  my 
dreams,  were  accompanied  by  deep-seated 
anxiety  and  gloomy  melancholy,  such  as  are 
wholly  incommunicable  by  words.  I  seemed 
every  night  to  descend  —  not  metaphorically, 
but  literally  to  descend  —  into  chasms  and 
sunless  abysses,  depths  below  depths,  from 
which  it  seemed  hopeless  that  I  could  ever  re- 
ascend.  Nor  did  I,  by  waking,  feel  that  I  had 
re-ascended.  This  1  do  not  dwell  upon ;  because 
the  state  of  gloom  which  attended  these  gor- 
geous spectacles,  amounting  at  last  to  utter 
darkness,  as  of  some  suicidal  despondency, 
cannot  be  approached  by  words. 

III.  The  sense  of  space,  and  in  the  end  the 
sense  of  time,  were  both  powerfully  affected. 
Buildings,  landscapes,  etc.,  were  exhibited  in 
proportions  so  vast  as  the  bodily  eye  is  not 
fitted  to  receive.  Space  swelled,  and  was 
amplified  to  an  extent  of  unutteral^le  infinity. 
This,  however,  did  not  disturb  me  so  much 
as  the  vast  expansion  of  time.  I  sometimes 
seemed  to  have  lived  for  seventy  or  one  hundred 
years  in  one  night;  nay,  sometimes  had  feelings 
representative  of  a  millennium,  passed  in  that 
time,  or,  however,  of  a  duration  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  any  human  experience. 

IV.  The  minutest  incidents  of  childhood,  or 
forgotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were  often 
revived.  I  could  not  be  said  to  recollect 
them;  for  if  I  had  been  told  of  them  when 
waking,  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  ac- 
knowledge them  as  parts  of  my  past  experi- 
ence. But  placed  as  they  were  before  me,  in 
dreams  like  intuitions,  and  clothed  in  all  their 
evanescent  circumstances  and  accompanying 
feelings,  I  recognised  them  instantaneously.  I 
was  once  told  by  a  near  relative  of  mine,  that 
having  in  her  childhood  fallen  into  a  river,  and 
being  on  the  very  verge  of  death  but  for  the 
critical  assistance  which  reached  her,  she  saw 
in  a  moment  her  whole  life,  in  its  minutest 
incidents,  arrayed  before  her  simultaneously  as 
in  a  mirror;  and  she  had  a  faculty  developed 
as  suddenly  for  comprehending  the  whole  and 
every  part.  This,  from  some  opium  experi- 
ences of  mine,  I  can  believe;  I  have,  indeed, 
seen  the  same  thing  asserted  twice  in  modern 
books,  and  accompanied  by  a  remark  which  I 
am  convinced  is  true,  namely,  that  the  dread 
book  of  account,  which  the  Scriptures  speak 
of,  is,  in  fact,  the  mind  of  each  individual. 
Of  this,  at  least,  I  feel  assured,  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  forgetting  possible  to  the 
mind;  a  thousand  accidents  may  and  will 
interpose  a  veil  between  our  present  conscious- 


362 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCEY 


ness  and  the  secret  inscriptions  on  the  mind. 
Accidents  of  the  same  sort  will  also  rend  away 
this  veil ;  but  alike,  whether  veiled  or  unveiled, 
the  inscription  remains  forever;  just  as  the 
stars  seem  to  withdraw  before  the  common 
light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  all  know 
that  it  is  the  light  which  is  drawn  over  them 
as  a  veil;  and  that  they  are  waiting  to  be  re- 
vealed, when  the  obscuring  daylight  shall  have 
withdrawn. 

Having  noticed  these  four  facts  as  memor- 
ably distinguishing  my  dreams  from  those 
of  health,  I  shall  now  cite  a  case  illus- 
trative of  the  first  fact;  and  shall  then 
cite  any  others  that  I  remember,  either  in 
their  chronological  order,  or  any  other  that 
may  give  them  more  effect  as  pictures  to  the 
reader. 

I  had  been  in  youth,  and  even  since,  for 
occasional  amusement,  a  great  reader  of  Livy, 
whom  I  confess  that  I  prefer,  both  for  style 
and  matter,  to  any  other  of  the  Roman  his- 
torians; and  I  had  often  felt  as  most  solemn 
and  appalling  sounds,  and  most  emphatically 
representative  of  the  majesty  of  the  Roman 
people,  the  two  words  so  often  occurring  in 
Livy  —  Consul  Romanus;  especially  when  the 
consul  is  introduced  in  his  military  character. 
I  mean  to  say,  that  the  words  king,  sultan, 
regent,  etc.,  or  any  other  titles  of  those  who 
embody  in  their  own  persons  the  collective 
majesty  of  a  great  people,  had  less  power  over 
my  reverential  feelings.  I  had,  also,  though  no 
great  reader  of  history,  made  myself  minutely 
and  critically  familiar  with  one  period  of 
English  history,  namely,  the  period  of  the 
Parliamentary  War,  having  been  attracted  by 
the  moral  grandeur  of  some  who  figured  in 
that  day,  and  by  the  many  interesting  memoirs 
which  survive  those  unquiet  times.  Both  these 
parts  of  my  lighter  reading,  having  furnished 
me  often  with  matter  of  reflection,  now  furnished 
me  with  matter  for  my  dreams.  Often  I  used 
to  see,  after  painting  upon  the  blank  darkness, 
a  sort  of  rehearsal  whilst  waking,  a  crowd  of 
ladies,  and  perhaps  a  festival  and  dances. 
And  I  heard  it  said,  or  I  said  to  myself,  "These 
are  English  ladies  from  the  unhappy  times  of 
Charles  I.  These  are  the  wives  and  daughters 
of  those  who  met  in  peace,  and  sat  at  the 
same  tables,  and  were  allied  by  marriage  or 
by  blood;  and  yet,  after  a  certain  day  in 
August,  1642,  never  smiled  upon  each  other 
again,  nor  met  but  in  the  field  of  battle;  and 
at  Marston  Moor,  at  Newbury,  or  at  Naseby, 
cut  asunder  all  ties  of  love  by  the  cruel  sabre, 


and  washed  away  in  blood  the  memory  of 
ancient  friendship."  The  ladies  danced,  and 
looked  as  lovely  as  the  court  of  George  IV. 
Yet  I  knew,  even  in  my  dream,  that  they  had 
been  in  the  grave  for  nearly  two  centuries. 
This  pageant  would  suddenly  dissolve;  and, 
at  a  clapping  of  hands,  would  be  heard  the 
heart-quaking  sound  of  Consul  Romanus; 
and  immediately  came  "sweeping  by,"  in 
gorgeous  paludaments,  Paulus  or  Marius, 
girt  around  by  a  company  of  centurions, 
with  the  crimson  tunic  hoisted  on  a  spear, 
and  followed  by  the  alalagmos  of  the  Roman 
legions. 

Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  looking  over 
Piranesi's  Antiquities  of  Rome,  Mr.  Coleridge, 
who  was  standing  by,  described  to  me  a  set 
of  plates  by  that  artist,  called  his  Dreams,  and 
which  record  the  scenery  of  his  own  visions 
during  the  delirium  of  a  fever.  Some  of  them 
(I  describe  only  from  mtmovy  of  Mr.  Coleridge's 
account)  represented  vast  Gothic  halls;  on  the 
floor  of  which  stood  all  sorts  of  engines  and 
machiner)',  wheels,  cables,  pulleys,  levers, 
catapults,  etc.,  expressive  of  enormous  power 
put  forth,  and  resistance  overcome.  Creeping 
along  the  sides  of  the  walls,  you  perceived  a 
staircase;  and  upon  it,  groping  his  way  up- 
wards, was  Piranesi  himself.  Follow  the  stairs 
a  little  further,  and  you  perceive  it  to  come  to 
a  sudden,  abrupt  termination,  without  any  bal- 
ustrade, and  allowing  no  step  onwards  to  him 
who  had  reached  the  extremity,  except  into  the 
depths  below.  Whatever  is  to  become  of  poor 
Piranesi,  you  suppose,  at  least,  that  his  labours 
must  in  some  way  terminate  here.  But  raise 
your  eyes,  and  behold  a  second  flight  of  stairs 
still  higher;  on  which  again  Piranesi  is  per- 
ceived, by  this  time  standing  on  the  very  brink 
of  the  abyss.  Again  elevate  your  eye,  and  a 
still  more  aerial  flight  of  stairs  is  beheld;  and 
again  is  poor  Piranesi  busy  on  his  aspiring 
labours;  and  so  on,  until  the  unfinished  stairs 
and  Piranesi  both  are  lost  in  the  upper  gloom 
of  the  hall.  With  the  same  power  of  endless 
growth  and  self-reproduction  did  my  archi- 
tecture proceed  in  dreams.  In  the  early  stage 
of  my  malady,  the  splendours  of  my  dreams 
were  indeed  chiefly  architectural;  and  I  be- 
held such  pomp  of  cities  and  palaces  as  was 
never  yet  beheld  by  the  waking  eye,  unless  in 
the  clouds.  From  a  great  modem  poet  I  cite 
the  part  of  a  passage  which  describes,  as  an 
appearance  actually  beheld  in  the  clouds,  what 
in  many  of  its  circumstances  I  saw  frequently 
in  sleep: 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN   ENGLISH    OPIUM-EATER 


3^3 


The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city  —  boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth. 
Far  sinking  into  splendour  —  without  end  ! 
Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond,  and  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes  and  silver  spires, 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uphfted;  here,  serene  pavihons  bright. 
In  avenues  disposed;   there  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars  —  illumination  of  all  gems  ! 
By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified;   on  them,  and  on  the  coves. 
And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapours  had  receded  —  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky,  etc.,  etc. 

The  sublime  circumstance  —  "battlements 
that  on  their  restless  fronts  bore  stars"  — 
might  have  been  copied  from  my  architectu- 
ral dreams,  for  it  often  occurred.  We  hear  it 
reported  of  Dryden,  and  of  Fuselli  in  modern 
times,  that  they  thought  proper  to  eat  raw 
meat  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  splendid  dreams: 
how  much  better,  for  such  a  purpose,  to  have 
eaten  opium,  which  yet  I  do  not  remember 
that  any  poet  is  recorded  to  have  done,  except 
the  dramatist  Shadwell;  and  in  ancient  days. 
Homer  is,  I  think,  rightly  reputed  to  have 
known  the  virtues  of  opium.   . 

To  my  architecture  succeeded  dreams  of 
lakes,  and  silvery  expanses  of  water:  these 
haunted  me  so  much,  that  I  feared  (though 
possibly  it  will  appear  ludicrous  to  a  medical 
man)  that  some  dropsical  state  or  tendency  of 
the  brain  might  thus  be  making  itself  (to  use  a 
metaphysical  word)  objective,  and  the  sentient 
organ  project  itself  as  its  own  object.  For  two 
months  I  suffered  greatly  in  my  head  —  a  part 
of  my  bodily  structure  which  had  hitherto  been 
so  clear  from  all  touch  or  taint  of  weakness 
(physically,  I  mean),  that  I  used  to  say  of  it, 
as  the  last  Lord  Orford  said  of  his  stomach, 
that  it  seemed  likely  to  survive  the  rest  of 
my  person.  Till  now  I  had  never  felt  a  head- 
ache even,  or  any  the  slightest  pain,  except 
rheumatic  pains  caused  by  my  own  folly. 
However,  I  got  over  this  attack,  though  it 
must  have  been  verging  on  something  very 
dangerous. 

The  waters  now  changed  their  character,  — 
from  translucent  lakes,  shining  like  mirrors, 
they  now  became  seas  and  oceans.  And  now 
came  a  tremendous  change,  which,  unfolding 
itself  slowly  like  a  scroll,  through  many  months, 
promised  an  abiding  torment;   and,  in  fact,  it 


never  left  me  until  the  winding  up  of  my  case. 
Hitherto  the  human  face  had  often  mixed  in 
my  dreams,  but  not  despotically,  nor  with  any 
special  power  of  tormenting.  But  now  that 
which  I  have  called  the  tyranny  of  the  human 
face,  began  to  unfold  itself.  Perhaps  some 
part  of  my  London  life  might  be  answerable 
for  this.  Be  that  as  it  may,  now  it  was  that 
upon  the  rocking  waters  of  the  ocean  the 
human  face  began  to  appear;  the  sea  appeared 
paved  with  innumerable  faces,  upturned  to  the 
heavens;  faces,  imploring,  wrathful,  despair- 
ing, surged  upwards  by  thousands,  by  myriads, 
by  generations,  by  centuries :  my  agitation  was 
infinite,  my  mind  tossed  and  surged  with  the 
ocean. 

May,  1818.  —  The  Malay  has  been  a  fear- 
ful enemy  for  months.  I  have  been  every 
night,  through  his  means,  transported  into 
Asiatic  scenes.  I  know  not  whether  others 
share  in  my  feelings  on  this  point;  but  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  I  were  compelled  to 
forego  England,  and  to  live  in  China,  and 
among  Chinese  manners  and  modes  of  life 
and  scenery,  I  should  go  mad.  The  causes 
of  my  horror  lie  deep,  and  some  of  them  must 
be  common  to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in 
general,  is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  asso- 
ciations. As  the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  it 
would  alone  have  a  dim  and  reverential  feel- 
ing connected  with  it.  But  there  are  other 
reasons.  No  man  can  pretend  that  the  wild, 
barbarous,  and  capricious  superstitions  of 
Africa,  or  of  savage  tribes  elsewhere,  affect 
him  in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the 
ancient,  monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate 
religions  of  Indostan,  etc.  The  mere  antiq- 
uity of  Asiatic  things,  of  their  institutions, 
histories,  modes  of  faith,  etc.,  is  so  impres- 
sive, that  to  me  the  vast  age  of  the  race  and 
name  overpowers  the  sense  of  youth  in  the 
individual.  A  young  Chinese  seems  to  me 
an  antediluvian  man  renewed.  Even  English- 
men, though  not  bred  in  any  knowledge  of 
such  institutions,  cannot  but  shudder  at  the 
mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  have  tiowed 
apart,  and  refused  to  mLx,  through  such  im- 
memorial tracts  of  time;  nor  can  any  man 
fail  to  be  awed  by  the  names  of  the  Ganges, 
or  the  Euphrates.  It  contributes  much  to 
these  feelings,  that  Southern  Asia  is,  and  has 
been  for  thousands  of  years,  the  part  of  the 
earth  most  swarming  with  human  life,  the 
great  officina  gentium.  Man  is  a  weed  in 
those  regions.  The  vast  empires,  also,  into 
which  the  enormous  population  of  Asia  has 


3^4 


THOMAS    DE    QUINCE Y 


always  been  cast,  give  a  further  sublimity  to 
the  feelings  associated  with  all  oriental  names 
or  images.  In  China,  over  and  above  what  it 
has  in  common  with  the  rest  of  Southern 
Asia,  I  am  terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by 
the  manners,  and  the  barrier  of  utter  abhor- 
rence, and  want  of  sympathy,  placed  between 
us  by  feelings  deeper  than  I  can  analyse.  I 
could  sooner  live  with  lunatics,  or  brute 
animals.  All  this,  and  much  more  than  I 
can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  must 
enter  into,  before  he  can  comprehend  the 
unimaginable  horror  which  these  dreams  of 
oriental  imagery,  and  mythological  tortures, 
impressed  upon  me.  Under  the  connecting 
feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights, 
I  brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts, 
reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and  ap- 
pearances, that  are  found  in  all  tropical 
regions,  and  assembled  them  together  in  China 
or  Indostan.  From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon 
brought  Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under  the 
same  law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned 
at,  chattered  at,  by  monkeys,  by  paroquets, 
by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pagodas,  and  was 
fixed,  for  centuries,  at  the  summit,  or  in  secret 
rooms:  I  was  the  idol;  I  was  the  priest;  I 
was  worshipped;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled 
from  the  wrath  of  Brama  through  all  the 
forests  of  Asia:  Vishnu  hated  me;  Seeva  laid 
wait  for  me.  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and 
Osiris:  I  had  done  a  deed,  they  said,  which 
the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled  at.  I  was 
buried,  for  a  thousand  years,  in  stone  coffins, 
with  mummies  and  sphin.xes,  in  narrow  cham- 
bers at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was 
kissed,  with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles;  and 
laid,  confounded  with  all  unutterable  slimy 
things,  amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic  mud. 

I  thus  give  the  reader  some  slight  abstrac- 
tion of  my  oriental  dreams,  which  always 
filled  me  with  such  amazement  at  the  mon- 
strous scenery,  that  horror  seemed  absorbed, 
for  a  while,  in  sheer  astonishment.  Sooner  or 
later  came  a  reflux  of  feeling  that  swallowed 
up  the  astonishment,  and  left  me,  not  so 
much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomination 
of  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and  threat, 
and  punishment,  and  dim  sightless  incarcera- 
tion, brooded  a  sense  of  eternity  and  infinity 
that  drove  me  into  an  oppression  as  of  mad- 
ness. Into  these  dreams  only,  it  was,  with 
one  or  two  slight  exceptions,  that  any  circum- 
stances of  physical  horror  entered.  All  before 
had  been  moral  and  spiritual  terrors.  But 
here   the   main   agents   were    ugly    birds,    or 


snakes,  or  crocodiles,  especially  the  last.  The 
cursed  crocodile  became  to  me  the  object  of 
more  horror  than  almost  all  the  rest.  I  was 
compelled  to  live  with  him;  and  (as  was 
always  the  case,  almost,  in  my  dreams)  for 
centuries.  I  escaped  sometimes,  and  found 
myself  in  Chinese  houses  with  cane  tables,  etc. 
All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon 
became  instinct  with  life:  the  abominable 
head  of  the  crocodile,  and  his  leering  eyes, 
looked  out  at  me,  multiplied  into  a  thousand 
repetitions;  and  I  stood  loathing  and  fasci- 
nated. And  so  often  did  this  hideous  reptile 
haunt  my  dreams,  that  many  times  the  very 
same  dream  was  broken  up  in  the  very  same 
way:  I  heard  gentle  voices  speaking  to  me 
(I  hear  everything  when  I  am  sleeping),  and 
instantly  I  awoke:  it  was  broad  noon,  and 
my  children  were  standing,  hand  in  hand,  at 
my  bedside ;  come  to  show  me  their  coloured 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them 
dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest  that  so  awful 
was  the  transition  from  the  damned  crocodile, 
and  the  other  unutterable  monsters  and  abor- 
tions of  my  dreams,  to  the  sight  of  innocent 
human  natures  and  of  infancy,  that,  in  the 
mighty  and  sudden  revulsion  of  mind,  I  wept, 
and  could  not  forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their 
faces. 

June,  1819.  —  I  have  had  occasion  to  re- 
mark, at  various  periods  of  my  life,  that  the 
deaths  of  those  whom  we  love,  and,  indeed, 
the  contemplation  of  death  generally,  is  {caeteris 
paribus)  more  affecting  in  summer  than  in  any 
other  season  of  the  year.  And  the  reasons  are 
these  three,  I  think:  first,  that  the  visible 
heavens  in  summer  appear  far  higher,  more 
distant,  and  (if  such  a  solecism  may  be  ex- 
cused) more  infinite;  the  clouds  by  which 
chiefly  the  eye  expounds  the  distance  of  the  blue 
pavilion  stretched  over  our  heads  are  in  sum- 
mer more  voluminous,  more  massed,  and  accu- 
mulated in  far  grander  and  more  towering  piles : 
secondly,  the  light  and  the  appearances  of  the 
declining  and  the  setting  sun  are  much  more 
fitted  to  be  types  and  characters  of  the  infinite : 
and,  thirdly  (which  is  the  main  reason),  the 
exuberant  and  riotous  prodigality  of  life 
naturally  forces  the  mind  more  powerfully 
upon  the  antagonist  thought  of  death,  and  the 
wintry  sterility  of  the  grave.  For  it  may  be 
observed,  generally,  that  wherever  two  thoughts 
stand  related  to  each  other  by  a  law  of  an- 
tagonism, and  exist,  as  it  were,  by  mutual 
repulsion,  they  are  apt  to  suggest  each  other. 
On  these  accounts  it  is  that  I  find  it  impossible 


CONFESSIONS    OF    AN    ENGLISH    OPIUM-EATER 


365 


to  banish  the  thought  of  death  when  I  am 
walking  alone  in  the  endless  days  of  summer; 
and  any  particular  death,  if  not  more  affecting, 
at  least  haunts  my  mind  more  obstinately  and 
besiegingly,  in  that  season.  Perhaps  this 
cause,  and  a  slight  incident  which  I  omit, 
might  have  been  the  immediate  occasions  of 
the  following  dream,  to  which,  however,  a  pre- 
disposition must  always  have  existed  in  my 
mind;  but  having  been  once  roused,  it  never 
left  me,  and  split  into  a  thousand  fantastic 
varieties,  which  often  suddenly  reunited,  and 
composed  again  the  original  dream. 

I  thought  that  it  was  a  Sunday  morning  in 
May;  that  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  as  yet 
very  early  in  the  morning.  I  was  standing, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  door  of  my  own 
cottage.  Right  before  me  lay  the  very  scene 
which  could  really  be  commanded  from  that 
situation,  but  exalted,  as  was  usual,  and 
solemnised  by  the  power  of  dreams.  There 
were  the  same  mountains,  and  the  same  lovely 
valley  at  their  feet;  but  the  mountains  were 
raised  to  more  than  Alpine  height,  and  there 
was  interspace  far  larger  between  them  of 
meadows  and  forest  lawns;  the  hedges  were 
rich  with  white  roses;  and  no  living  creature 
was  to  be  seen,  excepting  that  in  the  green 
church -yard  there  were  cattle  tranquilly  repos- 
ing upon  the  verdant  graves,  and  particularly 
round  about  the  grave  of  a  child  whom  I  had 
tenderly  loved,  just  as  I  had  really  beheld 
them,  a  little  before  sunrise,  in  the  same 
summer,  when  that  child  died.  I  gazed  upon 
the  well-known  scene,  and  I  said  aloud  (as  I 
thought)  to  myself,  "It  yet  wants  much  of 
sunrise;  and  it  is  Easter  Sunday;  and  that  is 
the  day  on  which  they  celebrate  the  first  fruits 
of  resurrection.  I  will  walk  abroad;  old 
griefs  shall  be  forgotten  to-day;  for  the  air 
is  cool  and  .still,  and  the  hills  are  high,  and 
stretch  away  to  heaven;  and  the  forest  glades 
are  as  quiet  as  the  church -yard;  and  with  the 
dew  I  can  wash  the  fever  from  my  forehead, 
and  then  I  shall  be  unhappy  no  longer."  And 
I  turned,  as  if  to  open  my  garden  gate;  and 
immediately  I  saw  upon  the  left  a  scene  far 
different;  but  which  yet  the  power  of  dreams 
had  reconciled  into  harmony  with  the  other. 
The  scene  was  an  oriental  one;  and  there  also 
it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  very  early  in  the 
morning.  And  at  a  vast  distance  were  visible, 
as  a  stain  upon  the  horizon,  the  domes  and 
cupolas  of  a  great  city  —  an  image  or  faint 
abstraction,  caught,  perhaps,  in  childhood, 
from  some  picture  of  Jerusalem.     And  not  a 


bow-shot  from  me,  upon  a  stone,  and  shaded 
by  Judean  palms,  there  sat  a  woman;  and  I 
looked,  and  it  was  —  Ann !  She  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  me  earnestly;  and  I  said  to  her, 
at  length,  "So,  then,  I  have  found  you,  at 
last."  I  waited;  but  she  answered  me  not  a 
word.  Her  face  was  the  same  as  when  I  saw 
it  last,  and  yet,  again,  how  different !  Seven- 
teen years  ago,  when  the  lamp-light  fell  upon 
her  face,  as  for  the  last  time  I  kissed  her  lips 
(lips,  Ann,  that  to  me  were  not  polluted  I), 
her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears;  —  her 
tears  were  now  wiped  away;  she  seemed  more 
beautiful  than  she  was  at  that  time,  but  in 
all  other  points  the  same,  and  not  older.  Her 
looks  were  tranquil,  but  with  unusual  solem- 
nity of  expression,  and  I  now  gazed  upon  her 
with  some  awe;  but  suddenly  her  countenance 
grew  dim,  and,  turning  to  the  mountains,  I 
perceived  vapours  rolling  between  us;  in  a 
moment,  all  had  vanished;  thick  darkness 
came  on ;  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I 
was  far  away  from  mountains,  and  by  lamp- 
light in  Oxford-street,  walking  again  with  Ann 

—  just  as  we  walked  seventeen  years  before, 
when  we  were  both  children. 

As  a  final  specimen,  I  cite  one  of  a  different 
character,  from  1820. 

The  dream  commenced  with  a  music  which 
now  I  often  heard  in  dreams  —  a  music  of 
preparation  and  of  awakening  suspense;  a 
music  like  the  opening  of  the  Coronation 
Anthem,  and  which,  like  that,  gave  the  feeling 
of  a  vast  march,  of  infinite  cavalcades  filing 
off,  and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armies. 
The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day  —  a 
day  of  crisis  and  of  final  hope  for  human 
nature,  then  suffering  some  mysterious  eclipse, 
and  labouring  in  some  dread  extremity.  Some- 
where, I  knew  not  where  —  somehow,  I  knew 
not  how  —  by  some  beings,  I  knew  not  whom 

—  a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony,  was  conducting, 

—  was  evolving  like  a  great  drama,  or  piece 
of  music;  with  which  my  sympathy  was  the 
more  insupportable  from  my  confusion  as  to 
its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  possi- 
ble issue.  I,  as  is  usual  in  dreams  (where,  of 
necessity,  we  make  ourselves  central  to  every 
movement),  had  the  power,  and  yet  had  not 
the  power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the  power,  if 
I  could  raise  myself,  to  will  it;  and  yet  again 
had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of  twenty 
Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of 
inexpiable  guilt.  "Deeper  than  ever  plummet 
sounded,"  I  lay  inactive.  Then,  like  a  chorus, 
the  passion  deepened.     Some  greater  interest 


366 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


was  at  stake;  some  mightier  cause  than  ever 
yet  the  sword  had  pleaded,  or  trumpet  had  pro- 
claimed. Then  came  sudden  alarms;  hurry- 
ings  to  and  fro;  trepidations  of  innumerable 
fugitives.  I  knew  not  whether  from  the  good 
cause  or  the  bad ;  darkness  and  lights ;  tempest 
and  human  faces;  and  at  last,  with  the  sense 
that  all  was  lost,  female  forms,  and  the  features 
that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me,  and  but 
a  moment  allowed,  —  and  clasped  hands,  and 
heart-breaking  partings,  and  then  —  everlast- 
ing farewells!  and,  with  a  sigh,  such  as  the 
caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother 
uttered  the  abhorred  name  of  death,  the  sound 
was  reverberated  —  everlasting  farewells !  and 
again,  and  yet  again  reverberated  —  everlast- 
ing farewells! 

And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud 
—  "I  will  sleep  no  more!" 

THOMAS  CARLYLE   (i 795-1881) 

SARTOR   RESARTUS 

CHAPTER  VI 

Sorrows  of  Teufelsdrockh 

We  have  long  felt  that,  with  a  man  like  our 
Professor,  matters  must  often  be  expected  to 
take  a  course  of  their  own;  that  in  so  multi- 
plex, intricate  a  nature,  there  might  be  channels, 
both  for  admitting  and  emitting,  such  as  the 
Psychologist  had  seldom  noted;  in  short,  that 
on  no  grand  occasion  and  convulsion,  neither 
in  the  joy-storm  nor  in  the  woe-storm,  could 
you  predict  his  demeanour. 

To  our  less  philosophical  readers,  for  ex- 
ample, it  is  now  clear  that  the  so  passionate 
Teufelsdrockh,  precipitated  through  "a  shivered 
Universe"  in  this  extraordinary  way,  has  only 
one  of  three  things  which  he  can  next  do: 
Establish  himself  in  Bedlam;  begin  writing 
Satanic  Poetry;  or  blow-out  his  brains.  In 
the  progress  towards  any  of  which  consumma- 
tions, do  not  such  readers  anticipate  extrava- 
gance enough;  breast-beating,  brow-beating 
(against  walls),  lion-bellowings  of  blasphemy 
and  the  like,  stampings,  smitings,  breakages 
of  furniture,  if  not  arson  itself? 

Nowise  so  does  Teufelsdrockh  deport  him. 
He  quietly  lifts  his  Pilgerstab  (Pilgrim-staff), 
"old  business  being  soon  wound-up";  and 
begins  a  perambulation  and  circumambulation 
of  the  terraqueous  Globe!  Curious  it  is,  in- 
deed, how  with  such  vivacity  of  conception, 
such  intensity  of  feeling;   above  all,  with  these 


unconscionable  habits  of  Exaggeration  in 
speech,  he  combines  that  wonderful  stillness 
of  his,  that  stoicism  in  external  procedure. 
Thus,  if  his  sudden  bereavement,  in  this 
matter  of  the  Flower-goddess,  is  talked  of  as 
a  real  Doomsday  and  Dissolution  of  Nature, 
in  which  light  doubtless  it  partly  appeared  to 
himself,  his  own  nature  is  nowise  dissolved 
thereby;  but  rather  is  compressed  closer. 
For  once,  as  we  might  say,  a  Blumine  by 
magic  appliances  has  unlocked  that  shut  heart 
of  his,  and  its  hidden  things  rush-out  tu- 
multuous, boundless,  like  genii  enfranchised 
from  their  glass  phial:  but  no  sooner  are 
your  magic  appliances  withdrawn,  than  the 
strange  casket  of  a  heart  springs-to  again; 
and  perhaps  there  is  now  no  key  extant  that 
will  open  it;  for  a  Teufelsdrockh,  as  we  re- 
marked, will  not  love  a  second  time.  Singular 
Diogenes!  No  sooner  has  that  heart-rending 
occurrence  fairly  taken  place,  than  he  affects 
to  regard  it  as  a  thing  natural,  of  which  there 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  "One  highest 
hope,  seemingly  legible  in  the  eyes  of  an 
Angel,  had  recalled  him  as  out  of  Death- 
shadows  into  celestial  life:  but  a  gleam  of 
Tophet  passed  over  the  face  of  his  Angel; 
he  was  rapt  away  in  whirlwinds,  and  heard 
the  laughter  of  Demons.  It  was  a  Calenture," 
adds  he,  "whereby  the  Youth  saw  green 
Paradise-groves  in  the  waste  Ocean -waters: 
a  lying  vision,  yet  not  wholly  a  lie,  for  he  saw 
it."  But  what  things  soever  passed  in  him, 
when  he  ceased  to  see  it;  what  ragings  and 
despairings  soever  Teufelsdrockh's  soul  was  the 
scene  of,  he  has  the  goodness  to  conceal  under 
a  quite  opaque  cover  of  Silence.  We  know  it 
well;  the  first  mad  paroxysm  past,  our  brave 
Gneschen  collected  his  dismembered  philoso- 
phies, and  buttoned  himself  together;  he  was 
meek,  silent,  or  spoke  of  the  weather  and  the 
Journals:  only  by  a  transient  knitting  of 
those  shaggy  brows,  by  some  deep  flash  of 
those  eyes,  glancing  one  knew  not  whether 
with  tear-dew  or  with  fierce  fire,  —  might  you 
have  guessed  what  a  Gehenna  was  within; 
that  a  whole  Satanic  School  were  spouting, 
though  inaudibly,  there.  To  consume  your 
own  choler,  as  some  chimneys  consume  their 
own  smoke;  to  keep  a  whole  Satanic  School 
spouting,  if  it  must  spout,  inaudibly,  is  a 
negative  yet  no  slight  virtue,  nor  one  of  the 
commonest  in  these  times. 

Nevertheless,  we  will  not  take  upon  us  to 
say,  that  in  the  strange  measure  he  fell  upon, 
there   was   not   a   touch   of   latent    Insanity; 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


367 


whereof  indeed  the  actual  condition  of  these 
Documents  in  Capricornus  and  Aquarius  is  no 
bad  emblem.  His  so  unlimited  Wanderings, 
toilsome  enough,  are  without  assigned  or  per- 
haps assignable  aim;  internal  Unrest  seems 
his  sole  guidance;  he  wanders,  wanders,  as  if 
that  curse  of  the  Prophet  had  fallen  on  him, 
and  he  were  "made  like  unto  awheel."  Doubt- 
less, too,  the  chaotic  nature  of  these  Paper- 
bags  aggravates  our  obscurity.  Quite  without 
note  of  preparation,  for  example,  we  come 
upon  the  following  slip:  "A  peculiar  feeling 
it  is  that  will  rise  in  the  Traveller,  when  turn- 
ing some  hill-range  in  his  desert  road,  he 
descries  lying  far  below,  embosomed  among 
its  groves  and  green  natural  bulwarks,  and  all 
diminished  to  a  toybox,  the  fair  Town,  where 
so  many  souls,  as  it  were  seen  and  yet  unseen, 
are  driving  their  multifarious  traffic.  Its 
white  steeple  is  then  truly  a  starward-pointing 
finger;  the  canopy  of  blue  smoke  seems  like 
a  sort  of  Life-breath:  for  always,  of  its  own 
unity,  the  soul  gives  unity  to  whatsoever  it 
looks  on  with  love;  thus  does  the  little  Dwell- 
ingplace  of  men,  in  itself  a  congeries  of  houses 
and  huts,  become  for  us  an  individual,  almost 
a  person.  But  what  thousand  other  thoughts 
unite  thereto,  if  the  place  has  to  ourselves  been 
the  arena  of  joyous  or  mournful  experiences; 
if  perhaps  the  cradle  we  were  rocked  in  still 
stands  there,  if  our  Loving  ones  still  dwell 
there,  if  our  Buried  ones  there  slumber!" 
Does  Teufelsdrockh,  as  the  wounded  eagle  is 
said  to  make  for  its  own  eyrie,  and  indeed 
military  deserters,  and  all  hunted  outcast 
creatures,  turn  as  if  by  instinct  in  the  direction 
of  their  birth-land,  —  fly  first,  in  this  extremity, 
towards  his  native  Entepfuhl;  but  reflecting 
that  there  no  help  awaits  him,  takes  but  one 
wistful  look  from  the  distance,  and  then  wend 
elsewhither? 

Little  happier  seems  to  be  his  next  flight: 
into  the  wilds  of  Nature;  as  if  in  her  mother- 
bosom  he  would  seek  healing.  So  at  least  we 
incline  to  interpret  the  following  Notice, 
separated  from  the  former  by  some  consider- 
able space,  wherein,  however,  is  nothing  note- 
worthy. 

"Mountains  were  not  new  to  him;  but 
rarely  are  Mountains  seen  in  such  combined 
majesty  and  grace  as  here.  The  rocks  are  of 
that  sort  called  Primitive  by  the  mineralogists, 
which  always  arrange  themselves  in  masses  of 
a  rugged,  gigantic  character;  which  rugged- 
ness,  however,  is  here  tempered  by  a  singular 
airiness  of  form,  and  softness  of  environment: 


in  a  climate  favourable  to  vegetation,  the  gray 
clifi",  itself  covered  with  lichens,  shoots-up 
through  a  garment  of  foliage  or  verdure; 
and  white,  bright  cottages,  tree-shaded,  cluster 
round  the  everlasting  granite.  In  fine  vicissi- 
tude. Beauty  alternates  with  Grandeur:  you 
ride  through  stony  hollows,  along  strait  passes 
traversed  by  torrents,  overhung  by  high  walls 
of  rock;  now  winding  amid  broken  shaggy 
chasms,  and  huge  fragments;  now  suddenly 
emerging  into  some  emerald  valley,  where  the 
streamlet  collects  itself  into  a  Lake,  and  man 
has  again  found  a  fair  dwelling,  and  it  seems 
as  if  Peace  had  established  herself  in  the 
bosom  of  Strength. 

"To  Peace,  however,  in  this  vortex  of  exist- 
ence, can  the  Son  of  Time  not  pretend:  still 
less  if  some  Spectre  haunt  him  from  the  Past; 
and  the  Future  is  wholly  a  Stygian  darkness, 
spectre-bearing.  Reasonably  might  the  Wan- 
derer exclaim  to  himself:  Are  not  the  gates  of 
this  world's  Happiness  inexorably  shut  against 
thee;  hast  thou  a  hope  that  is  not  mad? 
Nevertheless,  one  may  still  murmur  audibly, 
or  in  the  original  Greek  if  that  suit  thee' better: 
'Whoso  can  look  on  Death  will  start  at  no 
shadows.' 

"From  such  meditations  is  the  Wanderer's 
attention  called  outwards;  for  now  the  Valley 
closes-in  abruptly,  intersected  by  a  huge  moun- 
tain mass,  the  stony  water-worn  ascent  of 
which  is  not  to  be  accomplished  on  horseback. 
Arrived  aloft,  he  finds  himself  again  lifted  into 
the  evening  sunset  light;  and  cannot  but 
pause,  and  gaze  round  him,  some  moments 
there.  An  upland  irregular  expanse  of  wold, 
where  valleys  in  complex  branchings  are  sud- 
denly or  slowly  arranging  their  descent  towards 
every  quarter  of  the  sky.  The  mountain - 
ranges  are  beneath  your  feet,  and  folded 
together:  only  the  loftier  summits  look  down 
here  and  there  as  on  a  second  plain;  lakes 
also  lie  clear  and  earnest  in  their  solitude. 
No  trace  of  man  now  visible ;  unless  indeed  it 
were  he  who  fashioned  that  little  visible  link 
of  Highway,  here,  as  would  seem,  scaling  the 
inaccessible,  to  unite  Province  with  Province. 
But  sunwards,  lo  you !  how  it  towers  sheer 
up,  a  world  of  Mountains,  the  diadem  and 
centre  of  the  mountain  region !  A  hundred 
and  a  hundred  savage  peaks,  in  the  last  light 
of  Day;  all  glowing,  of  gold  and  amethyst, 
like  giant  spirits  of  the  wilderness;  there  in 
their  silence,  in  their  solitude,  even  as  on  the 
night  when  Noah's  Deluge  first  dried !  Beauti- 
ful, nay  solemn,  was  the  sudden  aspect  to  our 


!68 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


Wanderer.  He  gazed  over  those  stupendous 
masses  with  wonder,  almost  with  longing 
desire;  never  till  this  hour  had  he  known 
Nature,  that  she  was  One,  that  she  was  his 
Mother  and  divine.  And  as  the  ruddy  glow 
was  fading  into  clearness  in  the  sky,  and  the 
Sun  had  now  departed,  a  murmur  of  Eternity 
and  Immensity,  of  Death  and  of  Life,  stole 
through  his  soul ;  and  he  felt  as  if  Death  and 
Life  were  one,  as  if  the  Earth  were  not  dead, 
as  if  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  had  its  throne  in 
that  splendour,  and  his  own  spirit  were  there- 
with holding  communion. 

"The  spell  was  broken  by  a  sound  of  car- 
riage-wheels. Emerging  from  the  hidden 
Northward,  to  sink  soon  into  the  hidden 
Southward,  came  a  gay  Barouche-and-four: 
it  was  open;  servants  and  postillions  wore 
wedding-favours:  that  happy  pair,  then,  had 
found  each  other,  it  was  their  marriage  even- 
ing!    Few  moments  brought  them  near:    Dh 

Hirnmcl !     It  was  Herr  Towgood  and Blu- 

mine!  With  slight  unrecognising  salutation 
they  passed  me;  plunged  down  amid  the  neigh- 
bouring thickets,  onwards,  to  Heaven,  and  to 
England;  and  I,  in  my  friend  Richter's  words, 
I  remained  alone,  behind  them,  with  the  Night." 

Were  it  not  cruel  in  these  circumstances, 
here  might  be  the  place  to  insert  an  observa- 
tion, gleaned  long  ago  from  the  great  Clothes- 
Volume,  where  it  stands  with  quite  other 
intent:  "Some  time  before  Small-pox  was  ex- 
tirpated," says  the  Professor,  "there  came  a 
new  malady  of  the  spiritual  sort  on  Europe: 
I  mean  the  epidemic,  now  endemical,  of  View- 
hunting.  Poets  of  old  date,  being  privileged 
with  Senses,  had  also  enjoyed  external  Nature ; 
but  chiefly  as  we  enjoy  the  crystal  cup  which 
holds  good  or  bad  licjuor  for  us;  that  is  to 
say,  in  silence,  or  with  slight  incidental  com- 
mentary: never,  as  I  compute,  till  after  the 
Sorrows  of  Werter,  was  there  man  found  who 
would  say:  Come  let  us  make  a  Description! 
Having  drunk  the  liquor,  come  let  us  eat  the 
glass!  Of  which  endemic  the  Jenner  is  un- 
happily still  to  seek."     Too  true! 

We  reckon  it  more  important  to  remark 
that  the  Professor's  Wanderings,  so  far  as  his 
stoical  and  cynical  envelopment  admits  us  to 
clear  insight,  here  first  take  their  permanent 
character,  fatuous  or  not.  That  Basilisk- 
glance  of  the  Barouche-and-four  seems  to  have 
withered -up  what  little  remnant  of  a  purpose 
may  have  still  lurked  in  him :  Life  has  become 
wholly  a  dark  labyrinth;  wherein,  through 
long  years,  our  Friend,  flying  from  spectres, 


has  to  stumble  about  at  random,  and  naturally 
with  more  haste  than  progress. 

Foolish  were  it  in  us  to  attempt  following 
him,  even  from  afar,  in  this  extraordinary 
world-pilgrimage  of  his;  the  simplest  record 
of  which,  were  clear  record  possible,  would  fill 
volumes.  Hopeless  is  the  obscurity,  unspeak- 
able the  confusion.  He  glides  from  country 
to  country,  from  condition  to  condition ;  vanish- 
ing and  reappearing,  no  man  can  calculate 
how  or  where.  Through  all  quarters  of  the 
world  he  wanders,  and  apparently  through  all 
circles  of  society.  If  in  any  scene,  perhaps 
difticult  to  fix  geographically,  he  settles  for  a 
time,  and  forms  connections,  be  sure  he  will 
snap  them  abruptly  asunder.  Let  him  sink 
out  of  sight  as  Private  Scholar  (Privatisirender) , 
living  by  the  grace  of  God,  in  some  European 
capital,  you  may  next  find  him  as  Hadjee  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Mecca.  It  is  an  inex- 
plicable Phantasmagoria,  capricious,  quick- 
changing;  as  if  our  Traveller,  instead  of  limbs 
and  highways,  had  transported  himself  by  some 
wishing-carpet,  or  Fortunatus'  Hat.  The 
whole,  too,  imparted  emblematically,  in  dim 
multifarious  tokens  (as  that  collection  of 
Street-Advertisements) ;  with  only  some  touch 
of  direct  historical  notice  sparingly  interspersed : 
little  light-islets  in  the  world  of  haze !  So  that, 
from  this  point,  the  Professor  is  more  of  an 
enigma  than  ever.  In  figurative  language,  we 
might  say  he  becomes,  not  indeed  a  spirit,  yet 
spiritualised,  vapourised.  Fact  unparalleled 
in  Biography:  The  river  of  his  History,  which 
we  have  traced  from  its  tiniest  fountains,  and 
hoped  to  see  flow  onward,  with  increasing 
current,  into  the  ocean,  here  dashes  itself 
over  that  terrific  Lover's  Leap;  and,  as  a 
mad-foaming  cataract,  flies  wholly  into  tu- 
multuous clouds  of  spray!  Low  down  it  in- 
deed collects  again  into  pools  and  plashes; 
yet  only  at  a  great  distance,  and  with  difficulty, 
if  at  all,  into  a  general  stream.  To  cast  a 
glance  into  certain  of  those  pools  and  plashes, 
and  trace  whither  they  run,  must,  for  a  chap- 
ter or  two,  form  the  limit  of  our  endeavour. 

For  which  end  doubtless  those  direct  his- 
torical Notices,  where  they  can  be  met  with, 
are  the  best.  Nevertheless,  of  this  sort  too 
there  occurs  much,  which,  with  our  present 
light,  it  were  questionable  to  emit.  Teufels- 
drockh,  vibrating  ever}'where  between  the  high- 
est and  the  lowest  levels,  comes  into  con- 
tact with  public  History  itself.  For  example, 
those  conversations  and  relations  with  illus- 
trious Persons,  as  Sultan  Mahmoud,  the  Em- 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


369 


peror  Napoleon,  and  others,  are  they  not  as 
yet  rather  of  a  diplomatic  character  than  of 
a  biographic?  The  Editor,  appreciating  the 
sacredness  of  crowned  heads,  nay  perhaps  sus- 
pecting the  possible  trickeries  of  a  Clothes- 
Philosopher,  will  eschew  this  province  for  the 
present;  a  new  time  may  bring  new  insight 
and  a  different  duiy. 

If  we  ask  now,  not  indeed  with  what  ulterior 
Purpose,  for  there  was  none,  yet  with  what 
immediate  outlooks;  at  all  events,  in  what 
mood  of  mind,  the  Professor  undertook  and 
prosecuted  this  world-pilgrimage,  —  the  an- 
swer is  more  distinct  than  favourable.  "A 
nameless  Unrest,"  says  he,  "urged  me  for- 
ward; to  which  the  outward  motion  was  some 
momentary  lying  solace.  Whither  should  I 
go?  My  Loadstars  were  blotted  out;  in  that 
canopy  of  grim  fire  shone  no  star.  Yet  for- 
ward must  I;  the  ground  burnt  under  me; 
there  was  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  my  foot.  I 
was  alone,  alone !  Ever  too  the  strong  inward 
longing  shaped  Fantasms  for  itself:  towards 
these,  one  after  the  other,  must  I  fruitlessly 
wander.  A  feeling  I  had,  that  for  my  fever- 
thirst  there  was  and  must  be  somewhere  a 
healing  Fountain.  To  many  fondly  imagined 
Fountains,  the  Saints'  Wells  of  these  days, 
did  I  pilgrim;  to  great  Men,  to  great  Cities, 
to  great  Events:  but  found  there  no  healing. 
In  strange  countries,  as  in  the  well-known; 
in  savage  deserts,  as  in  the  press  of  corrupt 
civilisation,  it  was  ever  the  same:  how  could 
your  Wanderer  escape  from  —  his  own 
Shadow?  Nevertheless  still  Forward!  I  felt 
as  if  in  great  haste;  to  do  I  saw  not  what. 
From  the  depths  of  my  own  heart,  it  called  to 
me.  Forwards!  The  winds  and  the  streams, 
and  all  Nature  sounded  to  me,  Forwards! 
Ach  Gott,  I  was  even,  once  for  all,  a  Son  of 
Time." 

From  which  is  it  not  clear  that  the  internal 
Satanic  School  was  still  active  enough  ?  He 
says  elsewhere:  "The  Enchiridion  of  Epicte- 
tiis  I  had  ever  with  me,  often  as  my  sole  rational 
companion;  and  regret  to  mention  that  the 
nourishment  it  yielded  was  trifling."  Thou 
foolish  Teufelsdrockh !  How  could  it  else? 
Hadst  thou  not  Greek  enough  to  understand 
thus  much:  The  end  of  Man  is  an  Action, 
and  not  a  Thought,  though  it  were  the  noblest  ? 

"How  I  lived?"  writes  he  once:  "Friend, 
hast  thou  considered  the  'rugged  all-nourishing 
Earth,'  as  Sophocles  well  names  her;  how  she 
feeds  the  sparrow  on  the  house-top,  much 
more  her  darling,  man?     While  thou  stirrcst 


and  livest,  thou  hast  a  probability  of  victual. 
My  breakfast  of  tea  has  been  cooked  by  a 
Tartar  woman,  with  water  of  the  Amur,  who 
wiped  her  earthen  kettle  with  a  horse-tail.  I 
have  roasted  wild-eggs  in  the  sand  of  Sahara; 
I  have  awakened  in  Paris  Eslrapades  and 
Vienna  Malzkins,  with  no  prospect  of  break- 
fast beyond  elemental  liquid.  That  I  had  my 
Living  to  seek  saved  me  from  Dying,  —  by 
suicide.  In  our  busy  Europe,  is  there  not  an 
everlasting  demand  for  Intellect,  in  the  chemi- 
cal, mechanical,  political,  religious,  educational, 
commercial  departments  ?  In  Pagan  countries, 
cannot  one  write  Fetiches?  Living!  Little 
knowest  thou  what  alchemy  is  in  an  inventive 
Soul;  how,  as  with  its  little  finger,  it  can 
create  provision  enough  for  the  body  (of  a 
Philosopher);  and  then,  as  with  both  hands, 
create  quite  other  than  provision;  namely, 
spectres  to  torment  itself  withal." 

Poor  Teufelsdrockh !  Flying  with  Hunger 
always  parallel  to  him;  and  a  whole  Infernal 
Chase  in  his  rear;  so  that  the  countenance 
of  Hunger  is  comparatively  a  friend's !  Thus 
must  he,  in  the  temper  of  ancient  Cain,  or  of 
the  modern  Wandering  Jew,  —  save  only  that 
he  feels  himself  not  guilty  and  but  suffering 
the  pains  of  guilt,  —  wend  to  and  fro  with 
aimless  speed.  Thus  must  he,  over  the  whole 
surface  of  the  earth  (by  foot-prints),  write  his 
Sorrows  of  Teufelsdrockh;  even  as  the  great 
Goethe,  in  passionate  words,  had  to  write  his 
Sorrows  of  Werler,  before  the  spirit  freed  her- 
self, and  he  could  become  a  Man.  Vain  truly 
is  the  hope  of  your  swiftest  Runner  to  escape 
"from  his  own  Shadow!"  Nevertheless,  in 
these  sick  days,  when  the  Born  of  Heaven  first 
descries  himself  (about  the  age  of  twenty)  in  a 
world  such  as  ours,  richer  than  usual  in  two 
things,  in  Truths  grown  obsolete,  and  Trades 
grown  obsolete,  — •  what  can  the  fool  think  but 
that  it  is  all  a  Den  of  Lies,  wherein  whoso  will 
not  speak  Lies  and  act  Lies,  must  stand  idle 
and  despair?  Whereby  it  happens  that,  for 
your  nobler  minds  the  publisliing  of  some 
such  Work  of  .Art,  in  one  or  the  other  dialect, 
becomes  almost  a  necessity.  For  what  is  it 
properly  but  an  Altercation  with  the  Devil, 
before  you  begin  honestly  Fighting  him  ? 
Your  Byron  publishes  his  Sorrows  of  Lord 
George,  in  verse  and  in  prose,  and  copiously 
otherwise:  your  Bonaparte  repre.sents  his  Sor- 
rows of  Napoleon  Opera,  in  ail-too  stupendous 
style;  with  music  of  cannon -volleys,  and  mur 
der-shrieks  of  a  world;  his  stage-lights  are  the 
fires  of  Conflagration ;  his  rhyme  and  recitative 


370 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


are  the  tramp  of  embattled  Hosts  and  the  sound 
of  falling  Cities.  —  Happier  is  he  who,  like 
our  Clothes-Philosopher,  can  write  such  mat- 
ter, since  it  must  be  written,  on  the  insensi- 
ble Earth,  with  his  shoe-soles  only;  and  also 
survive  the  writing  thereof! 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Everlasting  No 

Under  the  strange  nebulous  envelopment, 
wherein  our  Professor  has  now  shrouded  him- 
self, no  doubt  but  his  spiritual  nature  is  nev- 
ertheless progressive,  and  growing:  for  how 
can  the  "Son  of  Time,"  in  any  case,  stand 
still?  We  behold  him,  through  those  dim 
years,  in  a  state  of  crisis,  of  transition:  his 
mad  Pilgrimings,  and  general  solution  into 
aimless  Discontinuity,  what  is  all  this  but  a 
mad  Fermentation;  wherefrom,  the  fiercer  it 
is,  the  clearer  product  will  one  day  evolve 
itself? 

Such  transitions  are  ever  full  of  pain:  thus 
the  Eagle  when  he  moults  is  sickly;  and,  to 
attain  his  new  beak,  must  harshly  dash-off 
the  old  one  upon  rocks.  What  Stoicism  soever 
our  Wanderer,  in  his  individual  acts  and 
motions,  may  affect,  it  is  clear  that  there  is  a 
hot  fever  of  anarchy  and  misery  raving  within; 
coruscations  of  which  flash  out:  as,  indeed, 
how  could  there  be  other?  Have  we  not 
seen  him  disappointed,  bemocked  of  Destiny, 
through  long  years?  All  that  the  young  heart 
might  desire  and  pray  for  has  been  denied; 
nay,  as  in  the  last  worst  instance,  offered 
and  then  snatched  away.  Ever  an  "excellent 
Passivity";  but  of  useful,  reasonable  Activity, 
essential  to  the  former  as  Food  to  Hunger, 
nothing  granted:  till  at  length,  in  this  wild 
Pilgrimage,  he  must  forcibly  seize  for  himself 
an  Activity,  though  useless,  unreasonable. 
Alas,  his  cup  of  bitterness,  which  had  been 
filling  drop  by  drop,  ever  since  the  first  "ruddy 
morning"  in  the  Hinterschlag  Gymnasium,  was 
at  the  very  lip;  and  then  with  that  poison- 
drop,  of  the  Towgood-and-Blumine  business, 
it  runs  over,  and  even  hisses  over  in  a  deluge  of 
foam. 

He  himself  says  once,  with  more  justice 
than  originality:  "Man  is,  properly  speaking, 
based  upon  Hope,  he  has  no  other  possession 
but  Hope;  this  world  of  his  is  emphatically 
the  Place  of  Hope."  What  then  was  our  Pro- 
fessor's possession?  We  see  him,  for  the 
present,    quite  shut-out  from   Hope;    looking 


not  into  the  golden  orient,  but  vaguely  all 
around  into  a  dim  copper  firmament,  pregnant 
with  earthquake  and  tornado. 

Alas,  shut-out  from  Hope,  in  a  deeper  sense 
than  we  yet  dream  of!  For,  as  he  wanders 
wearisomely  through  this  world,  he  has  now 
lost  all  tidings  of  another  and  higher.  Full  of 
religion,  or  at  least  of  religiosity,  as  our  Friend 
has  since  exhibited  himself,  he  hides  not 
that,  in  those  days,  he  was  wholly  irreligious: 
"Doubt  had  darkened  into  Unbelief,"  says 
he;  "shade  after  shade  goes  grimly  over  your 
soul,  till  you  have  the  fixed,  starless,  Tartarean 
black."  To  such  readers  as  have  reflected, 
what  can  be  called  reflecting,  on  man's  life, 
and  happily  discovered,  in  contradiction  to 
much  Profit-and-Loss  Philosophy,  speculative 
and  practical,  that  Soul  is  not  synonymous  with 
Stomach;  who  understand,  therefore,  in  our 
Friend's  words,  "that,  for  man's  well-being, 
Faith  is  properly  the  one  thing  needful;  how, 
with  it,  Martyrs,  otherwise  weak,  can  cheer- 
fully endure  the  shame  and  the  cross;  and 
without  it.  Worldlings  puke-up  their  sick 
existence,  by  suicide,  in  the  midst  of  luxury": 
to  such,  it  will  be  clear  that,  for  a  pure  moral 
nature,  the  loss  of  his  religious  Belief  was 
the  loss  of  everything.  Unhappy  young  man ! 
All  wounds,  the  crush  of  long-continued  Des- 
titution, the  stab  of  false  Friendship,  and  of 
false  Love,  all  wounds  in  thy  so  genial  heart, 
would  have  healed  again,  had  not  its  life- 
warmth  been  withdrawn.  Well  might  he  ex- 
claim, in  his  wild  way:  "Is  there  no  God, 
then;  but  at  best  an  absentee  God,  sitting 
idle,  ever  since  the  first  Sabbath,  at  the  out- 
side of  his  Universe,  and  seeing  it  go?  Has 
the  word  Duty  no  meaning;  is  what  we  call 
Duty  no  divine  Messenger  and  Guide,  but  a 
false  earthly  Fantasm,  made-up  of  Desire  and 
Fear,  of  emanations  from  the  Gallows  and 
from  Doctor  Graham's  Celestial  Bed?  Hap- 
piness of  an  approving  Conscience  !  Did  not 
Paul  of  Tarsus,  whom  admiring  men  have 
since  named  Saint,  feel  that  he  was  'the  chief 
of  sinners,'  and  Nero  of  Rome,  jocund  in 
spirit  {Wohlgemuth),  spend  much  of  his  time 
in  fiddling  ?  Foolish  Wordmonger,  and  Motive- 
grinder,  who  in  thy  Logic-mill  hast  an  earthly 
mechanism  for  the  Godlike  itself,  and  wouldst 
fain  grind  me  out  Virtue  from  the  husks  of 
Pleasure,  —  I  tell  thee.  Nay !  To  the  un- 
regenerate  Prometheus  Vinctus  of  a  man,  it  is 
ever  the  bitterest  aggravation  of  his  wretched- 
ness that  he  is  conscious  of  Virtue,  that  he 
feels  himself  the  victim  not  of  suft'ering  only, 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


371 


but  of  injustice.  What  then  ?  Is  the  heroic 
inspiration  we  name  Virtue  but  some  Passion; 
some  bubble  of  the  blood,  bubbling  in  the 
direction  others  profit  by?  I  know  not:  only 
this  I  know,  if  what  thou  namest  Happiness 
be  our  true  aim,  then  are  we  all  astray.  With 
Stupidity  and  sound  digestion  man  may  front 
much.  But  what,  in  these  dull  unimaginative 
days  are  the  terrors  of  Conscience  to  the  dis- 
eases of  the  Liver!  Not  on  Morality,  but  on 
Cookery,  let  us  build  our  stronghold:  there 
brandishing  our  frying-pan,  as  censer,  let  us 
offer  sweet  incense  to  the  Devil,  and  live  at 
ease  on  the  fat  things  he  has  provided  for  his 
Elect!" 

Thus  has  the  bewildered  Wanderer  to  stand, 
as  so  many  have  done,  shouting  question  after 
question  into  the  Sibyl-cave  of  Destiny,  and 
receive  no  Answer  but  an  Echo.  It  is  all  a 
grim  Desert,  this  once-fair  world  of  his; 
wherein  is  heard  only  the  howling  of  wild- 
beasts,  or  the  shrieks  of  despairing,  hate-filled 
men;  and  no  Pillar  of  Cloud  by  day,  and  no 
Pillar  of  Fire  by  night,  any  longer  guides  the 
Pilgrim.  To  such  length  has  the  spirit  of 
Inquiry  carried  him.  "But  what  boots  it 
{was  tJml's)  ?  "  cries  he ;  "  it  is  but  the  common 
lot  in  this  era.  Not  having  come  to  spiritual 
majority  prior  to  the  Siecle  de  Louis  Quinze, 
and  not  being  born  purely  a  Loghead  {Diimm- 
kopf),  thou  hadst  no  other  outlook.  The  whole 
world  is,  like  thee,  sold  to  Unbelief;  their  old 
Temples  of  the  Godhead,  which  for  long  have 
not  been  rainproof,  crumble  down;  and  men 
ask  now:  Where  is  the  Godhead;  our  eyes 
never  saw  him?" 

Pitiful  enough  were  it,  for  all  these  wild 
utterances,  to  call  our  Diogenes  wicked.  Un- 
profitable servants  as  we  all  are,  perhaps  at 
no  era  of  his  life  was  he  more  decisively  the 
Servant  of  Goodness,  the  Servant  of  God, 
than  even  now  when  doubting  God's  existence. 
"One  circumstance  I  note,"  says  he:  "after 
all  the  nameless  woe  that  Inquiry,  which  for 
me,  what  it  is  not  always,  was  genuine  Love 
of  Truth,  had  wrought  me,  I  nevertheless  still 
loved  Truth,  and  would  bate  no  jot  of  my 
allegiance  to  her.  'Truth!'  I  cried,  'though 
the  Heavens  crush  me  for  following  her:  no 
Falsehood !  though  a  whole  celestial  Lubljer- 
land  were  the  price  of  Apostasy.'  In  conduct 
it  was  the  same.  Had  a  divine  Messenger 
from  the  clouds,  or  miraculous  Handwriting 
on  the  wall,  convincingly  proclaimed  to  me 
This  thou  sJialt  do,  with  what  passionate  readi- 
ness, as  I  often  thought,  would  I  have  done  it,  ' 


had  it  been  leaping  into  the  infernal  Fire. 
Thus,  in  spite  of  all  Motive-grinders,  and 
Mechanical  Profit-and-Loss  Philosoj)hies,  with 
the  sick  ophthalmia  and  hallucination  they  had 
brought  on,  was  the  Infinite  nature  of  Duty 
still  dimly  present  to  me:  living  without  God 
in  the  world,  of  God's  light  I  was  not  utterly 
bereft;  if  my  as  yet  sealed  eyes,  with  their 
unspeakable  longing,  could  nowhere  see  Him, 
nevertheless  in  my  heart  He  was  present,  and 
His  heaven-written  Law  still  stood  legible 
and  sacred  there." 

Meanwhile,  under  all  these  tribulations,  and 
temporal  and  spiritual  destitutions,  what  must 
the  Wanderer,  in  his  silent  soul,  have  endured ! 
"The  pa  in  fullest  feeling,"  writes  he,  "is  that 
of  your  own  Feebleness  (Unkraft);  ever  as 
the  English  Milton  says,  to  be  weak  is  the 
true  misery.  And  yet  of  your  Strength  there 
is  and  can  be  no  clear  feeling,  save  by  what 
you  have  prospered  in,  by  what  you  have  done. 
Between  vague  wavering  Capability  and  fixed 
indubitable  Performance,  what  a  difTerence  I 
A  certain  inarticulate  Self-consciousness  dwells 
dimly  in  us;  which  only  our  Works  can  ren- 
der articulate  and  decisively  discernible.  Our 
Works  are  the  mirror  wherein  the  spirit  first 
sees  its  natural  lineaments.  Hence,  too,  the 
folly  of  that  impossible  Precept,  Know  thyself; 
till  it  be  translated  into  this  partially  possible 
one.  Know  what  thou  canst  work  at. 

"But  for  me,  so  strangely  unprosperous  had 
I  been,  the  net-result  of  my  Workings  amounted 
as  yet  simply  to  —  Nothing.  How  then  could 
I  believe  in  my  Strength,  when  there  was  as 
yet  no  mirror  to  see  it  in?  Ever  did  this 
agitating,  yet,  as  I  now  perceive,  quite  frivolous 
question,  remain  to  me  insoluble:  Hast  thou 
a  certain  Faculty,  a  certain  Worth,  such  even 
as  the  most  have  not ;  ctr  art  thou  the  com- 
pletest  Dullard  of  these  modern  times?  Alas! 
the  fearful  Unbelief  is  unbelief  in  yourself; 
and  how  could  I  believe?  Had  not  my  first, 
last  Faith  in  myself,  when  even  to  me  the 
Heavens  seemed  laid  open,  and  I  dared  to 
love,  been  ail-too  cruelly  belied?  The  specu- 
lative ISIystery  of  Life  grew  ever  more  mys- 
terious to  me;  neither  in  the  practical  Myster\' 
had  I  made  the  slightest  progress,  but  been 
everywhere  buffeted,  foiled,  and  contemptuously 
cast  out.  A  feel)Ie  unit  in  the  middle  of  a 
threatening  Infinitude,  I  seemed  to  have  noth- 
ing given  me  but  eyes,  whereby  to  discern  my 
own  wretchedness.  Invisiljle  yet  impenetraljle 
walls,  as  of  Enchantment,  divided  me  from 
all  living:    was  there,  in  the  wide  world,  any 


372 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


true  bosom  I  could  press  trustfully  to  mine? 
O  Heaven,  No,  there  was  none!  I  kept  a 
lock  upon  my  lips:  why  should  I  speak  much 
with  that  shifting  variety  of  so-called  Friends, 
in  whose  withered,  vain  and  too-hungry  souls, 
Friendship  was  but  an  incredible  tradition? 
In  such  cases,  your  resource  is  to  talk  little, 
and  that  little  mostly  from  the  Newspapers. 
Now  when  I  look  back,  it  was  a  strange  iso- 
lation I  then  lived  in.  The  men  and  women 
around  me,  even  speaking  with  me,  were 
but  Figures:  I  had,  practically,  forgotten  that 
they  were  alive,  that  they  were  not  merely 
automatic.  In  the  midst  of  their  crowded 
streets,  and  assemblages,  I  walked  solitary; 
and  (except  as  it  was  my  own  heart,  not  an- 
other's, that  I  kept  devouring)  savage  also,  as 
the  tiger  in  his  jungle.  Some  comfort  it  would 
have  been,  could  I,  like  a  Faust,  have  fancied 
myself  tempted  and  tormented  of  the  Devil; 
for  a  Hell,  as  I  imagine,  without  Life,  though 
only  diabolic  Life,  were  more  frightful:  but 
in  our  age  of  Down-pulling  and  Disbelief,  the 
verj-  Devil  has  been  pulled  down,  you  cannot 
so  much  as  believe  in  a  Devil.  To  me  the 
Universe  was  all  void  of  Life,  of  Purpose,  of 
Volition,  even  of  Hostility:  it  was  one  huge, 
dead,  immeasurable  Steam-engine,  rolling  on, 
in  its  dead  indifference,  to  grind  me  limb  from 
limb.  O,  the  vast  gloomy,  solitar}^  Golgotha, 
and  Mill  of  Death !  Why  was  the  Living 
banished  thither  companionless,  conscious? 
Why,  if  there  is  no  Devil;  nay,  unless  the 
Devil  is  your  God?" 

A  prey  incessantly  to  such  corrosions,  might 
not,  moreover,  as  the  worst  aggravation  to  them, 
the  iron  constitution  even  of  a  Teufelsdrockh 
threaten  to  fail?  We  conjecture  that  he  has 
known  sickness;  and,  in  spite  of  his  locomotive 
habits,  perhaps  sickness  of  the  chronic  sort. 
Hear  this,  for  example:  "How  beautiful  to 
die  of  broken-heart,  on  Paper!  Quite  another 
thing  in  practice;  every  window  of  your  Feel- 
ing, even  of  your  Intellect,  as  it  were,  begrimed 
and  mud-bespattered,  so  that  no  pure  ray  can 
enter;  a  whole  Drugshop  in  your  inwards; 
the  foredone  soul  drowning  slowly  in  quag- 
mires of  Disgust !" 

Putting  all  which  external  and  internal 
miseries  together,  may  we  not  find  in  the 
following  sentences,  quite  in  our  Professor's 
still  vein,  significance  enough?  "From  Sui- 
cides certain  aftershine  {Nachschein)  of  Chris- 
tianity withheld  me:  perhaps  also  a  certain 
indolence  of  character;  for,  was  not  that  a 
remedy  I  had  at  any  time  within  reach  ?     Often, 


however,  was  there  a  question  present  to  me: 
Should  some  one  now,  at  the  turning  of  that 
corner,  blow  thee  suddenly  out  of  Space,  into 
the  other  World,  or  other  No-world,  by  pistol- 
shot,  —  how  were  it  ?  On  which  ground,  too, 
I  have  often,  in  sea-storms  and  sieged  cities 
and  other  death-scenes,  exhibited  an  imper- 
turbability, which  passed,  falsely  enough,  for 
courage." 

"So  had  it  lasted,"  concludes  the  Wanderer, 
"so  had  it  lasted,  as  in  bitter  protracted  Death- 
agony,  through  long  years.  The  heart  within 
me,  unvisited  by  any  heavenly  dewdrop,  was 
smouldering  in  sulphurous,  slow-consuming 
fire.  Almost  since  earliest  memory  I  had  shed 
no  tear;  or  once  only  when  I,  murmuring  half- 
audibly,  recited  Faust's  Deathsong,  that  wild 
Selig  der  den  er  im  Siegesglanze  findet  (Happy 
whom  he  finds  in  Battle's  splendour),  and 
thought  that  of  this  last  Friend  even  I  was  not 
forsaken,  that  Destiny  itself  could  not  doom  me 
not  to  die.  Having  no  hope,  neither  had  I 
any  definite  fear,  were  it  of  Man  or  of  Devil: 
nay,  I  often  felt  as  if  it  might  be  solacing,  could 
the  Arch-Devil  himself,  though  in  Tartarean 
terrors,  but  rise  to  me,  that  I  might  tell  him  a 
little  of  my  mind.  And  yet,  strangely  enough, 
I  lived  in  a  continual,  indefinite,  pining  fear; 
tremulous,  pusillanimous,  apprehensive  of  I 
knew  not  what:  it  seemed  as  if  all  things  in  the 
Heavens  above  and  the  Earth  beneath  would 
hurt  me ;  as  if  the  Heavens  and  the  Earth  were 
but  boundless  jaws  of  a  devouring  monster, 
wherein  I,  palpitating,  waited  to  be  devoured. 

"Full  of  such  humour,  and  perhaps  the  mis- 
erablest  man  in  the  whole  French  Capital  or 
Suburbs,  was  I,  one  sultrj'  Dog-day,  after  much 
perambulation,  toiling  along  the  dirty  little 
Rue  Saint-Thomas  de  VEnfer,  among  civic 
rubbish  enough,  in  a  close  atmosphere,  and 
over  pavements  hot  as  Nebuchadnezzar's 
Furnace;  whereby  doubtless  my  spirits  were 
little  cheered;  when,  all  at  once,  there  rose  a 
Thought  in  me,  and  I  asked  myself:  'What 
art  thou  afraid  of?  Wherefore,  like  a  coward, 
dost  thou  forever  pip  and  whimper,  and  go 
cowering  and  trembling?  Despicable  biped! 
what  is  the  sum-total  of  the  worst  that  lies 
before  thee?  Death?  Well,  Death;  and  say 
the  pangs  of  Tophet  too,  and  all  that  the  Devil 
and  Man  may,  will,  or  can  do  against  thee ! 
Hast  thou  not  a  heart;  canst  thou  not  suffer 
whatsoever  it  be;  and,  as  a  Child  of  Freedom, 
though  outcast,  trample  Tophet  itself  under  thy 
feet,  while  it  consumes  thee?  Let  it  come, 
then ;  I  will  meet  it  and  defy  it ! '     And  as  I  so 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


373 


thought,  there  rushed  like  a  stream  of  fire  over 
my  whole  soul ;  and  I  shook  base  Fear  away 
from  me  forever.  I  was  strong  of  unknown 
strength;  a  spirit,  almost  a  god.  Ever  from 
that  time,  the  temper  of  my  misery  was  changed : 
not  Fear  or  whining  Sorrow  was  it,  but  Indig- 
nation and  grim  fire-eyed  Defiance. 

"Thus  had  the  Everlasting  No  (ilas  cwige 
Nein)  pealed  authoritatively  through  all  the 
recesses  of  my  Being,  of  my  Ale ;  and  then  was 
it  that  my  whole  Me  stood  up,  in  native  God- 
created  majesty,  and  with  emphasis  recorded 
its  Protest.  Such  a  Protest,  the  most  impor- 
tant transaction  in  Life,  may  that  same  Indig- 
nation and  Defiance,  in  a  psychological  point 
of  view,  be  fitly  called.  The  Everlasting  No 
had  said:  'Behold,  thou  art  fatherless,  outcast, 
and  the  Universe  is  mine  (the  Devil's) ' ;  to 
which  my  whole  Me  now  made  answer:  '7  am 
not  thine,  but  Free,  and  forever  hate  thee!' 

"It  is  from  this  hour  that  I  incline  to  date  my 
Spiritual  New-birth,  or  Baphometic  Fire-bap- 
tism; perhaps  I  directly  thereupon  began  to  be 
a  Man." 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Centre  of  Indifference 

Though,  after  this  "Baphometic  Fire-bap- 
tism" of  his,  our  Wanderer  signifies  that  his 
Unrest  was  but  increased;  as,  indeed,  "Indig- 
nation and  Defiance,"  especially  against  things 
in  general,  are  not  the  most  peaceable  inmates; 
yet  can  the  Psychologist  surmise  that  it  was 
no  longer  a  quite  hopeless  Unrest;  that  hence- 
forth it  had  at  least  a  fixed  centre  to  revolve 
round.  For  the  fire-baptised  soul,  long  so 
scathed  and  thunder-riven,  here  feels  its  own 
Freedom,  which  feeling  is  its  Baphometic 
Baptism:  the  citadel  of  its  whole  kingdom 
it  has  thus  gained  by  assault;  and  will  keep 
inexpugnable;  outwards  from  which  the  re- 
maining dominions,  not  indeed  without  hard 
battling,  will  doubtless  by  degrees  be  con- 
quered and  pacificated.  Under  another  figure, 
we  might  say,  if  in  that  great  moment,  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Thomas  de  VEnfcr,  the  old  inward 
Satanic  School  was  not  yet  thrown  out  of  doors, 
it  received  peremptory  judicial  notice  to  quit; 
—  whereby,  for  the  rest,  its  howl-chantings, 
Ernulphus-cursings,  and  rebellious  gnashings 
of  teeth,  might,  in  the  meanwhile,  become  only 
the  more  tumultuous,  and  dithcult  to  keep 
secret. 

Accordingly,  if  we  scrutinise  these  Pilgrim- 
ings  well,  there  is  perhaps  discernible  hence- 


forth a  certain  incipient  method  in  their  mad- 
ness. Not  wholly  as  a  Spectre  does  Teufcls- 
drockh  now  storm  through  the  world;  at  worst 
as  a  spectre-fighting  Man,  nay  who  will  one 
day  be  a  Spectrc-queller.  If  pilgriming  rest- 
lessly to  so  many  "Saints'  Wells,"  and  ever 
without  quenching  of  his  thirst,  he  neverthe- 
less finds  little  secular  wells,  whereby  from 
time  to  time  some  alleviation  is  mini.stcrcd. 
In  a  word,  he  is  now,  if  not  ceasing,  yet  inter- 
mitting to  "eat  his  own  heart";  and  clutches 
round  him  outwardly  on  the  Not-Me  for  whole- 
somer  food.  Does  not  the  following  glimpse 
exhibit  him  in  a  much  more  natural  slate? 

"Towns  also  and  Cities,  especially  the  an- 
cient, I  failed  not  to  look  upon  with  interest. 
How  beautiful  to  see  thereby,  as  through  a  long 
vista,  into  the  remote  Time ;  to  have,  as  it  were, 
an  actual  section  of  almost  the  earliest  Past 
brought  safe  into  the  Present,  and  set  before 
your  eyes !  There,  in  that  old  City,  was  a 
live  ember  of  Culinary  Fire  put  down,  say  only 
two-thousand  years  ago;  and  there,  l)urning 
more  or  less  triumphantly,  with  such  fuel  as 
the  region  yielded,  it  has  burnt,  and  still  burns, 
and  thou  thyself  seest  the  very  smoke  thereof. 
Ah !  and  the  far  more  mysterious  live  ember 
of  Vital  Fire  was  then  also  put  down  there; 
and  still  miraculously  burns  and  spreads; 
and  the  smoke  and  ashes  thereof  (in  these 
Judgment-Halls  and  Churchyards),  and  its 
bellows-engines  (in  these  Churches),  thou  still 
seest;  and  its  flame,  looking  out  from  every 
kind  countenance,  and  every  hateful  one,  still 
warms  thee  or  scorches  thee. 

"Of  Man's  Activity  and  Attainment  the  chief 
results  are  aeriform,  mystic,  and  preserved  in 
Tradition  only:  such  are  his  Forms  of  Gov- 
ernment, with  the  Authority  they  rest  on;  his 
Customs,  or  Fashions  both  of  Cloth-Habits 
and  of  Soul-Habits;  much  more  his  collective 
stock  of  Handicrafts,  the  whole  Faculty  he 
has  acquired  of  manipulating  Nature:  all 
these  things,  as  indispensable  and  priceless  as 
they  are,  cannot  in  any  way  be  fixed  under  lock 
and  key,  but  must  flit,  spirit-like,  on  impalpable 
vehicles,  from  Father  to  Son ;  if  you  demand 
sight  of  them,  they  are  nowhere  to  l)e  met  with. 
Visible  Ploughmen  and  Hammermen  there 
have  been,  ever  from  Cain  and  Tubalcain 
downwards:  but  where  does  your  accumulated 
Agricultural,  Metallurgic,  and  other  Manu- 
facturing Skill  lie  warehoused?  It  transmits 
itself  on  the  atmospheric  air,  on  the  sun's  rays 
(by  Hearing  and  Vision) ;  it  is  a  thing  aeriform, 
imj)alpable,    of  quite   spiritual   sort.     In   like 


374 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


manner,  ask  me  not,  Where  are  the  Laws; 
where  is  the  Government?  In  vain  wih  thou 
go  to  Schonbrunn,  to  Downing  Street,  to  the 
Palais  Bourbon:  thou  findest  nothing  there, 
but  brick  or  stone  houses,  and  some  bundles  of 
Papers  tied  with  tape.  Where,  then,  is  that 
same  cunningly-devised  or  mighty  Government 
of  theirs  to  be  laid  hands  on  ?  Everywhere,  yet 
nowhere:  seen  only  in  its  works,  this  too  is  a 
thing  aeriform,  invisible ;  or  if  you  will,  mystic 
and  miraculous.  So  spiritual  (geistig)  is  our 
whole  daily  Life:  all  that  we  do  springs  out  of 
Mystery,  Spirit,  invisible  Force;  only  like  a 
little  Cloud-image,  or  Armida's  Palace,  air- 
built,  does  the  Actual  body  itself  forth  from  the 
great  mystic  Deep. 

"Visible  and  tangible  products  of  the  Past, 
again,  I  reckon-up  to  the  extent  of  three: 
Cities,  with  their  Cabinets  and  Arsenals;  then 
tilled  Fields,  to  either  or  to  both  of  which 
divisions  Roads  with  their  Bridges  may  belong; 
and  thirdly  —  Books.  In  which  third  truly, 
the  last-invented,  lies  a  worth  far  surpassing 
that  of  the  two  others.  Wondrous  indeed  is 
the  virtue  of  a  true  Book.  Not  like  a  dead 
city  of  stones,  yearly  crumbling,  yearly  needing 
repair;  more  like  a  tilled  field,  but  then  a 
spiritual  field :  like  a  spiritual  tree,  let  me  rather 
say,  it  stands  from  year  to  year,  and  from  age  to 
age  (we  have  Books  that  already  number  some 
hundred-and-fifty  human  ages) ;  and  yearly 
comes  its  new  produce  of  leaves  (Commentaries, 
Deductions,  Philosophical,  Political  Systems; 
or  were  it  only  Sermons,  Pamphlets,  Journalistic 
Essays),  every  one  of  which  is  tahsmanic  and 
thaumaturgic,  for  it  can  persuade  men.  O  thou 
who  art  able  to  write  a  Book,  which  once  in  the 
two  centuries  or  oftener  there  is  a  man  gifted 
to  do,  envy  not  him  whom  they  name  City- 
builder,  and  inexpressibly  pity  him  whom  they 
name  Conqueror  or  City-burner!  Thou  too 
art  a  Conqueror  and  Victor;  but  of  the  true 
sort,  namely  over  the  Devil :  thou  too  hast  built 
what  will  outlast  all  marble  and  metal,  and  be 
a  wonder-bringing  City  of  the  Mind,  a  Temple 
and  Seminary  and  Prophetic  Mount,  whereto 
all  kindreds  of  the  Earth  will  pilgrim.  —  Fool ! 
why  joumeyest  thou  wearisomely,  in  thy  anti- 
quarian fervour,  to  gaze  on  the  stone  pyramids 
of  Geeza  or  the  clay  ones  of  Sacchara?  These 
stand  there,  as  I  can  tell  thee,  idle  and  inert, 
looking  over  the  Desert,  foolishly  enough,  for 
the  last  three-thousand  years:  but  canst  thou 
not  open  thy  Hebrew  Bible,  then,  or  even 
Luther's  Version  thereof?" 

No  less  satisfactory  is  his  sudden  appear- 


ance not  in  Battle,  yet  on  some  Battle-field; 
which,  we  soon  gather,  must  be  that  of  Wagram : 
so  that  here,  for  once,  is  a  certain  approxima- 
tion to  distinctness  of  date.  Omitting  much, 
let  us  impart  what  follows: 

"Horrible  enough!  A  whole  Marchfeld 
strewed  with  shell-splinters,  cannon-shot, 
ruined  tumbrils,  and  dead  men  and  horses; 
stragglers  still  remaining  not  so  much  as  buried. 
And  those  red  mould  heaps:  ay,  there  lie  the 
Shells  of  Men,  out  of  which  all  the  Life  and 
Virtue  has  been  blown;  and  now  they  are 
swept  together,  and  crammed-down  out  of 
sight,  like  blown  Egg-shells !  —  Did  Nature, 
when  she  bade  the  Donau  bring  down  his 
mould-cargoes  from  the  Carinthian  and  Car- 
pathian Heights,  and  spread  them  out  here 
into  the  softest,  richest  level,  —  intend  thee, 
O  Marchfeld,  for  a  corn-bearing  Nursery, 
whereon  her  children  might  be  nursed;  or  for 
a  Cockpit,  wherein  they  might  the  more  com- 
modiously  be  throttled  and  tattered  ?  Were  thy 
three  broad  highways,  meeting  here  from  the 
ends  of  Europe,  made  for  Ammunition-wagons, 
then  ?  Were  thy  Wagrams  and  Stillfrieds  but 
so  many  ready-built  Case-mates,  wherein  the 
house  of  Hapsburg  might  batter  with  artillery, 
and  with  artillery  be  battered?  Konig  Otto- 
kar,  amid  yonder  hillocks,  dies  under  Rodolf's 
truncheon;  here  Kaiser  Franz  falls  a-swoon 
under  Napoleon's:  within  which  five  centuries, 
to  omit  the  others,  how  hast  thy  breast,  fair 
Plain,  been  defaced  and  defiled!  The  green- 
sward is  torn-up  and  trampled-down ;  man's 
fond  care  of  it,  his  fruit-trees,  hedge-rows,  and 
pleasant  dwellings,  blown-away  with  gunpow- 
der; and  the  kind  seedfield  lies  a  desolate, 
hideous  Place  of  Skulls.  —  Nevertheless,  Na- 
ture is  at  work;  neither  shall  these  Powder- 
Devilkins  with  their  utmost  devilry  gainsay  her: 
but  all  that  gore  and  carnage  will  be  shrouded- 
in,  absorbed  into  manure;  and  next  year  the 
Marchfeld  will  be  green,  nay  greener.  Thrifty 
unwearied  Nature,  ever  out  of  our  great  waste 
educing  some  little  profit  of  thy  own,  —  how 
dost  thou,  from  the  very  carcass  of  the  Killer, 
bring  Life  for  the  Living ! 

"What,  speaking  in  quite  unofiEicial  language, 
is  the  net-purport  and  upshot  of  war?  To 
my  own  knowledge,  for  example,  there  dwell 
and  toil,  in  the  British  village  of  Dumdrudge, 
usually  some  five-hundred  souls.  From  these, 
by  certain  'Natural  Enemies'  of  the  French, 
there  are  successively  selected,  during  the 
French  war,  say  thirty  able-bodied  men: 
Dumdrudge,  at  her  own  expense,  has  suckled 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


375 


and  nursed  them;  she  has,  not  without  dif- 
ficulty and  sorrow,  fed  them  up  to  manhood, 
and  even  trained  them  to  crafts,  so  that  one  can 
weave,  another  build,  another  hammer,  and  the 
weakest  can  stand  under  thirty  stone  avoir- 
dupois. Nevertheless,  amid  much  weeijing 
and  swearing,  they  are  selected ;  all  dressed  in 
red;  and  shipped  away,  at  the  public  charges, 
some  two-thousand  miles,  or  say  only  to  the 
south  of  Spain;  and  fed  there  till  wanted. 
And  now  to  that  same  spot  in  the  south  of 
Spain,  are  thirty  similar  French  artisans,  from 
a  French  Dumdrudge,  in  like  manner  wending: 
till  at  length,  after  infinite  effort,  the  two  parties 
come  into  actual  juxtaposition ;  and  Thirty 
stands  fronting  Thirty,  each  with  a  gun  in  his 
hand.  Straightway  the  word  '  Fire ! '  is  given : 
and  they  blow  the  souls  out  of  one  another; 
and  in  place  of  sixty  brisk  useful  craftsmen,  the 
world  has  sixty  dead  carcasses,  which  it  must 
bury,  and  anew  shed  tears  for.  Had  these  men 
any  quarrel?  Busy  as  the  Devil  is,  not  the 
smallest !  They  lived  far  enough  apart ; 
were  the  entirest  strangers;  nay,  in  so  wide 
a  Universe,  there  was  even  unconsciously,  by 
Commerce,  some  mutual  helpfulness  between 
them.  How  then  ?  Simpleton !  their  Gov- 
ernors had  fallen-out;  and,  instead  of  shooting 
one  another,  had  the  cunning  to  make  these 
poor  blockheads  shoot.  —  Alas,  so  is  it  in 
Deutschland,  and  hitherto  in  all  other  lands; 
still  as  of  old,  'what  devilry  soever  Kings  do, 
the  Greeks  must  pay  the  piper!'  —  In  that 
fiction  of  the  English  Smollett,  it  is  true,  the 
final  Cessation  of  War  is  perhaps  prophetically 
shadowed  forth;  where  the  two  Natural  Ene- 
mies, in  person,  take  each  a  Tobacco-pipe, 
filled  with  Brimstone;  light  the  same,  and 
smoke  in  one  another's  faces  till  the  weaker 
gives  in:  but  from  such  predicted  Peace-Era, 
what  blood-filled  trenches,  and  contentious 
centuries,  may  still  divide  us!" 

Thus  can  the  Professor,  at  least  in  lucid 
intervals,  look  away  from  his  own  sorrows, 
over  the  many-coloured  world,  and  pertinently 
enough  note  what  is  passing  there.  We  may 
remark,  indeed,  that  for  the  matter  of  spiritual 
culture,  if  for  nothing  else,  perhaps  few  periods 
of  his  life  were  richer  than  this.  Internally, 
there  is  the  most  momentous  instructive  Course 
of  Practical  Philosophy,  with  Experiments, 
going  on ;  towards  the  right  comprehension  of 
which  his  Peripatetic  habits,  favourable  to 
Meditation,  might  help  him  rather  than  hinder. 
Externally,  again,  as  he  wanders  to  and  fro, 
there  are,  if  for  the  longing  heart  little  sub- 


stance, yet  for  the  seeing  eye  sights  enough: 
in  these  so  boundless  Travels  of  his,  granting 
that  the  Satanic  School  was  even  partially  kept 
down,  what  an  incredible  knowledge  of  our 
Planet,  and  its  Inhaljitants  and  their  Works, 
that  is  to  say,  of  all  knowable  things,  might  not 
Teufelsdrockh  acquire ! 

"I  have  read  in  most  Public  Libraries,"  says 
he,  "including  those  of  Constantinople  and 
Samarcand:  in  most  Colleges,  except  the 
Cliinese  Mandarin  ones,  I  have  studied,  or  seen 
that  there  was  no  studying.  Unknown  lan- 
guages have  I  oftenest  gathered  from  their 
natural  repertory,  the  Air,  by  my  organ  of 
Hearing;  Statistics,  Geographies,  Topograph- 
ies came,  through  the  Eye,  almost  of  their 
own  accord.  The  ways  of  Man,  how  he  seeks 
food,  and  warmth,  and  protection  for  himself, 
in  most  regions,  arc  ocularly  known  to  me. 
Like  the  great  Hadrian,  I  meted-out  much  of 
the  terraqueous  Globe  with  a  pair  of  Com- 
passes that  belonged  to  myself  only. 

"Of  great  Scenes,  why  speak?  Three  sum- 
mer days,  I  lingered  reflecting,  and  composing 
(dichlete),  by  the  Pine-chasms  of  Vaucluse; 
and  in  that  clear  lakelet  moistened  my  bread. 
I  have  sat  under  the  Palm-trees  of  Tadmor; 
smoked  a  pipe  among  the  ruins  of  Babylon. 
The  great  Wall  of  China  I  have  seen;  and 
can  testify  that  it  is  of  gray  brick,  coped  and 
covered  with  granite,  and  shows  only  second- 
rate  masonry.  —  Great  events,  also,  have  not 
I  witnessed?  Kings  sweated-down  (ausge- 
mergclt)  into  Berlin-and-Milan  Customhou.se- 
Ofticers;  the  World  w^ell  won,  and  the  World 
well  lost ;  oftcner  than  once  a  hundred-thousand 
individuals  shot  (by  each  other)  in  one  day. 
All  kindreds  and  peoples  and  nations  dashed 
together,  and  shifted  and  shovelled  into  heaps, 
that  they  might  ferment  there,  and  in  time  unite. 
The  birth-pangs  of  Democracy,  wherewith 
convulsed  Europe  was  groaning  in  cries  that 
reached  Heaven,  could  not  escape  me. 

"For  great  IVIen  I  have  ever  had  the  warmest 
predilection;  and  can  perhaps  boast  that  few 
such  in  this  era  have  wholly  escaped  me. 
Great  Men  are  the  inspired  (speaking  and 
acting)  Texts  of  that  divine  Book  of  Revela- 
tions, whereof  a  Chapter  is  completed  from 
epoch  to  epoch,  and  by  some  named  History; 
to  which  inspired  Texts  your  numerous  talented 
men,  and  your  innumerable  untalented  men, 
are  the  better  or  worse  exegetic  Commentaries, 
and  wagonload  of  too-stupid,  heretical  or  ortho- 
dox, weekly  Sermons.  For  my  study,  the  in- 
spired   Texts    themselves !     Thus    did    not    I, 


376 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


in  very  early  days,  having  disguised  me  as  a 
tavern -waiter,  stand  behind  the  field-chairs, 
under  that  shady  Tree  at  Treisnitz  by  the  Jena 
Highway;  waiting  upon  the  great  Schiller 
and  greater  Goethe;  and  hearing  what  I  have 
not  forgotten.     For — " 

—  But  at  this  point  the  Editor  recalls  his 
principle  of  caution,  some  time  ago  laid  down, 
and  must  suppress  much.  Let  not  the  sacred- 
ness  of  Laurelled,  still  more,  of  Crowned  Heads, 
be  tampered  with.  Should  we,  at  a  future  day, 
find  circumstances  altered,  and  the  time  come 
for  Publication,  then  may  these  glimpses  into 
the  privacy  of  the  Illustrious  be  conceded; 
which  for  the  present  were  little  better  than 
treacherous,  perhaps  traitorous  Eavesdroppings. 
Of  Lord  Byron,  therefore,  of  Pope  Pius,  Em- 
peror Tarakwang,  and  the  "White  Water- 
roses"  (Chinese  Carbonari)  with  their  mys- 
teries, no  notice  here !  Of  Napoleon  himself 
we  shall  only,  glancing  from  afar,  remark  that 
Teufelsdrockh's  relation  to  him  seems  to  have 
been  of  very  varied  character.  At  first  we  find 
our  poor  Professor  on  the  point  of  being  shot 
as  a  spy;  then  taken  into  private  conversation, 
even  pinched  on  the  ear,  yet  presented  with  no 
money;  at  last  indignantly  dismissed,  almost 
thrown  out  of  doors,  as  an  "Ideologist."  "He 
himself,"  says  the  Professor,  "was  among  the 
completest  Ideologists,  at  least  Ideopraxists : 
in  the  Idea  {in  der  Idee)  he  lived,  moved,  and 
fought.  The  man  was  a  Divine  Missionary, 
though  unconscious  of  it;  and  preached, 
through  the  cannon's  throat,  that  great  doctrine, 
La  carriere  otivcrte  mix  talens  (The  Tools  to 
him  that  can  handle  them),  which  is  our  ulti- 
mate Political  Evangel,  wherein  alone  can 
Liberty  lie.  Madly  enough  he  preached,  it  is 
true,  as  Enthusiasts  and  first  Missionaries  are 
wont,  with  imperfect  utterance,  amid  much 
frothy  rant;  yet  as  articulately  perhaps  as  the 
case  admitted.  Or  call  him,  if  you  will,  an 
American  Backwoodsman,  who  had  to  fell  un- 
penetrated  forests,  and  battle  with  innumer- 
able wolves,  and  did  not  entirely  forbear  strong 
liquor,  rioting,  and  even  theft;  whom,  not- 
withstanding, the  peaceful  Sower  will  follow, 
and,  as  he  cuts  the  boundless  harvest,  bless." 

More  legitimate  and  decisively  authentic  is 
Teufelsdr5ckh's  appearance  and  emergence 
(we  know  not  well  whence)  in  the  solitude 
of  the  North  Cape,  on  that  June  Midnight. 
He  has  a  "light-blue  Spanish  cloak"  hanging 
round  him,  as  his  "most  commodious,  princi- 
pal, indeed  sole  upper-garment";  and  stands 
there,  on  the  World-promontory,  looking  over 


the  infinite  Brine,  like  a  little  blue  Belfry  (as 
we  figure),  now  motionless  indeed,  yet  ready, 
if  stirred,  to  ring  quaintest  changes. 

"Silence  as  of  death,"  writes  he;  "for  Mid- 
night, even  in  the  Arctic  latitudes,  has  its  char- 
acter: nothing  but  the  granite  clififs  ruddy- 
tinged,  the  peaceable  gurgle  of  that  slow- 
heaving  Polar  Ocean,  over  which  in  the  utmost 
North  the  great  Sun  hangs  low  and  lazy,  as 
if  he  too  were  slumbering.  Yet  is  his  cloud- 
couch  wrought  of  crimson  and  cloth-of-gold; 
yet  does  his  light  stream  over  the  mirror  of 
waters,  like  a  tremulous  fire-pillar,  shooting 
downwards  to  the  abyss,  and  hide  itself  under 
my  feet.  In  such  moments.  Solitude  also  is 
invaluable ;  for  who  would  speak,  or  be  looked 
on,  when  behind  him  lies  all  Europe  and  Africa, 
fast  asleep,  except  the  watchmen ;  and  before  him 
the  silent  Immensity,  and  Palace  of  the  Eternal, 
whereof  our  Sun  is  but  a  porch -lamp? 

"Nevertheless,  in  this  solemn  moment, 
comes  a  man,  or  monster,  scrambling  from 
among  the  rock-hollows;  and,  shaggy,  huge  as 
the  Hyperborean  Bear,  hails  me  in  Russian 
speech:  most  probably,  therefore,  a  Russian 
Smuggler.  With  courteous  brevity,  I  signify 
my  indifference  to  contraband  trade,  my  hu- 
mane intentions,  yet  strong  wish  to  be  private. 
In  vain:  the  monster,  counting  doubtless  on 
his  superior  stature,  and  minded  to  make  sport 
for  himself,  or  perhaps  profit,  were  it  with 
murder,  continues  to  advance;  ever  assailing 
me  with  his  importunate  train-oil  breath;  and 
now  has  advanced,  till  we  stand  both  on  the 
verge  of  the  rock,  the  deep  Sea  rippling  greedily 
down  below.  What  argument  will  avail? 
On  the  thick  Hyperborean,  cherubic  reasoning, 
seraphic  eloquence  were  lost.  Prepared  for 
such  extremity,  I,  defdy  enough,  whisk  aside 
one  step;  draw  out,  from  my  interior  reser- 
voirs, a  sufficient  Birmingham  Horse-pistol, 
and  say,  'Be  so  obliging  as  retire.  Friend  {Er- 
ziehe  sich  zuriick,  Freiind),  and  with  prompti- 
tude ! '  This  logic  even  the  Hyperborean  un- 
derstands: fast  enough,  with  apologetic,  peti- 
tionary growl,  he  sidles  off;  and,  except  for 
suicidal  as  well  as  homicidal  purposes,  need 
not  return. 

"Such  I  hold  to  be  the  genuine  use  of  Gun- 
powder: that  it  makes  all  men  alike  tall.  Nay, 
if  thou  be  cooler,  cleverer  than  I,  if  thou  have 
more  Mind,  though  all  but  no  Body  whatever, 
then  canst  thou  kill  me  first,  and  art  the  taller. 
Hereby,  at  last,  is  the  Goliath  powerless,  and 
the  David  resistless;  savage  Animalism  is 
nothing,   inventive  Spiritualism  is  all. 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


i77 


"With  respect  to  Duels,  indeed,  I  have  my 
own  ideas.  Few  things,  in  this  so  surprising 
world,  strike  me  with  more  surprise.  Two 
little  visual  Spectra  of  men,  hovering  with 
insecure  enough  cohesion  in  the  midst  of  the 
Unfathomable,  and  to  dissolve  therein,  at  any 
rate,  very  soon,  —  make  pause  at  the  distance 
of  twelve  paces  asunder;  whirl  round;  and, 
simultaneously  by  the  cunningest  mechanism, 
explode  one  another  into  Dissolution;  and  off- 
hand become  Air,  and  Non-extant !  Deuce 
on  it  (verdamml),  the  little  spitfires !  —  Nay, 
I  think  with  old  Hugo  von  Trimberg:  'God 
must  needs  laugh  outright,  could  such  a  thing 
be,  to  see  his  wondrous  Manikins  here  below.'" 

But  amid  these  specialties,  let  us  not  forget 
the  great  generality,  which  is  our  chief  quest 
here:  How  prospered  the  inner  man  of  Teu- 
felsdrockh  under  so  much  outward  shifting? 
Does  Legion  still  lurk  in  him,  though  repressed; 
or  has  he  exorcised  that  Devil's  Brood?  We 
can  answer  that  the  symptoms  continue  prom- 
ising. Experience  is  the  grand  spiritual 
Doctor;  and  with  him  Teufelsdrockh  has  now 
been  long  a  patient,  swallowing  many  a  bitter 
bolus.  Unless  our  poor  Friend  belong  to  the 
numerous  class  of  Incurables,  which  seems  not 
likely,  some  cure  will  doubtless  be  effected. 
We  should  rather  say  that  Legion,  or  the 
Satanic  School,  was  now  pretty  well  extirpated 
and  cast  out,  but  next  to  nothing  introduced  in 
its  room;  whereby  the  heart  remains,  for  the 
while,  in  a  quiet  but  no  comfortable  state. 

"At  length,  after  so  much  roasting,"  thus 
writes  our  Autobiographer,  "I  was  what  you 
might  name  calcined.  Pray  only  that  it  be 
not  rather,  as  is  the  more  frequent  issue,  re- 
duced to  a  caput-mortuum!  But  in  any  case, 
by  mere  dint  of  practice,  I  had  grown  familiar 
with  many  things.  Wretchedness  was  still 
wretched;  but  I  could  now  partly  see  through 
it,  and  despise  it.  Which  highest  mortal,  in  this 
inane  Existence,  had  I  not  found  a  Shadow- 
hunter  or  Shadow-hunted;  and,  when  I  looked 
through  his  brave  garnitures,  miserable  enough  ? 
Thy  wishes  have  all  been  sniffed  aside,  thought 
I:  but  what,  had  they  even  been  all  granted! 
Did  not  the  Boy  Alexander  weep  because  he 
had  not  two  Planets  to  conquer;  or  a  whole 
Solar  System;  or  after  that,  a  whole  Universe? 
Ach  Gott,  when  I  gazed  into  these  Stars,  have 
they  not  looked-down  on  me  as  if  with  pity, 
from  their  serene  spaces;  like  Eyes  glistening 
with  heavenly  tears  over  the  little  lot  of  man ! 
Thousands  of  human  generations,  all  as  noisy 
as  our  own,  have  been  swallowed-up  of  Time, 


and  there  remains  no  wreck  of  them  any  more; 
and  Arcturus  and  Orion  and  Sirius  and  the 
Pleiades  are  still  shining  in  their  courses,  clear 
and  young,  as  when  the  Shepherd  first  noted 
them  in  the  plain  of  Shinar.  Pshaw !  what  is 
this  paltry  little  Dog-cage  of  an  Earth;  what 
art  thou  that  sittest  whining  there?  Thou 
art  still  Nothing,  Nobody:  true;  but  who, 
then,  is  Something,  Somebody?  For  thee  the 
Family  of  Man  has  no  use;  it  rejects  thee; 
thou  art  wholly  as  a  dissevered  limb:  so  be  it; 
perhaps  it  is  better  so ! " 

Too-heavy-laden  Teufelsdrockh  !  Yet  surely 
his  bands  are  loosening;  one  day  he  will  hurl 
the  burden  far  from  him,  and  bound  forth 
free  and  with  a  second  youth. 

"This,"  says  our  Profes.sor,  "was  the  Centre 
of  Indifference  I  had  now  reached;  through 
which  whoso  travels  from  the  Negative  Pole  to 
the  Positive  must  necessarily  pass." 

CHAPTER  IX 
The  Everlasting  Yea 

"Temptations  in  the  Wilderness!"  exclaims 
Teufelsdrockh:  "Have  we  not  all  to  be  tried 
with  such?  Not  so  easily  can  the  old  Adam, 
lodged  in  us  by  birth,  be  dispossessed.  Our 
Life  is  compassed  round  with  Necessity;  yet 
is  the  meaning  of  Life  itself  no  other  than  Free- 
dom, than  Voluntary  Force:  thus  have  we  a 
warfare;  in  the  beginning,  especially,  a  hard- 
fought  battle.  For  the  God-given  mandate. 
Work  thou  in  Welldoing,  lies  mysteriously 
written,  in  Promethean  Prophetic  Characters,  in 
our  hearts;  and  leaves  us  no  rest,  night  or  day, 
till  it  be  deciphered  and  obeyed;  till  it  burn 
forth,  in  our  conduct,  a  visible,  acted  Gospel 
of  Freedom.  And  as  the  clay-given  mandate, 
Eat  thou  and  be  filled,  at  the  same  time  per- 
suasively proclaims  itself  through  every  nerve, 
• —  must  there  not  be  a  confusion,  a  contest, 
before  the  better  Influence  can  become  the 
upper  ? 

"To  me  nothing  seems  more  natural  than 
that  the  Son  of  Man,  when  such  God-given 
mandate  first  prophetically  stirs  within  him,  and 
the  Clay  must  now  be  vanquished  or  vanquish, 
—  should  be  carried  of  the  spirit  into  grim 
Solitudes,  and  there  fronting  the  Tempter  do 
grimmest  battle  with  him;  defiantly  setting 
him  at  naught,  till  he  yield  and  fly.  Name 
it  as  we  choose :  with  or  without  visible  Devil, 
whether  in  the  natural  Desert  of  rocks  and 
sands,   or   in   the   populous  moral   Desert  of 


378 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


selfishness  and  baseness,  —  to  such  Temptation 
are  we  all  called.  Unhappy  if  we  are  not ! 
Unhappy  if  we  are  but  Half-men,  in  whom 
that  divine  handwriting  has  never  blazed  forth, 
all-subduing,  in  true  sun-splendour;  but 
quivers  dubiously  amid  meaner  lights:  or 
smoulders,  in  dull  pain,  in  darkness,  under 
earthly  vapours !  —  Our  Wilderness  is  the  wide 
World  in  an  Atheistic  Century;  our  Forty  Days 
are  long  years  of  suffering  and  fasting:  never- 
theless, to  these  also  comes  an  end.  Yes, 
to  me  also  was  given,  if  not  Victory,  yet  the 
consciousness  of  Battle,  and  the  resolve  to 
persevere  therein  while  life  or  faculty  is  left. 
To  me  also,  entangled  in  the  enchanted  forests, 
demon -peopled,  doleful  of  sight  and  of  sound, 
it  was  given,  after  weariest  wanderings,  to 
work  out  my  way  into  the  higher  sunlit  slopes 
—  of  that  Mountain  which  has  no  summit,  or 
whose  summit  is  in  Heaven  only!" 

He  says  elsewhere,  under  a  less  ambitious 
figure;  as  figures  are,  once  for  all,  natural  to 
him:  "Has  not  thy  Life  been  that  of  most 
sufficient  men  {tilchtigen  Manner)  thou  hast 
known  in  this  generation?  An  outflush  of 
foolish  young  Enthusiasm,  like  the  first  fallow- 
crop,  wherein  are  as  many  weeds  as  valu- 
able herbs:  this  all  parched  away,  under  the 
Droughts  of  practical  and  spiritual  Unbelief, 
as  Disappointment,  in  thought  and  act,  often- 
repeated  gave  rise  to  Doubt,  and  Doubt  grad- 
ually settled  into  Denial !  If  I  have  had  a 
second-crop,  and  now  see  the  perennial  green- 
sward, and  sit  under  umbrageous  cedars,  which 
defy  all  Drought  (and  Doubt) ;  herein  too,  be 
the  Heavens  praised,  I  am  not  without  ex- 
amples, and  even  exemplars." 

So  that,  for  Teufelsdrockh  also,  there  has 
been  a  "glorious  revolution":  these  mad 
shadow-hunting  and  shadow-hunted  Pilgrim- 
ings  of  his  were  but  some  purifying  "Tempta- 
tion in  the  Wilderness,"  before  his  apostolic 
work  (such  as  it  was)  could  begin;  which 
Temptation  is  now  happily  over,  and  the  Devil 
once  more  worsted!  Was  "that  high  moment 
in  the  Rue  de  rEnfer,"  then,  properly  the  turn- 
ing-point of  the  battle;  when  the  Fiend  said. 
Worship  me,  or  be  torn  in  shreds;  and  was 
answered  valiantly  with  an  Apage  Satana?  — 
Singular  Teufelsdrockh,  would  thou  hadst 
told  thy  singular  story  in  plain  words!  But 
it  is  fruitless  to  look  there,  in  those  Paper-bags, 
for  such.  Nothing  but  innuendoes,  figurative 
crotchets:  a  typical  Shadow,  fitfully  wavering, 
prophetico-satiric;  no  clear  logical  Picture. 
"How  paint  to  the  sensual  eye,"  asks  he  once. 


"what  passes  in  the  Holy-of-Holies  of  Man's 
Soul ;  in  what  words,  known  to  these  profane 
times,  speak  even  afar-ofif  of  the  unspeakable  ?  " 
We  ask  in  turn :  W^hy  perplex  these  times, 
profane  as  they  are,  with  needless  obscurity, 
by  omission  and  by  commission?  Not  mys- 
tical only  is  our  Professor,  but  whimsical; 
and  involves  himself,  now  more  than  ever, 
in  eye-bewildering  chiaroscuro.  Successive 
glimpses,  here  faithfully  imparted,  our  more 
gifted  readers  must  endeavour  to  combine  for 
their  own  behoof. 

He  says:  "The  hot  Harmattan  wind  had 
raged  itself  out;  its  howl  went  silent  within 
me;  and  the  long-deafened  soul  could  now 
hear.  I  paused  in  my  wild  wanderings;  and 
sat  me  down  to  wait,  and  consider;  for  it  was 
as  if  the  hour  of  change  drew  nigh.  I  seemed 
to  surrender,  to  renounce  utterly,  and  say:  Fly, 
then,  false  shadows  of  Hope;  I  will  chase  you 
no  more,  I  will  believe  you  no  more.  And  ye 
too,  haggard  spectres  of  Fear,  I  care  not  for 
you;  ye  too  are  all  shadows  and  a  lie.  Let 
me  rest  here:  for  I  am  way -weary  and  life- 
weary;  I  will  rest  here,  were  it  but  to  die: 
to  die  or  to  live  is  alike  to  me;  alike  insig- 
nificant." —  And  again:  "Here,  then,  as  I  lay 
in  that  Centre  of  Indifference,  cast,  doubtless 
by  benignant  upper  Influence,  into  a  healing 
sleep,  the  heavy  dreams  rolled  gradually  away, 
and  I  awoke  to  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new 
Earth.  The  first  preliminary  moral  Act, 
Annihilation  of  Self  (Selhsitddtung),  had  been 
happily  accomplished;  and  my  mind's  eyes 
were  now  unsealed,  and  its  hands  ung)^ed." 

Might  we  not  also  conjecture  that  the  fol- 
lowing passage  refers  to  his  Locality,  during 
this  same  "healing  sleep";  that  his  Pilgrim- 
staff  lies  cast  aside  here,  on  "the  high  table- 
land"; and  indeed  that  the  repose  is  already 
taking  wholesome  effect  on  him  ?  If  it  were  not 
that  the  tone,  in  some  parts,  has  more  of  riancy, 
even  of  levity,  than  we  could  have  expected! 
However,  in  Teufelsdrockh,  there  is  always 
the  strangest  Dualism:  light  dancing,  with 
guitar-music,  will  be  going  on  in  the  fore-court, 
while  by  fits  from  within  comes  the  faint  whim- 
pering of  woe  and  wail.  We  transcribe  the 
piece  entire: 

"Beautiful  it  was  to  sit  there,  as  in  my  skyey 
Tent,  musing  and  meditating;  on  the  high 
table-land,  in  front  of  the  Mountains;  over  me, 
as  roof,  the  azure  Dome,  and  around  me,  for 
walls,  four  azure-flowing  curtains,  —  namely, 
of  the  Four  azure  Winds,  on  whose  bottom- 
fringes  also  I  have  seen  gilding.     And  then  to 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


379 


fancy  the  fair  Castles,  that  stood  sheltered 
in  these  Mountain  hollows;  with  their  green 
flower-lawns,  and  white  dames  and  damosels, 
lovely  enough :  or  better  still,  the  straw-roofed 
Cottages,  wherein  stood  many  a  ISIother  bak- 
ing bread,  with  her  children  round  her:  —  all 
hidden  and  protectingly  folded-up  in  the  valley- 
folds  ;  yet  there  and  alive,  as  sure  as  if  I  beheld 
them.  Or  to  see,  as  well  as  fancy,  the  nine 
Towns  and  Villages,  that  lay  round  my  moun- 
tain-seat, which,  in  still  weather,  were  wont 
to  speak  to  me  (by  their  steeple-bells)  with 
metal  tongue;  and,  in  almost  all  weather,  pro- 
claimed their  vitality  by  repeated  Smoke- 
clouds;  whereon,  as  on  a  culinary  horologue, 
I  might  read  the  hour  of  the  day.  For  it  was 
the  smoke  of  cookery,  as  kind  housewives  at 
morning,  midday,  eventide,  were  boiling  their 
husbands'  kettles;  and  ever  a  blue  pillar  rose 
up  into  the  air,  successively  or  simultaneously, 
from  each  of  the  nine,  saying,  as  plainly  as 
smoke  could  say:  Such  and  such  a  meal  is 
getting  ready  here.  Not  uninteresting!  For 
you  have  the  whole  Borough,  with  all  its  love- 
makings  and  scandal-mongeries,  contentions 
and  contentments,  as  in  miniature,  and  could 
cover  it  all  with  your  hat.  —  If,  in  my  wide 
Wayfarings,  I  had  learned  to  look  into  the  busi- 
ness of  the  World  in  its  details,  here  perhaps 
was  the  place  for  combining  it  into  general 
propositions,  and  deducing  inferences  there- 
from. 

"Often  also  could  I  see  the  black  Tem- 
pest marching  in  anger  through  the  distance: 
round  some  Schreckhom,  as  yet  grim-blue, 
would  the  eddying  vapour  gather,  and  there 
tumultuously  eddy,  and  flow  down  like  a  mad 
witch's  hair;  till,  after  a  space,  it  vanished, 
and,  in  the  clear  sunbeam,  your  Schreckhom 
stood  smiling  grim-white,  for  the  vapour  had 
held  snow.  How  thou  fermentest  and  elaborat- 
est  in  thy  great  fermenting-vat  and  laboratory 
of  an  Atmosphere,  of  a  World,  O  Nature !  — 
Or  what  is  Nature?  Ha !  why  do  I  not  name 
thee  God?  Art  thou  not  the  'Living  Garment 
of  God  ?'  O  Heavens,  is  it,  in  very  deed.  He, 
then,  that  ever  speaks  through  thee ;  that  lives 
and  loves  in  thee,  that  lives  and  loves  in  me  ? 

"Fore-shadows,  call  them  rather  fore-splen- 
dours, of  that  Truth,  and  Beginning  of  Truths, 
fell  mysteriously  over  my  soul.  Sweeter  than 
Dayspring  to  the  Shipwrecked  in  Nova  Zembla ; 
ah,  like  the  mother's  voice  to  her  little  child 
that  strays  bewildered,  weeping,  in  unknown 
tumults;  like  soft  streamings  of  celestial  music 
to  my  too-e.xasperated  heart,  came  that  Evangel. 


The  Universe  is  not  dead  and  demoniacal,  a 
charnel-house  with  spectres;  but  godlike,  and 
my  Father's ! 

"With  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look 
upon  my  fellow  man:  with  an  infinite  Love, 
an  infinite  Pity.  Poor,  wandering,  wa)'\vard 
man !  Art  thou  not  tried,  and  beaten  with 
stripes,  even  as  I  am?  Ever,  whether  thou 
bear  the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gabardine, 
art  thou  not  so  weary,  so  heavy-laden ;  and  thy 
Bed  of  Rest  is  but  a  Grave.  O  my  Brother, 
my  Brother,  why  cannot  I  shelter  thee  in  my 
bosom,  and  wipe  away  all  tears  from  thy  eyes! 
—  Truly,  the  din  of  many-voiced  Life,  which, 
in  this  solitude,  with  the  mind's  organ,  I  could 
hear,  was  no  longer  a  maddening  discord,  but 
a  melting  one;  like  inarticulate  cries,  and  sob- 
bings of  a  dumb  creature,  which  in  the  ear  of 
Heaven  are  prayers.  The  poor  Earth,  with 
her  poor  joys,  was  now  my  needy  Mother,  not 
my  cruel  Stepdame;  Man,  with  his  so  mad 
Wants  and  so  mean  Endeavours,  had  become 
the  dearer  to  me;  and  even  for  his  sufferings 
and  his  sins,  I  now  first  named  him  Brother. 
Thus  was  I  standing  in  the  porch  of  that  ''Sanct- 
uary oj  Sorrow'' ;  by  strange,  steep  ways,  had 
I  too  been  guided  thither;  and  ere  long  its 
sacred  gates  would  open,  and  the  ''Divine  Depth 
of  Sorrow''  lie  disclosed  to  me." 

The  Professor  says,  he  here  first  got  eye  on 
the  Knot  that  had  been  strangling  him,  and 
straightway  could  unfasten  it,  and  was  free. 
"A  vain  interminable  controversy,"  writes  he, 
"touching  what  is  at  present  called  Origin  of 
Evil,  or  some  such  thing,  arises  in  every  soul, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world;  and  in  every 
soul,  that  would  pass  from  idle  Suffering  into 
actual  Endeavouring,  must  first  be  put  an  end 
to.  The  most,  in  our  time,  have  to  go  content 
with  a  simple,  incomplete  enough  Suppression 
of  this  controversy;  to  a  few,  some  Solution  of 
it  is  indispensable.  In  every  new  era,  too,  such 
Solution  comes-out  in  different  terms;  and  ever 
the  Solution  of  the  last  era  has  become  obsolete, 
and  is  found  unserviceable.  For  it  is  man's 
nature  to  change  his  Dialect  from  century  to 
century;  he  cannot  help  it  though  he  would. 
The  authentic  Church-Catechism  of  our  pres- 
ent century  has  not  yet  fallen  into  my  hands: 
meanwhile,  for  my  own  private  behoof,  I 
attempt  to  elucidate  the  matter  so.  Man's 
Unhappiness,  as  I  construe,  comes  of  his 
Greatness;  it  is  because  there  is  an  Infinite  in 
him,  which  with  all  his  cunning  he  cannot  quite 
bury  under  the  Finite.  Will  the  whole  Finance 
Ministers  and  Upholsterers  and  Confectioners 


38o 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


of  modem  Europe  undertake,  in  joint-stock 
company,  to  make  one  Shoeblack  happy? 
They  cannot  accomplish  it,  above  an  hour  or 
two:  for  the  Shoeblack  also  has  a  Soul  quite 
other  than  his  Stomach;  and  would  require, 
if  you  consider  it,  for  his  permanent  satisfac- 
tion and  saturation,  simply  this  allotment,  no 
more,  and  no  less:  God's  infinite  Universe 
altogether  to  himself,  therein  to  enjoy  infinitely, 
and  fill  every  wish  as  fast  as  it  rose.  Oceans 
of  Hochheinier,  a  Throat  like  that  of  Ophiu- 
chus:  speak  not  of  them;  to  the  infinite  Shoe- 
black they  are  as  nothing.  No  sooner  is  your 
ocean  filled,  than  he  grumbles  that  it  might 
have  been  of  better  vintage.  Try  him  v/ith  half 
of  a  Universe,  of  an  Omnipotence,  he  sets  to 
quarrelling  with  the  proprietor  of  the  other 
half,  and  declares  himself  the  most  maltreated 
of  men.  —  Always  there  is  a  black  spot  in  our 
sunshine:  it  is  even,  as  I  said,  the  Shadow  of 
Ourselves. 

"But  the  whim  we  have  of  Happiness  is 
somewhat  thus.  By  certain  valuations,  and 
averages,  of  our  own  striking,  we  come  upon 
some  sort  of  average  terrestrial  lot;  this  we 
fancy  belongs  to  us  by  nature,  and  of  indefeasi- 
ble right.  It  is  simple  payment  of  our  wages, 
of  our  deserts;  requires  neither  thanks  nor 
complaint ;  only  such  overplus  as  there  may  be 
do  we  account  Happiness;  any  deficit  again  is 
Misery.  Now  consider  that  we  have  the  val- 
uation of  our  deserts  ourselves,  and  what  a 
fund  of  Self-conceit  there  is  in  each  of  us,  — ■ 
do  you  wonder  that  the  balance  should  so  often 
dip  the  wrong  way,  and  many  a  Blockhead  cry: 
See  there,  what  a  payment;  was  ever  worthy 
gentleman  so  used !  —  I  tell  thee.  Blockhead, 
it  all  comes  of  thy  Vanity;  of  what  thou 
fanciest  those  same  deserts  of  thine  to  be. 
Fancy  that  thou  deservest  to  be  hanged  (as 
is  most  likely),  thou  wilt  feel  it  happiness  to  be 
only  shot:  fancy  that  thou  deservest  to  be 
hanged  in  a  hair-halter,  it  will  be  a  luxury 
to  die  in  hemp. 

"So  true  it  is,  what  I  then  said,  that  the 
Fraction  of  Life  can  be  increased  in  value  not 
so  much  by  increasing  your  Numerator  as  by 
lessening  your  Denominator.  Nay,  unless  my 
Algebra  deceive  me,  Unity  itself  divided  by 
Zero  will  give  Infinity.  Make  thy  claim  of 
wages  a  zero,  then ;  thou  hast  the  world  under 
thy  feet.  Well  did  the  Wisest  of  our  time  write : 
'It  is  only  with  Renunciation  (Entsagen)  that 
Life,  properly  speaking,  can  be  said  to  begin.' 

"I  asked  myself:  What  is  this  that,  ever 
since  earliest  years,  thou  hast  been  fretting  and 


fuming,  and  lamenting  and  self-tormenting, 
on  account  of?  Say  it  in  a  word:  is  it  not 
because  thou  art  not  happy?  Because  the 
Thou  (sweet  gentleman)  is  not  sufficiently 
honoured,  nourished,  soft-bedded,  and  lovingly 
cared-for?  Foolish  soul !  What  Act  of  Legis- 
lature was  there  that  thou  shouldst  be  Happy? 
A  little  while  ago  thou  hadst  no  right  to  be 
at  all.  What  if  thou  wert  born  and  predestined 
not  to  be  Happy,  but  to  be  Unhappy!  Art 
thou  nothing  other  than  a  Vulture,  then,  that 
fliest  through  the  Universe  seeking  after  some- 
what to  eat;  and  shrieking  dolefully  because 
carrion  enough  is  not  given  thee?  Close  thy 
Byron;  open  thy  Goethe." 

"Es  leuchtet  mir  ein,  I  see  a  glimpse  of  it!" 
cries  he  elsewhere:  "there  is  in  man  a  Higher 
than  Love  of  Happiness:  he  can  do  without 
Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  Blessed- 
ness !  Was  it  not  to  preach-forth  this  same 
Higher  that  sages  and  martyrs,  the  Poet  and 
the  Priest,  in  all  times,  have  spoken  and  suf- 
fered; bearing  testimony,  through  life  and 
through  death,  of  the  Godlike  that  is  in  Man, 
and  how  in  the  Godlike  only  has  he  Strength 
and  Freedom?  Which  God-inspired  Doctrine 
art  thou  also  honoured  to  be  taught ;  O  Heav- 
ens! and  broken  with  manifold  merciful  Af- 
flictions, even  till  thou  become  contrite,  and 
learn  it!  O,  thank  thy  Destiny  for  these; 
thankfully  bear  what  yet  remain:  thou  hadst 
need  of  them;  the  Self  in  thee  needed  to  be 
annihilated.  By  benignant  fever-paroxysms  is 
Life  rooting  out  the  deep-seated  chronic  Dis- 
ease, and  triumphs  over  Death.  On  the  roar- 
ing billows  of  Time,  thou  art  not  engulfed,  but 
borne  aloft  into  the  azure  of  Eternity.  Love 
not  Pleasure;  love  God.  This  is  the  Ever- 
lasting Yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is  solved: 
wherein  whoso  walks  and  works,  it  is  well  with 
him." 

And  again:  "Small  is  it  that  thou  canst 
trample  the  Earth  with  its  injuries  under  thy 
feet,  as  old  Greek  Zeno  trained  thee:  thou 
canst  love  the  Earth  while  it  injures  thee,  and 
even  because  it  injures  thee;  for  this  a  Greater 
than  Zeno  was  needed,  and  he  too  was  sent. 
Knowest  thou  that  '  Worship  of  Sorrow^  ?  The 
Temple  thereof,  founded  some  eighteen  cen- 
turies ago,  now  lies  in  ruins,  overgrown  with 
jungle,  the  habitation  of  doleful  creatures: 
nevertheless,  venture  forward;  in  a  low  crypt, 
arched  out  of  falling  fragments,  thou  findest 
the  Altar  still  there,  and  its  sacred  Lamp 
perennially  burning." 

Without  pretending  to  comment  on  which 


SARTOR    RESARTUS 


strange  utterances,  the  Editor  will  only  remark, 
that  there  lies  beside  them  much  of  a  still  more 
questionable  character;  unsuited  to  the  gen- 
eral apprehension;  nay,  wherein  he  himself 
does  not  see  his  way.  Nebulous  disquisitions 
on  Religion,  yet  not  whhout  bursts  of  splendour; 
on  the  "perennial  continuance  of  Inspiration"; 
on  Prophecy;  that  there  are  "true  Priests,  as 
well  as  Baal-Priests,  in  our  own  day":  with 
more  of  the  like  sort.  We  select  some  frac- 
tions, by  way  of  finish  to  this  farrago. 

"Cease,  my  much-respected  Herr  von 
Voltaire,"  thus  apostrophises  the  Professor: 
"shut  thy  sweet  voice;  for  the  task  appointed 
thee  seems  finished.  Sufficiently  hast  thou 
demonstrated  this  proposition,  considerable  or 
otherwise:  That  the  Alythus  of  the  Christian 
Religion  looks  not  in  the  eighteenth  century 
as  it  did  in  the  eighth.  Alas,  were  thy  six- 
and-thirty  quartos,  and  the  six-and-thirty  thou- 
sand other  quartos  and  folios,  and  flying  sheets 
or  reams,  printed  before  and  since  on  the 
same  subject,  all  needed  to  convince  us  of  so 
little!  But  what  next?  Wik  thou  help  us  to 
embody  the  divine  Spirit  of  that  Religion  in  a 
new  Mythus,  in  a  new  vehicle  and  vesture,  that 
our  Souls,  otherwise  too  like  perishing,  may 
live  ?  What !  thou  hast  no  faculty  in  that 
kind?  Only  a  torch  for  burning,  no  hammer 
for  building?  Take  our  thanks,  then,  and  — 
thyself  away. 

"Meanwhile  what  are  antiquated  Myth  uses 
to  me  ?  Or  is  the  God  present,  felt  in  my  own 
heart,  a  thing  which  Herr  von  Voltaire  will  dis- 
pute out  of  me;  or  dispute  into  me?  To  the 
'Worship  of  Sorrow^  ascribe  what  origin  and 
genesis  thou  pleasest,  has  not  that  Worship 
originated,  and  been  generated ;  is  it  not  here  ? 
Feel  it  in  thy  heart,  and  then  say  whether  it  is 
of  God !  This  is  Belief;  all  else  is  Opinion,  — 
for  which  latter  whoso  will,  let  him  worry  and 
be  worried." 

"Neither,"  observes  he  elsewhere,  "shall  ye 
tear-out  one  another's  eyes,  struggling  over 
'Plenary  Inspiration,'  and  such-like:  try  rather 
to  get  a  little  even  Partial  Inspiration,  each  of 
you  for  himself.  One  Bible  I  know,  of  whose 
Plenary  Inspiration  doubt  is  not  so  much  as 
possible;  nay  with  my  own  eyes  I  saw  the 
God's-Hand  writing  it:  thereof  all  other 
Bibles  are  but  Leaves,  —  say,  in  Picture-Writ- 
ing  to  assist  the  weaker  faculty." 

Or  to  give  the  wearied  reader  relief,  and 
bring  it  to  an  end,  let  him  take  the  following 
perhaps  more  intelligible  passage : 

"To  me,  in  this  our  life,"  says  the  Professor, 


"which  is  an  internecine  warfare  with  the  Time- 
spirit,  other  warfare  seems  questionable. 
Hast  thou  in  any  way  a  Contention  with  thy 
brother,  I  advise  thee,  think  well  what  the 
meaning  thereof  is.  If  thou  gauge  it  to  the 
bottom,  it  is  simply  this:  'Fellow,  see!  thou 
art  taking  more  than  thy  share  of  Happiness 
in  the  world,  something  from  tny  share:  which, 
by  the  Heavens,  thou  shalt  not;  nay,  I  will 
fight  thee  rather.'  —  Alas,  and  the  w'hole  lot 
to  be  divided  is  such  a  beggarly  matter,  truly 
a  'feast  of  shells,'  for  the  substance  has  been 
spilled  out :  not  enough  to  quench  one  .'\ppe- 
tite;  and  the  collective  human  species  clutch- 
ing at  them  !  —  Can  we  not,  in  all  such  cases, 
rather  say:  'Take  it,  thou  too-ravenous  indi- 
vidual; take  that  pitiful  additional  fraction  of 
a  share,  which  I  reckoned  mine,  but  which  thou 
so  wantest;  take  it  with  a  blessing:  would  to 
Heaven  I  had  enough  for  thee!'  —  If  Fichte's 
WissenscJiaftslehre  be,  'to  a  certain  extent. 
Applied  Christianity,'  surely  to  a  still  greater 
extent,  so  is  this.  We  have  here  not  a  Whole 
Duty  of  Man,  yet  a  Half  Duty,  namely,  the 
Passive  half:  could  we  but  do  it,  as  we  can 
demonstrate  it ! 

"But  indeed  Conviction,  were  it  never  so 
excellent,  is  worthless  till  it  convert  itself  into 
Conduct.  Nay,  properly  Conviction  is  not  pos- 
sible till  then;  inasmuch  as  all  Speculation 
is  by  nature  endless,  formless,  a  vortex  amid 
vortices:  only  by  a  felt  indubitable  certainty 
of  Experience  does  it  find  any  centre  to  revolve 
round,  and  so  fashion  itself  into  a  system. 
Most  true  is  it,  as  a  wise  man  teaches  us,  that 
'Doubt  of  any  sort  cannot  be  removed  except 
by  Action.'  On  which  ground,  too,  let  him 
who  gropes  painfully  in  darkness  or  uncertain 
light,  and  prays  vehemently  that  the  dawn  may 
ripen  into  day,  lay  this  other  precept  well  to 
heart,  which  to  me  was  of  invaluable  service: 
'Do  the  Duty  which  lies  nearest  thee,'  which 
thou  knowest  to  be  a  Duty !  Thy  second  Duty 
will  already  have  become  clearer. 

"INIay  we  not  say,  however,  that  the  hour  of 
Spiritual  Enfranchisement  is  even  this:  When 
your  Ideal  World,  wherein  the  whole  man  has 
been  dimly  struggling  and  inexpressibly  lan- 
guishing to  work,  becomes  revealed  and  thrown 
open;  and  you  discover,  \\\\.\\  amazement 
enough,  like  the  Lothario  in  Wilhelm  Meister, 
that  your  'America  is  here  or  nowhere'  ?  The 
Situation  that  has  not  its  Duty,  its  Ideal,  was 
never  yet  occupied  by  man.  Yes,  here,  in  this 
poor,  miserable,  hampered,  despicable  Actual, 
wherein    thou    even    now    standest,    here    or 


382 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


nowhere  is  thy  Ideal:  work  it  out  therefrom; 
and  working,  believe,  live,  be  free.  Fool !  the 
Ideal  is  in  thyself,  the  impediment  too  is  in 
thyself:  thy  Condition  is  but  the  stuff  thou  art 
to  shape  that  same  Ideal  out  of:  what  matters 
whether  such  stuff  be  of  this  sort  or  that,  so  the 
Form  thou  give  it  be  heroic,  be  poetic?  O 
thou  that  pinest  in  the  imprisonment  of  the 
Actual,  and  criest  bitterly  to  the  gods  for  a 
kingdom  wherein  to  rule  and  create,  know  this 
of  a  truth:  the  thing  thou  seekest  is  already 
with  thee,  'here  or  nowhere,'  couldst  thou  only  . 
see! 

"But  it  is  with  man's  Soul  as  it  was  with 
Nature:  the  beginning  of  Creation  is  —  Light. 
Till  the  eye  have  vision,  the  whole  members 
are  in  bonds.  Divine  moment,  when  over  the 
tempest-tost  Soul,  as  once  over  the  wild-welter- 
ing Chaos,  it  is  spoken:  Let  there  be  light! 
Ever  to  the  greatest  that  has  felt  such  moment, 
is  it  not  miraculous  and  God-announcing; 
even  as,  under  simpler  figures,  to  the  simplest 
and  least.  The  mad  primeval  Discord  is 
hushed;  the  rudely-jumbled  conflicting  ele- 
ments bind  themselves  into  separate  Firma- 
ments: deep  silent  rock-foundations  are  built 
beneath;  and  the  skyey  vault  with  its  ever- 
lasting Luminaries  above:  instead  of  a  dark 
wasteful  Chaos,  we  have  a  blooming,  fertile, 
Heaven-encompassed  World. 

"I  too  could  now  say  to  myself:  Be  no  lon- 
ger a  Chaos,  but  a  World,  or  even  Worldkin. 
Produce !  Produce !  Were  it  but  the  piti- 
fullest  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  Product,  pro- 
duce it,  in  God's  name !  'Tis  the  utmost  thou 
hast  in  thee:  out  with  it,  then.  Up,  up! 
Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with 
thy  whole  might.  Work  while  it  is  called  To- 
day; for  the  Night  cometh,  wherein  no  man 
can  work." 

THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD 
MACAULAY   (1800-1859) 

THE   HISTORY   OF   ENGLAND 

VOLUME   I 

From  Chapter  III 

I  intend,  in  this  chapter,  to  give  a  description 
of  the  state  in  which  England  was  at  the  time 
when  the  crown  passed  from  Charles  the 
Second  to  his  brother.  Such  a  description, 
composed  from  scanty  and  dispersed  materials, 
must  necessarily  be  very  imperfect.  Yet  it 
may  perhaps  correct  some  false  notions  which 


would  make   the  subsequent  narrative  unin- 
telligible or  uninstructive. 

If  we  would  study  with  profit  the  history  of 
our  ancestors,  we  must  be  constantly  on  our 
guard  against  that  delusion  which  the  well- 
known  names  of  families,  places,  and  offices 
naturally  produce,  and  must  never  forget  that 
the  country  of  which  we  read  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent country  from  that  in  which  we  live. 
In  every  experimental  science  there  is  a  ten- 
dency toward  perfection.  In  every  human 
being  there  is  a  wish  to  ameliorate  his  own 
condition.  These  two  principles  have  often 
sufficed,  even  when  counteracted  by  great  pub- 
lic calamities  and  by  bad  institutions,  to  carry 
civilisation  rapidly  forward.  No  ordinary 
misfortune,  no  ordinary  misgovemment,  wall 
do  so  much  to  make  a  nation  wretched,  as  the 
constant  progress  of  physical  knowledge  and 
the  constant  effort  of  every  man  to  better  him- 
self will  do  to  make  a  nation  prosperous. 
It  has  often  been  found  that  profuse  expen- 
diture, heavy  taxation,  absurd  commercial 
restrictions,  corrupt  tribunals,  disastrous  wars, 
seditions,  persecutions,  conflagrations,  inunda- 
tions, have  not  been  able  to  destroy  capital  so 
fast  as  the  exertions  of  private  citizens  have 
been  able  to  create  it.  It  can  easily  be  proved 
that,  in  our  own  land,  the  national  wealth  has, 
during  at  least  six  centuries,  been  almost  un- 
interruptedly increasing;  that  it  was  greater 
under  the  Tudors  than  under  the  Plantagenets; 
that  it  was  greater  under  the  Stuarts  than  un- 
der the  Tudors;  that,  in  spite  of  battles,  sieges, 
and  confiscations,  it  was  greater  on  the  day 
of  the  Restoration  than  on  the  day  when  the 
Long  Parliament  met;  that,  in  spite  of  mal- 
administration, of  extravagance,  of  public 
bankruptcy,  of  two  costly  and  unsuccessful 
wars,  of  the  pestilence  and  of  the  fire,  it  was 
greater  on  the  day  of  the  death  of  Charles  the 
Second  than  on  the  day  of  his  Restoration. 
This  progress,  having  continued  during  many 
ages,  became  at  length,  about  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  portentously  rapid, 
and  has  proceeded,  during  the  nineteenth,  with 
accelerated  velocity.  In  consequence  partly 
of  our  geographical  and  partly  of  our  moral 
position,  we  have,  during  several  generations, 
been  exempt  from  evils  which  have  elsewhere 
impeded  the  efforts  and  destroyed  the  fruits 
of  industry.  While  every  part  of  the  Con- 
tinent, from  Moscow  to  Lisbon,  has  been  the 
theatre  of  bloody  and  devastating  wars,  no 
hostile  standard  has  been  seen  here  but  as  a 
trophy.     While   revolutions  have  taken  place 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


3^3 


all  around  us,  our  government  has  never  once 
been  subverted  by  violence.  During  more 
than  a  hundred  years  there  has  been  in  our 
island  no  tumult  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
called  an  insurrection;  nor  has  the  law  been 
once  borne  down  either  by  popular  fury  or  by 
regal  tyranny:  public  credit  has  been  held  sa- 
cred: the  administration  of  justice  has  been 
pure:  even  in  times  which  might  by  English- 
men be  justly  called  evil  times,  we  have  en- 
joyed what  almost  every  other  nation  in  the 
world  would  have  considered  as  an  ample  meas- 
ure of  civil  and  religious  freedom.  Every  man 
has  felt  entire  confidence  that  the  state  would 
protect  him  in  the  possession  of  what  had  been 
earned  by  his  diligence  and  hoarded  by  his 
self-denial.  Under  the  benignant  influence  of 
peace  and  liberty,  science  has  flourished,  and 
has  been  applied  to  practical  purposes  on  a 
scale  never  before  known.  The  consequence 
is  that  a  change  to  which  the  history  of  the  old 
world  furnishes  no  parallel  has  taken  place  in 
our  country.  Could  the  England  of  1685  be, 
by  some  magical  process,  set  before  our  eyes, 
we  should  not  know  one  landscape  in  a  hundred 
or  one  building  in  ten  thousand.  The  country 
gentleman  would  not  recognise  his  own  fields. 
The  inhabitant  of  the  town  would  not  rec- 
ognise his  own  street.  Everything  has  been 
changed  but  the  great  features  of  nature,  and  a 
few  massive  and  durable  works  of  human  art. 
We  might  find  out  Snowdon  and  Windermere, 
the  Cheddar  Cliffs  and  Beachy  Head.  We 
might  find  out  here  and  there  a  Norman  min- 
ster, or  a  castle  which  witnessed  the  wars  of 
the  Roses.  But,  with  such  rare  exceptions, 
everything  would  be  strange  to  us.  Many 
thousands  of  square  miles  which  are  now  rich 
corn  land  and  meadow,  intersected  by  green 
hedgerows,  and  dotted  with  villages  and  pleas- 
ant country  seats,  would  appear  as  moors  over- 
grown with  furze,  or  fens  abandoned  to  wild 
ducks.  We  should  see  straggling  huts  built 
of  wood  and  covered  with  thatch,  where  we 
now  see  manufacturing  towns  and  seaports 
renowned  to  the  farthest  ends  of  the  world. 
The  capital  itself  would  shrink  to  dimensions 
not  much  exceeding  those  of  its  present  suburb 
on  the  south  of  the  Thames.  Not  less  strange 
to  us  would  be  the  garb  and  manners  of  the 
people,  the  furniture  and  the  equipages,  the 
interior  of  the  shops  and  dwellings.  Such  a 
change  in  the  state  of  a  nation  seems  to  be  at 
least  as  well  entitled  to  the  notice  of  a  hi.storian 
as  any  change  of  the  dynasty  or  of  the  ministry. 
One  of  the  first  objects  of  an  inquirer,  who 


wishes  to  form  a  correct  notion  of  the  state  of 
a  community  at  a  given  time,  must  be  to  as- 
certain of  how  many  persons  that  community 
then  consisted.  Unfortunately  the  population 
of  England  in  1685  cannot  be  ascertained  with 
perfect  accuracy.  For  no  great  state  had  then 
adopted  the  wise  course  of  periodically  num- 
bering the  people.  All  men  were  left  to  con- 
jecture for  themselves;  and,  as  they  generally 
conjectured  without  examining  facts,  and  under 
the  influence  of  strong  passions  and  prejudices, 
their  guesses  were  often  ludicrously  absurd. 
Even  intelligent  Londoners  ordinarily  talked  of 
London  as  containing  several  millions  of  .souls. 
It  was  confidently  asserted  by  many  that,  dur- 
ing the  thirty-five  years  which  had  elapsed  be- 
tween the  accession  of  Charles  the  First  and 
the  Restoration,  the  population  of  the  City 
had  increased  by  two  millions.  Even  while 
the  ravages  of  the  plague  and  fire  were  recent, 
it  was  the  fashion  to  say  that  the  capital  still 
had  a  million  and  a  half  of  inhabitants.  Some 
persons,  disgusted  by  these  exaggerations,  ran 
violently  into  the  opposite  extreme.  Thus 
Isaac  Vossius,  a  man  of  undoubted  parts  and 
learning,  strenuously  maintained  that  there 
were  only  two  millions  of  human  beings 
in  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  taken 
together. 

We  are  not,  however,  left  without  the  means 
of  correcting  the  wild  blunders  into  which  some 
minds  were  hurried  by  national  vanity  and 
others  by  a  morbid  love  of  paradox.  There 
are  extant  three  computations  which  seem 
to  be  entitled  to  peculiar  attention.  They  are 
entirely  independent  of  each  other:  they  pro- 
ceed on  different  princij^les;  and  yet  there  is 
little  difference  in  the  results. 

*        *****         * 

Of  these  three  estimates,  framed  without 
concert  by  different  pensons  from  different  sets 
of  materials,  the  highest,  which  is  that  of  King, 
does  not  exceed  the  lowest,  which  is  that  of 
Finlaison,  by  one  twelfth.  We  may,  therefore, 
with  confidence  pronounce  that,  when  James 
the  Second  reigned,  England  contained  between 
five  million  and  five  million  five  hundred  thou- 
sand inhabitants.  On  the  very  highest  sup- 
position she  then  had  less  than  one  third  of  her 
present  population,  and  less  than  three  times 
the  population  which  is  now  collected  in  her 
gigantic  capital. 

******* 

We  should  be  much  mistaken  if  we  pictured 
to  ourselves  the  squires  of  the  seventeenth 
century  as  men  bearing  a  close  resemblance  to 


384 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


their  descendants,  the  country  members  and 
chairmen  of  quarter  sessions  with  whom  we 
are  familiar.  The  modern  country  gentleman 
generally  receives  a  liberal  education,  passes 
from  a  distinguished  school  to  a  distinguished 
college,  and  has  ample  opportunity  to  become 
an  excellent  scholar.  He  has  generally  seen 
something  of  foreign  countries.  A  consider- 
able part  of  his  life  has  generally  been  passed 
in  the  capital ;  and  the  refinements  of  the  cap- 
ital follow  him  into  the  country.  There  is  per- 
haps no  class  of  dwellings  so  pleasing  as  the 
rural  seats  of  the  English  gentry.  In  the  parks 
and  pleasure  grounds,  nature,  dressed  yet  not 
disguised  by  art,  wears  her  most  alluring  form. 
In  the  buildings,  good  sense  and  good  taste 
combine  to  produce  a  happy  union  of  the  com- 
fortable and  the  graceful.  The  pictures,  the 
musical  instruments,  the  library,  would  in  any 
other  country  be  considered  as  proving  the 
owner  to  be  an  eminently  polished  and  ac- 
complished man.  A  country  gentleman  who 
witnessed  the  Revolution  was  probably  in  re- 
ceipt of  about  a  fourth  part  of  the  rent  which 
his  acres  now  yield  to  his  posterity.  He  was, 
therefore,  as  compared  with  his  posterity,  a 
poor  man,  and  was  generally  under  the  neces- 
sity of  residing,  with  little  interruption,  on  his 
estate.  To  travel  on  the  Continent,  to  main- 
tain an  establishment  in  London,  or  even  to 
visit  London  frequently,  were  pleasures  in 
which  only  the  great  proprietors  could  indulge. 
It  may  be  confidently  affirmed  that  of  the 
squires  whose  names  were  then  in  the  Com- 
missions of  Peace  and  Lieutenancy  not  one  in 
twenty  went  to  town  once  in  five  years,  or  had 
ever  in  his  life  wandered  so  far  as  Paris.  Many 
lords  of  manors  had  received  an  education  dif- 
fering little  from  that  of  their  menial  servants. 
The  heir  of  an  estate  often  passed  his  boyhood 
and  youth  at  the  seat  of  his  family  with  no  bet- 
ter tutors  than  grooms  and  gamekeepers,  and 
scarce  attained  learning  enough  to  sign  his 
name  to  a  Mittimus.  If  he  went  to  school  and 
to  college,  he  generally  returned  before  he  was 
twenty  to  the  seclusion  of  the  old  hall,  and 
there,  unless  his  mind  were  very  happily  con- 
stituted by  nature,  soon  forgot  his  academical 
pursuits  in  rural  business  and  pleasures.  His 
chief  serious  employment  was  the  care  of  his 
property.  He  examined  samples  of  grain, 
handled  pigs,  and,  on  market  days,  made  bar- 
gains over  a  tankard  with  drovers  and  hop 
merchants.  His  chief  pleasures  were  com- 
monly derived  from  field  sports  and  from  an 
unrefined  sensuality.     His  language  and  pro- 


nunciation were  such  as  we  should  now  expect 
to  hear  only  from  the  most  ignorant  clowns. 
His  oaths,  coarse  jests,  and  scurrilous  terms 
of  abuse,  were  uttered  with  the  broadest  accent 
of  his  province.  It  was  easy  to  discern,  from 
the  first  words  which  he  spoke,  whether  he 
came  from  Somersetshire  or  Yorkshire.  He 
troubled  himself  little  about  decorating  his 
abode,  and,  if  he  attempted  decoration,  seldom 
produced  anything  but  deformity.  The  litter 
of  a  farmyard  gathered  under  the  windows  of 
his  bedchamber,  and  the  cabbages  and  goose- 
berry bushes  grew  close  to  his  hall  door.  His 
table  was  loaded  with  coarse  plenty;  and  guests 
were  cordially  welcomed  to  it.  But,  as  the 
habit  of  drinking  to  excess  was  general  in  the 
class  to  which  he  belonged,  and  as  his  fortune 
did  not  enable  him  to  intoxicate  large  assemblies 
daily  with  claret  or  canary,  strong  beer  was  the 
ordinary  beverage.  The  quantity  of  beer  con- 
sumed in  those  days  was  indeed  enormous. 
For  beer  then  was  to  the  middle  and  lower 
classes,  not  only  all  that  beer  now  is,  but  all 
that  wine,  tea,  and  ardent  spirits  now  are. 
It  was  only  at  great  houses,  or  on  great  oc- 
casions, that  foreign  drink  was  placed  on  the 
board.  The  ladies  of  the  house,  whose  busi- 
ness it  had  commonly  been  to  cook  the  repast, 
retired  as  soon  as  the  dishes  had  been  devoured, 
and  left  the  gentlemen  to  their  ale  and  tobacco. 
The  coarse  jollity  of  the  afternoon  was  often 
prolonged  till  the  revellers  were  laid  under  the 
table. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  the  country  gentle- 
man caught  glimpses  of  the  great  world;  and 
what  he  saw  of  it  tended  rather  to  confuse  than 
to  enlighten  his  understanding.  His  opinions 
respecting  religion,  government,  foreign  coun- 
tries and  former  times,  having  been  derived, 
not  from  study,  from  observation,  or  from  con- 
versation with  enlightened  companions,  but 
from  such  traditions  as  were  current  in  his 
own  small  circle,  were  the  opinions  of  a  child. 
He  adhered  to  them,  however,  with  the  obsti- 
nacy which  is  generally  found  in  ignorant  men 
accustomed  to  be  fed  with  flattery.  His  ani- 
mosities were  numerous  and  bitter.  He  hated 
Frenchmen  and  Italians,  Scotchmen  and  Irish- 
men, Papists  and  Presb)i;erians,  Independents 
and  Baptists,  Quakers  and  Jews.  Towards 
London  and  Londoners  he  felt  an  aversion 
which  more  than  once  produced  important 
political  effects.  His  wife  and  daughter  were 
in  tastes  and  acquirements  below  a  housekeeper 
or  a  still-room  maid  of  the  present  day.  They 
stitched  and  spun,   brewed  gooseberry  wine, 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


385 


cured  marigolds,  and  made  tlie  crust  for  the 
venison  pasty. 

From  this  description  it  might  be  supposed 
that  the  English  esquire  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury did  not  materially  differ  from  a  rustic 
miller  or  alehouse  keeper  of  our  time.  There 
are,  hovi^ever,  some  important  parts  of  his  char- 
acter still  to  be  noted,  which  will  greatly  modify 
this  estimate.  Unlettered  as  he  was  and  un- 
polished, he  was  still  in  some  most  important 
points  a  gentleman.  He  was  a  member  of  a 
proud  and  powerful  aristocracy,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished by  many  both  of  the  good  and  of 
the  bad  qualities  which  belong  to  aristocrats. 
His  family  pride  was  beyond  that  of  a  Talbot 
or  a  Howard.  He  knew  the  genealogies  and 
coats  of  arms  of  all  his  neighbours,  and  could  tell 
which  of  them  had  assumed  supporters  without 
any  right,  and  which  of  them  were  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  be  great-grandsons  of  aldermen. 
He  was  a  magistrate,  and,  as  such,  administered 
gratuitously  to  those  who  dwelt  around  him  a 
rude  patriarchal  justice,  which,  in  spite  of  in- 
numerable blunders  and  of  occasional  acts  of 
tyranny,  was  yet  better  than  no  justice  at  all. 
He  was  an  officer  of  the  trainbands;  and  his 
military  dignity,  though  it  might  move  the  mirth 
of  gallants  who  had  served  a  campaign  in 
Flanders,  raised  his  character  in  his  own  eyes 
and  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours.  Nor  indeed 
was  his  soldiership  justly  a  subject  of  derision. 
In  every  county  there  were  elderly  gentlemen 
who  had  seen  service  which  was  no  child's 
play.  One  had  been  knighted  by  Charles  the 
First,  after  the  battle  of  Edgehill.  Another 
still  wore  a  patch  over  the  scar  which  he  had 
received  at  Naseby.  A  third  had  defended  his 
old  house  till  Fairfax  had  blown  in  the  door  with 
a  petard.  The  presence  of  these  old  Cavaliers, 
with  their  old  swords  and  holsters,  and  with 
their  old  stories  about  Goring  and  Lunsford, 
gave  to  the  musters  of  militia  an  earnest  and 
warlike  aspect  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  wanting.  Even  those  country  gentlemen 
who  were  too  young  to  have  themselves  ex- 
changed blows  with  the  cuirassiers  of  the  Par- 
liament had,  from  childhood,  been  surrounded 
by  the  traces  of  recent  war,  and  fed  with  stories 
of  the  martial  exploits  of  their  fathers  and 
uncles.  Thus  the  character  of  the  English 
esquire  of  the  seventeenth  century  was  com- 
pounded of  two  elements  which  we  seldom 
or  never  find  united.  His  ignorance  and  un- 
couthness,  his  low  tastes  and  gross  phrases, 
would,  in  our  time,  be  considered  as  indicating 
a  nature  and  a  breeding  thoroughly  plebeian. 


Yet  he  was  essentially  a  patrician,  and  had,  in 
large  measure,  both  the  virtues  and  the  vices 
which  flourish  among  men  set  from  their  birth 
in  high  place,  and  used  to  respect  themselves 
and  to  be  respected  by  others.  It  is  not  easy 
for  a  generation  accustomed  to  find  chivalrous 
sentiments  only  in  company  with  liberal  studies 
and  polished  manners  to  image  to  itself  a  man 
with  the  deportment,  the  vocabulary,  and  the 
accent  of  a  carter,  yet  punctilious  on  matters 
of  genealogy  and  precedence,  and  ready  to 
risk  his  life  rather  than  see  a  stain  cast  on  the 
honour  of  his  house.  It  is,  however,  only  by 
thus  joining  together  things  seldom  or  never 
found  together  in  our  own  experience  that  we 
can  form  a  just  idea  of  that  rustic  aristocracy 
which  constituted  the  main  strength  of  the 
■armies  of  Charles  the  First,  and  which  long 
supported,  with  strange  fidelity,  the  interest 
of  his   descendants. 

The  gross,  uneducated,  untravelled  country 
gentleman  was  commonly  a  Tory:  but,  though 
devotedly  attached  to  hereditary  monarchy,  he 
had  no  partiality  for  courtiers  and  ministers. 
He  thought,  not  without  reason,  that  Whitehall 
was  filled  with  the  most  corrupt  of  mankind, 
and  that  of  the  great  sums  which  the  House  of 
Commons  had  voted  to  the  Crown  since  the 
Restoration  part  had  been  embezzled  by  cun- 
ning politicians,  and  part  squandered  on  buf- 
foons and  foreign  courtesans.  His  stout  Eng- 
lish heart  swelled  with  indignation  at  the 
thought  that  the  government  of  his  country 
should  be  subject  to  French  dictation.  Being 
himself  generally  an  old  Cavalier,  or  the  son  of 
an  old  Cavalier,  he  reflected  with  bitter  resent- 
ment on  the  ingratitude  with  which  the  Stuarts 
had  requited  their  best  friends.  Those  who 
heard  him  grumble  at  the  neglect  with  which 
he  was  treated,  and  at  the  profusion  with  which 
wealth  was  lavished  on  the  bastards  of  Nell 
Gwynn  and  Madam  Carwell,  would  have  sup- 
posed him  ripe  for  rebellion.  But  all  this  ill 
humour  lasted  only  till  the  throne  was  really 
in  danger.  It  was  precisely  when  those  whom 
the  sovereign  had  loaded  with  wealth  and 
honours  shrank  from  his  side  that  the  country 
gentlemen,  so  surly  and  mutinous  in  the  season 
of  his  prosperity,  rallied  round  him  in  a  body. 
Thus,  after  murmuring  twenty  years  at  the 
misgovernment  of  Charles  the  Second,  they 
came  to  his  rescue  in  his  extremity,  when  his 
own  Secretaries  of  State  and  the  Lords  of  his 
own  Treasury  had  deserted  him,  and  enabled 
him  to  gain  a  complete  victory  over  the  opposi- 
tion;   nor  can  there  be  any  doubt  that  they 


i86 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


would  have  shown  equal  loyalty  to  his  brother 
James,  if  James  would,  even  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, have  refrained  from  outraging  their 
strongest  feeling.  For  there  was  one  institu- 
tion, and  one  only,  which  they  prized  even  more 
than  hereditary  monarchy;  and  that  institu- 
tion was  the  Church  of  England.  Their  love 
of  the  Church  was  not,  indeed,  the  effect  of 
study  or  meditation.  Few  among  them  could 
have  given  any  reason,  drawn  from  Scripture 
or  ecclesiastical  history,  for  adhering  to  her 
doctrines,  her  ritual,  and  her  polity;  nor  were 
they,  as  a  class,  by  any  means  strict  observers 
of  that  code  of  morality  which  is  common 
to  all  Christian  sects.  But  the  experience  of 
many  ages  proves  that  men  may  be  ready  to 
fight  to  the  death,  and  to  persecute  without 
pity,  for  a  religion  whose  creed  they  do  not  un- 
derstand, and  whose  precepts  they  habitually 
disobey. 

The  rural  clergy  were  even  more  vehement 
in  Toryism  than  the  rural  gentry,  and  were  a 
class  scarcely  less  important.  It  is  to  be  ob- 
served, however,  that  the  individual  clergyman, 
as  compared  with  the  individual  gentleman, 
then  ranked  much  lower  than  in  our  days.   .  .  . 

The  place  of  the  clergyman  in  society  had 
been  completely  changed  by  the  Reformation. 
Before  that  event,  ecclesiastics  had  formed  the 
majority  of  the  House  of  Lords,  had,  in  wealth 
and  splendour,  equalled,  and  sometimes  out- 
shone, the  greatest  of  the  temporal  barons,  and 
had  generally  held  the  highest  civil  offices. 
Many  of  the  Treasurers,  and  almost  all  the 
Chancellors  of  the  Plantagenets,  were  bishops. 
The  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Privy  Seal  and  the 
Master  of  the  Rolls  were  ordinarily  churchmen. 
Churchmen  transacted  the  most  important 
diplomatic  business.  Indeed,  all  that  large 
portion  of  the  administration  which  rude  and 
warlike  nobles  were  incompetent  to  conduct 
was  considered  as  especially  belonging  to 
divines.  Men,  therefore,  who  were  averse  to 
the  life  of  camps,  and  who  were,  at  the  same 
time,  desirous  to  rise  in  the  state,  commonly 
received  the  tonsure.  Among  them  were  sons 
of  all  the  most  illustrious  families,  and  near 
kinsmen  of  the  throne.  Scroops  and  Nevilles, 
Bourchiers,  Staffords,  and  Poles.  To  the  re- 
ligious houses  belonged  the  rents  of  immense 
domains,  and  all  that  large  portion  of  the  tithe 
which  is  now  in  the  hands  of  laymen.  Down 
to  the  middle  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
therefore,  no  line  of  life  was  so  attractive  to 
ambitious  and  covetous  natures  as  the  priest- 
hood.    Then  came  a  violent  revolution.     The 


abolition  of  the  monasteries  deprived  the 
Church  at  once  of  the  greater  part  of  her 
wealth,  and  of  her  predominance  in  the  Upper 
House  of  Parliament.  There  was  no  longer 
an  Abbot  of  Glastonbury  or  an  Abbot  of  Read- 
ing seated  among  the  peers,  and  possessed  of 
revenues  equal  to  those  of  a  powerful  Earl. 
The  princely  splendour  of  William  of  Wykeham 
and  of  William  of  Waynflete  had  disappeared. 
The  scarlet  hat  of  the  Cardinal,  the  silver  cross 
of  the  Legate,  were  no  more.  The  clergy  had 
also  lost  the  ascendency  which  is  the  natural 
reward  of  superior  mental  cultivation.  Once 
the  circumstance  that  a  man  could  read  had 
raised  a  presumption  that  he  was  in  orders. 
But,  in  an  age  which  produced  such  laymen 
as  William  Cecil  and  Nicholas  Bacon,  Roger 
Ascham  and  Thomas  Smith,  Walter  Mildmay 
and  Francis  Walsingham,  there  was  no  reason 
for  calling  away  prelates  from  their  dioceses  to 
negotiate  treaties,  to  superintend  the  finances, 
or  to  administer  justice.  The  spiritual  char- 
acter not  only  ceased  to  be  a  qualification  for 
high  civil  office,  but  began  to  be  regarded  as  a 
disqualification.  Those  worldly  motives,  there- 
fore, which  had  formerly  induced  so  many  able, 
aspiring,  and  high-born  youths  to  assume  the 
ecclesiastical  habit,  ceased  to  operate.  Not  one 
parish  in  two  hundred  then  afforded  what  a 
man  of  family  considered  as  a  maintenance. 
There  were  still  indeed  prizes  in  the  Church: 
but  they  were  few:  and  even  the  highest  were 
mean,  when  compared  with  the  glory  which 
had  once  surrounded  the  princes  of  the  hie- 
rarchy. The  state  kept  by  Parker  and  Grindal 
seemed  beggarly  to  those  who  remembered 
the  imperial  pomp  of  Wolsey,  his  palaces, 
which  had  become  the  favourite  abodes  of 
royalty,  Whitehall  and  Hampton  Court,  the 
three  sumptuous  tables  daily  spread  in  his 
refectory,  the  forty-four  gorgeous  copes  in  his 
chapel,  his  running  footmen  in  rich  liveries, 
and  his  bodyguards  with  gilded  poleaxes. 
Thus  the  sacerdotal  office  lost  its  attraction 
for  the  higher  classes.  During  the  century 
which  followed  the  accession  of  Elizabeth, 
scarce  a  single  person  of  noble  descent  took 
orders.  At  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  two  sons  of  peers  were  Bishops; 
four  or  five  sons  of  peers  were  priests,  and  held 
valuable  preferment ;  but  these  rare  exceptions 
did  not  take  away  the  reproach  which  lay  on 
the  body.  The  clergy  were  regarded  as,  on  the 
whole,  a  plebeian  class.  And,  indeed,  for  one 
who  made  the  figure  of  a  gentleman,  ten  were 
mere  menial  servants.      A  large  proportion  of 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


3^7 


those  divines  who  had  no  benefices,  or  whose 
benefices  were  too  small  to  afford  a  comfortable 
revenue,  lived  in  the  houses  of  laymen.  It  had 
long  been  evident  that  this  practice  tended 
to  degrade  the  priestly  character.  Laud  had 
exerted  himself  to  effect  a  change ;  and  Charles 
the  First  had  repeatedly  issued  positive  orders 
that  none  but  men  of  high  rank  should  presume 
to  keep  domestic  chaplains.  But  these  injunc- 
tions had  become  obsolete.  Indeed,  during 
the  domination  of  the  Puritans,  many  of  the 
ejected  ministers  of  the  Church  of  England 
could  obtain  bread  and  shelter  only  by  attach- 
ing themselves  to  the  households  of  Royalist 
gentlemen;  and  the  habits  which  had  been 
formed  in  those  times  of  trouble  continued  long 
after  the  reestablishment  of  monarchy  and 
episcopacy.  In  the  mansions  of  men  of  liberal 
sentiments  and  cultivated  understandings,  the 
chaplain  was  doubtless  treated  with  urbanity 
and  kindness.  His  conversation,  his  literary 
assistance,  his  spiritual  advice,  were  considered 
as  an  ample  return  for  his  food,  his  lodging, 
and  his  stipend.  But  this  was  not  the  general 
feeling  of  the  country  gentlemen.  The  coarse 
and  ignorant  squire,  who  thought  that  it  be- 
longed to  his  dignity  to  have  grace  said  every 
day  at  his  table  by  an  ecclesiastic  in  full  canon- 
icals, found  means  to  reconcile  dignity  with 
economy.  A  young  Levite  —  such  was  the 
phrase  then  in  use  —  might  be  had  for  his 
board,  a  small  garret,  and  ten  pounds  a  year, 
and  might  not  only  perform  his  own  professional 
functions,  might  not  only  be  the  most  patient 
of  butts  and  of  listeners,  might  not  only  be 
always  ready  in  fine  weather  for  bowls,  and  in 
rainy  weather  for  shovel-board,  but  might  also 
save  the  expense  of  a  gardener  or  of  a  groom. 
Sometimes  the  reverend  man  nailed  up  the 
apricots;  and  sometimes  he  curried  the  coach- 
horses.  He  cast  up  the  farrier's  bills.  He 
walked  ten  miles  with  a  message  or  a  parcel. 
He  was  permitted  to  dine  with  the  family; 
but  he  was  expected  to  content  him.self  with  the 
plainest  fare.  He  might  fill  himself  with  the 
corned  beef  and  the  carrots :  but,  as  soon  as  the 
tarts  and  cheese-cakes  made  their  appearance, 
he  quitted  his  seat,  and  stood  aloof  till  he  was 
summoned  to  return  thanks  for  the  repast, 
from  a  great  part  of  which  he  had  been  ex- 
cluded. 

Perhaps,  after  some  years  of  service,  he  was 
presented  to  a  living  sufficient  to  support  him ; 
but  he  often  found  it  necessary  to  purchase  his 
preferment  by  a  species  of  Simony,  which  fur- 
nished an  inexhaustible  subject  of  pleasantry 


to  three  or  four  generations  of  scoffers.  With 
his  cure  he  was  expected  to  take  a  wife.  The 
wife  had  ordinarily  been  in  the  patron's  ser- 
vice; and  it  was  well  if  she  was  not  suspected 
of  standing  too  high  in  the  patron's  favour. 
Indeed,  the  nature  of  the  matrimonial  con- 
nections which  the  clergymen  of  that  age 
were  in  the  habit  of  forming  is  the  most  certain 
indication  of  the  place  which  the  order  held 
in  the  social  system.  An  O.xonian,  writing  a  few 
months  after  the  death  of  Charles  the  Second, 
complained  bitterly,  not  only  that  the  country 
attorney  and  the  country  apothecary  looked 
down  with  disdain  on  the  country  clergyman, 
but  that  one  of  the  lessons  most  earnestly 
inculcated  on  every  girl  of  honourable  family 
was  to  give  no  encouragement  to  a  lover  in 
orders,  and  that,  if  any  young  lady  forgot  this 
precept,  she  was  almost  as  much  disgraced  as 
by  an  illicit  amour.  Clarendon,  who  assuredly 
bore  no  ill  will  to  the  priesthood,  mentions  it  as 
a  sign  of  the  confusion  of  ranks  which  the  great 
rebellion  had  produced,  that  some  damsels 
of  noble  families  had  bestowed  themselves  on 
divines.  A  waiting-woman  was  generally  con- 
sidered as  the  most  suitable  helpmate  for  a 
parson.  Queen  Elizabeth,  as  head  of  the 
Church,  had  given  what  seemed  to  be  a  formal 
sanction  to  this  prejudice,  by  issuing  special 
orders  that  no  clergyman  should  presume  to 
espouse  a  servant  girl,  without  the  consent  of 
the  master  or  mistress.  During  several  genera- 
tions accordingly  the  relation  between  divines 
and  handmaidens  was  a  theme  for  endless  jest; 
nor  would  it  be  easy  to  find,  in  the  comedy  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  a  single  instance  of  a 
clergyman  who  wins  a  spouse  above  the  rank 
of  a  cook.  Even  so  late  as  the  time  of  George 
the  Second,  the  keenest  of  all  observers  of  life 
and  manners,  himself  a  priest,  remarked  that, 
in  a  great  household,  the  chaj)lain  was  the 
resource  of  a  lady's  maid  whose  character  had 
been  blown  upon,  and  who  was  therefore  forced 
to  give  up  hopes  of  catching  the  steward. 

In  general  the  divine  who  quitted  his  chap- 
lainship  for  a  benefice  and  a  wife  found  that  he 
had  only  exchanged  one  class  of  vexations  for 
another.  Hardly  one  living  in  fifty  enabled  the 
incumbent  to  bring  up  a  family  comfortablw 
As  children  multiplied  and  grew,  the  household 
of  the  priest  became  more-  and  more  beggarly. 
Holes  appeared  more  and  more  plainly  in 
the  thatch  of  his  parsonage  and  in  his  single 
cassock.  Often  it  was  only  by  toiling  on 
his  glebe,  by  feeding  swine,  and  by  load- 
ing   dung-carts,  that    he    could    obtain    daily 


388 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


bread;  nor  did  his  utmost  exertions  always 
prevent  the  baihffs  from  taking  his  concordance 
and  his  inkstand  in  execution.  It  was  a  white 
day  on  which  he  was  admitted  into  the  kitchen 
of  a  great  house,  and  regaled  by  the  servants 
with  cold  meat  and  ale.  His  children  were 
brought  up  like  the  children  of  the  neigh- 
bouring peasantry.  His  boys  followed  the 
plough;  and  his  girls  went  out  to  service. 
Study  he  found  impossible;  for  the  advowson 
of  his  living  would  hardly  have  sold  for  a 
sum  sufficient  to  purchase  a  good  theological 
library;  and  he  might  be  considered  as  un- 
usually lucky  if  he  had  ten  or  twelve  dog- 
eared volumes  among  the  pots  and  pans  on  his 
shelves.  Even  a  keen  and  strong  intellect 
might  be  expected  to  rust  in  so  unfavourable 
a  situation. 

Assuredly  there  was  at  that  time  no  lack  in 
the  English  Church  of  ministers  distinguished 
by  abilities  and  learning.  But  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served that  these  ministers  were  not  scattered 
among  the  rural  population.  They  were 
brought  together  at  a  few  places  where  the 
means  of  acquiring  knowledge  were  abundant, 
and  where  the  opportunities  of  vigorous 
intellectual  exercise  were  frequent.  At  such 
places  were  to  be  found  divines  qualified  by 
parts,  by  eloquence,  by  wide  knowledge  of 
literature,  of  science,  and  of  life,  to  defend  their 
Church  victoriously  against  heretics  and  scep- 
tics, to  command  the  attention  of  frivolous  and 
worldly  congregations,  to  guide  the  delibera- 
tions of  senates,  and  to  make  religion  respect- 
able, even  in  the  most  dissolute  of  courts. 
Some  laboured  to  fathom  the  abysses  of  meta- 
physical theology;  some  were  deeply  versed 
in  biblical  criticism;  and  some  threw  light  on 
the  darkest  parts  of  ecclesiastical  history. 
Some  proved  themselves  consummate  masters 
of  logic.  Some  cultivated  rhetoric  with  such 
assiduity  and  success  that  their  discourses  are 
still  justly  valued  as  models  of  style.  These 
eminent  men  were  to  be  found,  with  scarcely 
a  single  exception,  at  the  Universities,  at  the 
great  Cathedrals,  or  in  the  capital.  Barrow 
had  lately  died  at  Cambridge,  and  Pearson 
had  gone  thence  to  the  episcopal  bench.  Cud- 
worth  and  Henry  More  were  still  living  there. 
South  and  Pococke,  Jane  and  Aldrich,  were  at 
Oxford,  Prideaux  was  in  the  close  of  Norwich, 
and  Whitby  in  the  close  of  Salisbury.  But  it 
was  chiefly  by  the  London  clergy,  who  were 
always  spoken  of  as  a  class  apart,  that  the 
fame  of  their  profession  for  learning  and  elo- 
quence was  upheld.     The  principal  pulpits  of 


the  metropolis  were  occupied  about  this  time 
by  a  crowd  of  distinguished  men,  from  among 
whom  was  selected  a  large  proportion  of  the 
rulers  of  the  Church.  Sherlock  preached  at 
the  Temple,  Tillotson  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  Wake 
and  Jeremy  Collier  at  Gray's  Inn,  Burnet  at  the 
Rolls,  Stillingfleet  at  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral, 
Patrick  at  Saint  Paul's  in  Covent  Garden, 
Fowler  at  Saint  Giles's,  Cripplegate,  Sharp  at 
Saint  Giles's  in  the  Fields,  Tenison  at  Saint 
Martin's,  Sprat  at  Saint  Margaret's,  Beveridge 
at  Saint  Peter's  in  Cornhill.  Of  these  twelve 
men,  all  of  high  note  in  ecclesiastical  history, 
ten  became  Bishops,  and  four  Archbishops. 
Meanwhile  almost  the  only  important  theologi- 
cal works  which  came  forth  from  a  rural  par- 
sonage were  those  of  George  Bull,  afterward 
Bishop  of  Saint  David's;  and  Bull  never  would 
have  produced  those  works,  had  he  not  in- 
herited an  estate,  by  the  sale  of  which  he  was 
enabled  to  collect  a  library,  such  as  probably  no 
other  country  clergyman  in  England  possessed. 

Thus  the  Anglican  priesthood  was  divided 
into  two  sections,  which,  in  acquirements,  in 
manners,  and  in  social  position,  differed  widely 
from  each  other.  One  section,  trained  for 
cities  and  courts,  comprised  men  familiar  with 
all  ancient  and  modern  learning;  men  able  to 
encounter  Hobbes  or  Bossuet  at  all  the  weapons 
of  controversy;  men  who  could,  in  their  ser- 
mons, set  forth  the  majesty  and  beauty  of 
Christianity  with  such  justness  of  thought, 
and  such  energy  of  language,  that  the  indolent 
Charles  roused  himself  to  listen,  and  the  fas- 
tidious Buckingham  forgot  to  sneer;  men 
whose  address,  politeness,  and  knowledge  of 
the  world  qualified  them  to  manage  the  con- 
sciences of  the  wealthy  and  noble;  men 
with  whom  Halifax  loved  to  discuss  the  inter- 
ests of  empires,  and  from  whom  Dryden  was 
not  ashamed  to  own  that  he  had  learned  to 
write.  The  other  section  was  destined  to  ruder 
and  humbler  service.  It  was  dispersed  over 
the  country,  and  consisted  chiefly  of  persons 
not  at  all  wealthier,  and  not  much  more  re- 
fined, than  small  farmers  or  upper  servants. 
Yet  it  was  in  these  rustic  priests,  who  derived 
but  a  scanty  subsistence  from  their  tithe  sheaves 
and  tithe  pigs,  and  who  had  not  the  smallest 
chance  of  ever  attaining  high  professional  hon- 
ours, that  the  professional  spirit  was  strongest. 
******* 

Great  as  has  been  the  change  in  the  rural 
life  of  England  since  the  Revolution,  the  change 
which  has  come  to  pass  in  the  cities  is  still 
more  amazing.     At  present  above  a  sixth  part 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


389 


of  the  nation  is  crowded  into  provincial  towns 
of  more  than  thirty  thousand  inhabitants. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  no  provincial 
town  in  the  kingdom  contained  thirty  thousand 
inhabitants;  and  only  four  provincial  towns 
contained  so  many  as  ten  thousand  inhabitants. 
******* 

The  position  of  London,  relatively  to  the 
other  towns  of  the  empire,  was,  in  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Second,  far  higher  than  at  present. 
For  at  present  the  population  of  London  is 
little  more  than  six  times  the  population  of 
Manchester  or  of  Liverpool.  In  the  days  of 
Charles  the  Second  the  population  of  London 
was  more  than  seventeen  times  the  population 
of  Bristol  or  of  Norwich.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  any  other  instance  can  be  mentioned 
of  a  great  kingdom  in  which  the  first  city  was 
more  than  seventeen  times  as  large  as  the 
second.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that,  in 
1685,  London  had  been,  during  about  half  a 
century,  the  most  populous  capital  in  Europe. 
The  inhabitants,  who  are  now  at  least  nineteen 
hundred  thousand,  were  then  probably  little 
more  than  half  a  million.  London  had  in  the 
world  only  one  commercial  rival,  now  long 
ago  outstripped,  the  mighty  and  opulent  Am- 
sterdam. English  writers  boasted  of  the 
forest  of  masts  and  yardarms  which  covered 
the  river  from  the  Bridge  to  the  Tower,  and  of 
the  stupendous  sums  which  were  collected  at 
the  Custom  House  in  Thames  Street.  There  is, 
indeed,  no  doubt  that  the  trade  of  the  metropolis 
then  bore  a  far  greater  proportion  than  at  pres- 
ent to  the  whole  trade  of  the  country;  yet  to 
our  generation  the  honest  vaunting  of  our 
ancestors  must  appear  almost  ludicrous.  The 
shipping  which  they  thought  incredibly  great 
appears  not  to  have  exceeded  seventy  thou- 
sand tons.  This  was,  indeed,  then  more  than 
a  third  of  the"  whole  tonnage  of  the  kingdom, 
but  is  now  less  than  a  fourth  of  the  tonnage 
of  Newcastle,  and  is  nearly  equalled  by  the 
tonnage  of  the  steam  vessels  of  the  Thames. 
The  customs  of  London  amounted,  in  1685, 
to  about  three  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  In  our  time  the  net  duty 
paid  annually,  at  the  same  place,  exceeds  ten 
millions. 

Whoever  examines  the  maps  of  London 
which  were  published  toward  the  close  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second  will  see  that  only 
the  nucleus  of  the  present  capital  then  existed. 
The  town  did  not,  as  now,  fade  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  into  the  country.  No  long 
avenues   of   villas,   embowered   in   lilacs   and 


laburnums,  extended  from  the  great  centre 
of  wealth  and  civilisation  almost  to  the  boun- 
daries of  Middlesex  and  far  into  the  heart  of 
Kent  and  Surrey.  In  the  east,  no  part  of  the 
immense  line  of  warehouses  and  artificial  lakes 
which  now  stretches  from  the  Tower  to  Black- 
wall  had  even  been  projected.  On  the  west, 
scarcely  one  of  those  stately  piles  of  building 
which  are  inhabited  by  the  noble  and  wealthy 
was  in  existence;  and  Chelsea,  which  is  now 
peopled  by  more  than  forty  thousand  human 
beings,  was  a  quiet  country  village  with  about 
a  thousand  inhabitants.  On  the  north,  cattle 
fed,  and  sportsmen  wandered  with  dogs  and 
guns,  over  the  site  of  the  borough  of  Maryle- 
bone,  and  over  far  the  greater  part  of  the  space 
now  covered  by  the  boroughs  of  Finsbury 
and  of  the  Tower  Hamlets.  Islington  was 
almost  a  solitude;  and  poets  loved  to  contrast 
its  silence  and  repose  with  the  din  and  turmoil 
of  the  monster  London.  On  the  south  the 
capital  is  now  connected  with  its  suburb  by 
several  bridges,  not  inferior  in  magnificence  and 
solidity  to  the  noblest  works  of  the  Ca^ars. 
In  1685,  a  single  line  of  irregular  arches,  over- 
hung by  piles  of  mean  and  crazy  houses,  and 
garnished,  after  a  fashion  worthy  of  the  naked 
barbarians  of  Dahomy,  with  scores  of  moulder- 
ing heads,  impeded  the  navigation  of  the  river. 
Of  the  metropolis,  the  City,  properly  so 
called,  was  the  most  important  division.  At 
the  time  of  the  Restoration  it  had  been  built, 
for  the  most  part,  of  wood  and  plaster;  the 
few  bricks  that  were  used  were  ill  baked;  the 
booths  where  goods  were  exposed  to  sale  pro- 
jected far  into  the  streets,  and  were  overhung 
by  the  upper  stories.  A  few  specimens  of  this 
architecture  may  still  be  seen  in  those  dis- 
tricts which  were  not  reached  by  the  great  fire. 
That  fire  had,  in  a  few  days,  covered  a  space  of 
less  than  a  square  mile  with  the  ruins  of  eighty- 
nine  churches  and  of  thirteen  thousand  houses. 
But  the  City  had  risen  again  with  a  celerity 
which  had  excited  the  admiration  of  neighbouring 
countries.  Unfortunately,  the  old  lines  of  the 
streets  had  been  to  a  great  extent  preserved; 
and  those  lines,  originally  traced  in  an  age 
when  even  princesses  performed  their  journeys 
on  horseback,  were  often  too  narrow  to  allow 
wheeled  carriages  to  pass  each  other  with  ease, 
and  were  therefore  ill  adapted  for  the  residence 
of  wealthy  persons  in  an  age  when  a  coach 
and  six  was  a  fashionable  luxury.  The  style  of 
building  was,  however,  far  superior  to  that  of 
the  City  which  had  ])crishcd.  The  ordinary 
material   was   brick,   of   much   better  qualit)! 


390 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


than  had  formerly  been  used.  On  the  sites 
of  the  ancient  parish  churches  had  arisen  a 
multitude  of  new  domes,  towers,  and  spires 
which  bore  the  mark. of  the  fertile  genius  of 
Wren.  In  every  place  save  one  the  traces  of 
the  great  devastation  had  been  completely 
effaced.  But  the  crowds  of  workmen,  the 
scaffolds,  and  the  masses  of  hewn  stone  were 
still  to  be  seen  where  the  noblest  of  Protestant 
temples  was  slowly  rising  on  the  ruins  of  the 
old  Cathedral  of  Saint  Paul. 

******* 

He  who  then  rambled  to  what  is  now  the 
gayest  and  most  crowded  part  of  Regent  Street 
found  himself  in  a  solitude,  and  was  sometimes 
so  fortunate  as  to  have  a  shot  at  a  woodcock. 
On  the  north  the  O.xford  road  ran  between 
hedges.  Three  or  four  hundred  yards  to  the 
south  were  the  garden  walls  of  a  few  great 
houses  which  were  considered  as  cjuite  out  of 
town.  On  the  west  was  a  meadow  renowned 
for  a  spring  from  which,  long  afterwards,  Con- 
duit Street  was  named.  On  the  east  was  a  field 
not  to  be  passed  without  a  shudder  by  any 
Londoner  of  that  age.  There,  as  in  a  place 
far  from  the  haunts  of  men,  had  been  dug, 
twenty  years  before,  when  the  great  plague  was 
raging,  a  pit  into  which  the  dead  carts  had 
nightly  shot  corpses  by  scores.  It  was  popularly 
believed  that  the  earth  was  deeply  tainted  with 
infection,  and  could  not  be  disturbed  without 
imminent  risk  to  human  life.  No  foundations 
were  laid  there  till  two  generations  had  passed 
without  any  return  of  the  pestilence,  and  till 
the  ghastly  spot  had  long  been  surrounded  by 
buildings. 

We  should  greatly  err  if  we  were  to  suppose 
that  any  of  the  streets  and  squares  then  bore 
the  same  aspect  as  at  present.  The  great 
majority  of  the  houses,  indeed,  have,  since 
that  time,  been  wholly,  or  in  great  part,  rebuilt. 
If  the  most  fashionable  parts  of  the  capital 
could  be  placed  before  us  such  as  they  then 
were,  we  should  be  disgusted  by  their  squalid 
appearance,  and  poisoned  by  their  noisome 
atmosphere. 

In  Covent  Garden  a  filthy  and  noisy  market 
was  held  close  to  the  dwellings  of  the  great. 
Fruit  women  screamed,  carters  fought,  cab- 
bage stalks  and  rotten  apples  accumulated  in 
heaps  at  the  thresholds  of  the  Countess  of 
Berkshire  and  of  the  Bishop  of  Durham. 

The  centre  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  was  an 
open  space  where  the  rabble  congregated  every 
evening,  within  a  few  yards  of  Cardigan  House 
and  Winchester  House,  to  hear  mountebanks 


harangue,  to  see  bears  dance,  and  to  set  dogs 
at  oxen.  Rubbish  was  shot  in  every  part  of 
the  area.  Horses  were  exercised  there.  The 
beggars  were  as  noisy  and  importunate  as  in 
the  worst  governed  cities  of  the  Continent. 
A  Lincoln's  Inn  mumper  was  a  proverb.  The 
whole  fraternity  knew  the  arms  and  liveries  of 
every  charitably  disposed  grandee  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and,  as  soon  as  his  lordship's  coach 
and  six  appeared,  came  hopping  and  crawling 
in  crowds  to  persecute  him.  These  disorders 
lasted,  in  spite  of  many  accidents,  and  of  some 
legal  proceedings,  till,  in  the  reign  of  George 
the  Second,  Sir  Joseph  Jekyll,  Master  of  the 
Rolls,  was  knocked  down  and  nearly  killed  in 
the  middle  of  the  square.  Then  at  length 
palisades  were  set  up,  and  a  pleasant  garden 
laid  out. 

Saint  James's  Square  was  a  receptacle  for  all 
the  offal  and  cinders,  for  all  the  dead  cats  and 
dead  dogs  of  Westminster.  At  one  time  a 
cudgel  player  kept  the  ring  there.  At  another 
time  an  impudent  squatter  settled  himself 
there,  and  built  a  shed  for  rubbish  under  the 
windows  of  the  gilded  saloons  in  which  the 
first  magnates  of  the  realm,  Norfolk,  Ormond, 
Kent,  and  Pembroke,  gave  banquets  and  balls. 
It  was  not  till  these  nuisances  had  lasted  through 
a  whole  generation,  and  till  much  had  been 
written  about  them,  that  the  inhabitants 
applied  to  Parliament  for  permission  to  put  up 
rails,  and  to  plant  trees. 

When  such  was  the  state  of  the  region  in- 
habited by  the  most  luxurious  portion  of  soci- 
ety, we  may  easily  believe  that  the  great  body 
of  the  population  suffered  what  would  now  be 
considered  as  insupportable  grievances.  The 
pavement  was  detestable:  all  foreigners  cried 
shame  upon  it.  The  drainage  was  so  bad  that 
in  rainy  weather  the  gutters  soon  became 
torrents.  Several  facetious  poets  have  com- 
memorated the  fury  with  which  these  black 
rivulets  roared  down  Snow  Hill  and  Ludgate 
Hill,  bearing  to  Fleet  Ditch  a  vast  tribute  of 
animal  and  vegetable  filth  from  the  stalls  of 
butchers  and  green -grocers.  This  flood  was 
profusely  thrown  to  right  and  left  by  coaches 
and  carts.  To  keep  as  far  from  the  carriage 
road  as  possible  was  therefore  the  wish  of  every 
pedestrian.  The  mild  and  timid  gave  the 
wall.  The  bold  and  athletic  took  it.  If  two 
roisterers  met,  they  cocked  their  hats  in  each 
other's  faces,  and  pushed  each  other  about  till 
the  weaker  was  shoved  towards  the  kennel. 
If  he  was  a  mere  bully  he  sneaked  off,  mutter- 
ing  that  he  should   find  a  time.     If   he  was 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


391 


pugnacious,  the  encounter  probably  ended  in 
a  duel  behind  Montague  House. 

The  houses  were  not  numbered.  There 
would  indeed  have  been  little  advantage  in 
numbering  them;  for  of  the  coachmen,  chair- 
men, porters,  and  errand  boys  of  London,  a 
very  small  proportion  could  read.  It  was 
necessary  to  use  marks  which  the  most  ignorant 
could  understand.  The  shops  were  therefore 
distinguished  by  painted  or  sculptured  signs, 
which  gave  a  gay  and  grotesque  aspect  to 
the  streets.  The  walk  from  Charing  Cross  to 
Whitechapel  lay  through  an  endless  succession 
of  Saracens'  Heads,  Royal  Oaks,  Blue  Bears, 
and  Golden  Lambs,  which  disappeared  when 
they  were  no  longer  required  for  the  direction 
of  the  common  people. 

When  the  evening  closed  in,  the  difficulty 
and  danger  of  walking  about  London  became 
serious  indeed.  The  garret  windows  were 
opened,  and  pails  were  emptied,  with  little 
regard  to  those  who  were  passing  below. 
Falls,  bruises,  and  broken  bones  were  of  con- 
stant occurrence.  For,  till  the  last  year  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  most  of  the  streets 
were  left  in  profound  darkness.  Thieves  and 
robbers  plied  their  trade  with  impunity:  yet 
they  were  hardly  so  terrible  to  peaceable  citizens 
as  another  class  of  ruffians.  It  was  a  favourite 
amusement  of  dissolute  young  gentlemen  to 
swagger  by  night  about  the  town,  breaking 
windows,  upsetting  sedans,  beating  quiet  men, 
and  offering  rude  caresses  to  pretty  women. 
Several  dynasties  of  these  tyrants  had,  since  the 
Restoration,  domineered  over  the  streets.  The 
Muns  and  Tityre  Tus  had  given  place  to  the 
Hectors,  and  the  Hectors  had  been  recently  suc- 
ceeded by  the  Scourers.  At  a  later  period  arose 
the  Nicker,  the  Hawcubite,  and  the  yet  more 
dreaded  name  of  Mohawk.  The  machinery 
for  keeping  the  peace  was  utterly  contemptible. 
There  was  an  Act  of  Common  Council  which 
provided  that  more  than  a  thousand  watch- 
men should  be  constantly  on  the  alert  in  the 
city,  from  sunset  to  sunrise,  and  that  every 
inhabitant  should  take  his  turn  of  duty.  But 
this  Act  was  negligently  executed.  Few  of 
those  who  were  summoned  left  their  homes; 
and  those  few  generally  found  it  more  agree- 
able to  tipple  in  alehouses  than  to  pace  the 
streets. 

It  ought  to  be  noticed  that,  in  the  last  year  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  began  a  great 
change  in  the  police  of  London,  a  change  which 
has  perhaps  added  as  much  to  the  happiness 
of  the  body  of  the  people  as  revolutions  of  much 


greater  fame.  An  ingenious  projector,  named 
Edward  Heming,  obtained  letters  patent  con- 
veying to  him,  for  a  term  of  years,  the  exclusive 
right  of  lighting  up  London.  He  undertook, 
for  a  moderate  consideration,  to  place  a  light 
before  every  tenth  door,  on  moonless  nights, 
from  Michaelmas  to  Lady  Day,  and  from  six 
to  twelve  of  the  clock.  Those  who  now  see 
the  capital  all  the  year  round,  from  dusk  to 
dawn,  blazing  with  a  splendour  beside  which 
the  illuminations  for  La  Hogue  and  Blenheim 
would  have  looked  pale,  may  perhaps  smile  to 
think  of  Heming's  lanterns,  which  glimmered 
feebly  before  one  house  in  ten  during  a  small 
part  of  one  night  in  three.  But  such  was  not 
the  feeling  of  his  contemporaries.  His  scheme 
was  enthusiastically  applauded,  and  furiously 
attacked.  The  friends  of  improvement  extolled 
him  as  the  greatest  of  all  the  benefactors  of  his 
city.  What,  they  asked,  were  the  boasted  in- 
ventions of  Archimedes,  when  compared  with 
the  achievement  of  the  man  who  had  turned 
the  nocturnal  shades  into  noonday?  In  spite 
of  these  eloquent  eulogies  the  cause  of  darkness 
was  not  left  undefended.  There  were  fools 
in  that  age  who  opposed  the  introduction  of 
what  was  called  the  new  light  as  strenuously 
as  fools  in  our  age  have  opposed  the  introduction 
of  vaccination  and  railroads,  as  strenuously  as 
the  fools  of  an  age  anterior  to  the  dawn  of 
history  doubtless  opposed  the  introduction  of 
the  plough  and  of  alphabetical  writing.  Many 
years  after  the  date  of  Heming's  patent  there 
were  extensive  districts  in  which  no  lamp  was 
seen. 

We  may  easily  imagine  what,  in  such  times, 
must  have  been  the  state  of  the  quarters  of 
London  which  were  peopled  by  the  outcasts 
of  society.  Among  those  quarters  one  had 
attained  a  scandalous  preeminence.  On  the 
confines  of  the  City  and  the  Temple  had  been 
founded,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  a  House  of 
Carmelite  Friars,  distinguished  by  their  white 
hoods.  The  precinct  of  this  house  had,  before 
the  Reformation,  been  a  sanctuary  for  crimi- 
nals, and  still  retained  the  privilege  of  protecting 
debtors  from  arrest.  Insolvents  consequently 
were  to  be  found  in  every  dwelling,  from  cellar 
to  garret.  Of  these  a  large  proportion  were 
knaves  and  libertines,  and  were  followed  to 
their  asylum  by  women  more  abandoned  than 
themselves.  The  civil  power  was  unable  to 
keep  order  in  a  district  swarming  with  such 
inhabitants;  and  thus  Whitefriars  became  the 
favourite  resort  of  all  who  wished  to  l;c  eman- 
cipated from  the  restraints  of  the  law.     Though 


392 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


the  immunities  legally  belonging  to  the  place 
extended  only  to  cases  of  debt,  cheats,  false 
witnesses,  forgers,  and  highwaymen  found 
refuge  there.  For  amidst  a  rabble  so  desper- 
ate no  peace  officer's  life  was  in  safety.  At  the 
cry  of  "Rescue,"  bullies  with  swords  and  cud- 
gels, and  termagant  hags  with  spits  and  broom- 
sticks, poured  forth  by  hundreds;  and  the 
intruder  was  fortunate  if  he  escaped  back  into 
Fleet  Street,  hustled,  stripped,  and  pumped 
upon.  Even  the  warrant  of  the  Chief-justice 
of  England  could  not  be  executed  without  the 
help  of  a  company  of  musketeers.  Such  relics 
of  the  barbarism  of  the  darkest  ages  were  to  be 
found  within  a  short  walk  of  the  chambers 
where  Somers  was  studying  history  and  law, 
of  the  chapel  where  Tillotson  was  preaching, 
of  the  coffee-house  where  Dryden  was  passing 
judgment  on  poems  and  plays,  and  of  the  hall 
where  the  Royal  Society  was  examining  the 
astronomical  system  of  Isaac  Newton. 
******* 

The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed  with 
a  cursory  mention.  It  might,  indeed,  at  that 
time  have  been  not  improperly  called  a  most 
important  political  institution.  No  Parliament 
had  sat  for  years.  The  municipal  council  of 
the  city  had  ceased  to  speak  the  sense  of  the 
citizens.  Public  meetings,  harangues,  resolu- 
tions, and  the  rest  of  the  modern  machinery 
of  agitation  had  not  yet  come  into  fashion. 
Nothing  resembling  the  modern  newspaper 
existed.  In  such  circumstances  the  coffee- 
houses were  the  chief  organs  through  which 
the  public  opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented 
itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been 
set  up,  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  by  a 
Turkey  merchant,  who  had  acquired  among  the 
Mahometans  a  taste  for  their  favourite  beverage. 
The  convenience  of  being  able  to  make  ap- 
pointments in  any  part  of  the  town,  and  of 
being  able  to  pass  evenings  socially  at  a  very 
small  charge,  was  so  great  that  the  fashion 
spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  upper  or  middle 
class  went  daily  to  his  coffee-house  to  learn  the 
news  and  to  discuss  it.  Every  coffee-house 
had  one  or  more  orators  to  whose  eloquence  the 
crowd  listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon 
became,  what  the  journalists  of  our  time  have 
been  called,  a  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm.  The 
court  had  long  seen  with  uneasiness  the  growth 
of  this  new  power  in  the  state.  An  attempt 
had  been  made,  during  Danby's  administration, 
to  close  the  coffee-houses.  But  men  of  all 
parties  missed  their  usual  places  of  resort  so 


much  that  there  was  a  universal  outcry.  The 
government  did  not  venture,  in  opposition  to 
a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  enforce  a 
regulation  of  which  the  legality  might  well  be 
questioned.  Since  that  time  ten  years  had 
elapsed,  and  during  those  years  the  number 
and  influence  of  the  coffee-houses  had  been 
constantly  increasing.  Foreigners  remarked 
that  the  coffee-house  was  that  which  especially 
distinguished  London  from  all  other  cities; 
that  the  coffee-house  was  the  Londoner's 
home,  and  that  those  who  wished  to  find  a 
gentleman  commonly  asked,  not  whether  he 
lived  in  Fleet  Street  or  Chancery  Lane,  but 
whether  he  frequented  the  Grecian  or  the  Rain- 
bow. Nobody  was  excluded  from  these  places 
who  laid  down  his  penny  at  the  bar.  Yet 
every  rank  and  profession,  and  every  shade 
of  religious  and  political  opinion,  had  its  own 
headquarters.  There  were  houses  near  Saint 
James's  Park  where  fops  congregated,  their 
heads  and  shoulders  covered  with  black  or 
flaxen  wigs,  not  less  ample  than  those  which 
are  now  worn  by  the  Chancellor  and  by  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  wig 
came  from  Paris;  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine 
gentleman's  ornaments,  his  embroidered  coat, 
his  fringed  gloves,  and  the  tassels  which  upheld 
his  pantaloons.  The  conversation  was  in  that 
dialect  which,  long  after  it  had  ceased  to  be 
spoken  in  fashionable  circles,  continued,  in  the 
mouth  of  Lord  Foppington,  to  excite  the  mirth 
of  theatres.  The  atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a 
perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco  in  any  other  form 
than  that  of  richly  scented  snuff  was  held  in 
abomination.  If  any  clown,  ignorant  of  the 
usages  of  the  house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers 
of  the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  answers 
of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him  that  he  had 
better  go  somewhere  else.  Nor,  indeed,  would 
he  have  had  far  to  go.  For,  in  general,  the 
coffee-rooms  reeked  with  tobacco  like  a  guard- 
room ;  and  strangers  sometimes  expressed  their 
surprise  that  so  many  people  should  leave  their 
own  firesides  to  sit  in  the  midst  of  eternal  fog 
and  stench.  Nowhere  was  the  smoking  more 
constant  than  at  Will's.  That  celebrated  house, 
situated  between  Covent  Garden  and  Bow 
Street,  was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the 
talk  was  about  poetical  justice  and  the  unities 
of  place  and  time.  There  was  a  faction  for 
Perrault  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for  Boileau 
and  the  ancients.  One  group  debated  whether 
Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to  have  been  in  rhyme. 
To  another  an  envious  poetaster  demonstrated 
that  Venice  Preserved  ought  to  have  been  hooted 


\ 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


393 


from  the  stage.  Under  no  roof  was  a  greater 
variety  of  figures  to  be  seen.  There  were 
Earls  in  stars  and  garters,  clergymen  in  cas- 
socks and  bands,  pert  Templars,  sheepish 
lads  from  the  Universities,  translators  and 
index-makers  in  ragged  coats  of  frieze.  The 
great  press  was  to  get  near  the  chair  where  John 
Dryden  sat.  In  winter  that  chair  was  always 
in  the  warmest  nook  by  the  fire;  in  summer  it 
stood  in  the  balcony.  To  bow  to  the  Laureate, 
and  to  hear  his  opinion  of  Racine's  last  tragedy 
or  of  Bossu's  treatise  on  epic  poetry,  was 
thought  a  privilege.  A  pinch  from  his  snuff- 
box was  an  honour  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of 
a  young  enthusiast.  There  were  coffee-houses 
where  the  first  medical  men  might  be  con- 
sulted. Dr.  John  Radcliffe,  who,  in  the  year 
1685,  rose  to  the  largest  practice  in  London, 
came  daily,  at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was 
full,  from  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a 
fashionable  part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's, 
and  was  to  be  found,  surrounded  by  surgeons  and 
apothecaries,  at  a  particular  table.  There  were 
Puritan  coffee-houses  where  no  oath  was  heard, 
and  where  lank-haired  men  discussed  election 
and  reprobation  through  their  noses;  Jew 
coffee-houses  where  dark-eyed  money  changers 
from  Venice  and  from  Amsterdam  greeted  each 
other;  and  popish  coffee-houses  where,  as  good 
Protestants  believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over 
their  cups,  another  great  fire,  and  cast  silver 
bullets  to  shoot  the  King. 

These  gregarious  habits  had  no  small  share 
in  forming  the  character  of  the  Londoner  of 
that  age.  He  was,  indeed,  a  different  being 
from  the  rustic  Englishman.  There  was  not 
then  the  intercourse  which  now  exists  between 
the  two  classes.  Only  very  great  men  were  in 
the  habit  of  dividing  the  year  between  town  and 
country.  Few  escjuires  came  to  the  capital  thrice 
in  their  lives.  Nor  was  it  yet  the  practice  of  all 
citizens  in  easy  circumstances  to  breathe  the  fresh 
air  of  the  fields  and  woods  during  some  weeks  of 
every  summer.  A  cockney  in  a  rural  village  was 
stared  at  as  much  as  if  he  had  intruded  into  a 
Kraal  of  Hottentots.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
the  Lord  of  a  Lincolnshire  or  Shropshire 
manor  appeared  in  Fleet  Street,  he  was  as 
easily  distinguished  from  the  resident  popula- 
tion as  a  Turk  or  a  Lascar.  His  dress,  his  gait, 
his  accent,  the  manner  in  which  he  gazed  at  the 
shops,  stumbled  into  the  gutters,  ran  against 
the  porters,  and  stood  under  the  waterspouts, 
marked  him  out  as  an  excellent  subject  for  the 
operations  of  swindlers  and  banterers.  Bullies 
jostled  him  into  the  kennel.     Hackney  coach- 


men splashed  him  from  head  to  foot.  Thieves 
explored  with  perfect  security  the  huge  pockets 
of  his  horseman's  coat,  while  he  stood  entranced 
by  the  splendour  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  show. 
Money  droppers,  sore  from  the  cart's  tail, 
introduced  themselves  to  him,  and  appeared 
to  him  the  most  honest  friendly  gentlemen 
that  he  had  ever  seen.  Painted  women,  the 
refuse  of  Lcwkner  Lane  and  Whetstone  Park, 
passed  themselves  on  him  for  countesses  and 
maids  of  honour.  If  he  asked  his  way  to  Saint 
James's,  his  informants  sent  him  to  ]Mile  End. 
If  he  went  into  a  shop,  he  was  instantly  dis- 
cerned to  be  a  fit  purchaser  of  everything  that 
nobody  else  would  buy,  of  second-hand  em- 
broidery, copper  rings,  and  watches  that  would 
not  go.  If  he  rambled  into  any  fashionable 
coffee-house,  he  became  a  mark  for  the  insolent 
derision  of  fops  and  the  grave  waggery  of 
Templars.  Enraged  and  mortified,  he  soon 
returned  to  his  mansion,  and  there,  in  the 
homage  of  his  tenants  and  the  conversation  of 
his  boon  companions,  found  consolation  for  the 
vexations  and  humiliations  which  he  had  under- 
gone. There  he  was  once  more  a  great  man, 
and  saw  nothing  above  himself  except  when  at 
the  assizes  he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  near 
the  judge,  or  when  at  the  muster  of  the  militia 
he  saluted  the  Lord  Lieutenant. 

The  chief  cause  which  made  the  fusion  of  the 
different  elements  of  society  so  imperfect  was  the 
extreme  difficulty  which  our  ancestors  found  in 
passing  from  place  to  place.  Of  all  inventions, 
the  alphabet  and  the  printing-press  alone  ex- 
cepted, those  inventions  which  abridge  distance 
have  done  most  for  the  civilisation  of  our 
species.  Every  improvement  of  the  means  of 
locomotion  benefits  mankind  morally  and  in- 
tellectually as  well  as  materially,  and  not  only 
facilitates  the  interchange  of  the  various  pro- 
ductions of  nature  and  art,  but  tends  to  remove 
national  and  provincial  antipathies,  and  to  bind 
together  all  the  branches  of  the  great  human 
family.  In  the  seventeenth  century  the  in- 
hal)itants  of  London  were,  for  almost  every 
practical  purpose,  farther  from  Reading  than 
they  now  are  from  Edinburgh,  and  farther  from 
Edinburgh  than  they  now  are  from  X'ienna. 

The  subjects  of  Charles  the  Second  were  not, 
it  is  true,  quite  unacquainted  with  that  principle 
which  has,  in  our  own  time,  produced  an  un- 
precedented revolution  in  human  affairs,  which 
has  enal)lcd  navies  to  advance  in  face  of  wind 
and  tide,  and  brigades  of  troops,  attended  by 
all  their  baggage  and  artillery,  to  traverse 
kingdoms  at  a  pace  equal  to  that  of  the  fleetest 


394 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


race  horse.  The  Marquess  of  Worcester  had 
recently  observed  the  expansive  power  of 
moisture  rarefied  by  heat.  After  many  ex- 
periments he  had  succeeded  in  constructing  a 
rude  steam  engine,  which  he  called  a  fire  water 
work,  and  which  he  pronounced  to  be  an  ad- 
mirable and  most  forcible  instrument  of  pro- 
pulsion. But  the  Marquess  was  suspected  to 
be  a  madman,  and  known  to  be  a  Papist.  His 
inventions,  therefore,  found  no  favourable  re- 
ception. His  fire  water  work  might,  perhaps, 
furnish  matter  for  conversation  at  a  meeting  of 
the  Royal  Society,  but  was  not  applied  to  any 
practical  purpose.  There  were  no  railways,  ex- 
cept a  few  made  of  timber,  on  which  coals  were 
carried  from  the  mouths  of  the  Northumbrian 
pits  to  the  banks  of  the  Tyne.  There  was  very 
little  internal  communication  by  water.  A  few 
attempts  had  been  made  to  deepen  and  embank 
the  natural  streams,  but  with  slender  success. 
Hardly  a  single  navigable  canal  had  been  even 
projected.  The  English  of  that  day  were  in  the 
habit  of  talking  with  mingled  admiration  and 
despair  of  the  immense  trench  by  which  Lewis 
the  Fourteenth  had  made  a  junction  between 
the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean.  They 
little  thought  that  their  country  would,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  generations,  be  intersected,  at 
the  cost  of  private  adventurers,  by  artificial 
rivers  making  up  more  than  four  times  the 
length  of  the  Thames,  the  Severn,  and  the 
Trent  together. 

It  was  by  the  highways  that  both  travellers 
and  goods  generally  passed  from  place  to  place; 
and  those  highways  appear  to  have  been  far 
worse  than  might  have  been  expected  from  the 
degree  of  wealth  and  civilisation  which  the 
nation  had  even  then  attained.  On  the  best 
lines  of  communication  the  ruts  were  deep,  the 
descents  precipitous,  and  the  way  often  such 
as  it  was  hardly  possible  to  distinguish,  in  the 
dusk,  from  the  uninclosed  heath  and  fen  which 
lay  on  both  sides.  Ralph  Thoresby,  the  an- 
tiquary, was  in  danger  of  losing  his  way 
on  the  great  North  road,  between  Barnby 
Moor  and  Tuxford,  and  actually  lost  his 
way  between  Doncaster  and  York.  Pepys 
and  his  wife,  travelling  in  their  own  coach, 
lost  their  way  between  Newbury  and  Read- 
ing. In  the  course  of  the  same  tour  they 
lost  their  way  near  Salisbury,  and  were  in  dan- 
ger of  having  to  pass  the  night  on  the  plain. 
It  was  only  in  fine  weather  that  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  road  was  available  for  wheeled 
vehicles.  Often  the  mud  lay  deep  on  the  right 
and  the  left;    and  only  a  narrow  track  of  firm 


ground  rose  above  the  quagmire.  At  such 
times  obstructions  and  quarrels  were  frequent, 
and  the  path  was  sometimes  blocked  up  during 
a  long  time  by  carriers,  neither  of  whom  would 
break  the  way.  It  happened,  almost  every 
day,  that  coaches  stuck  fast,  until  a  team  of 
cattle  could  be  procured  from  some  neigh- 
bouring farm  to  tug  them  out  of  the  slough. 
But  in  bad  seasons  the  traveller  had  to  en- 
counter inconveniences  still  more  serious. 
Thoresby,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  travelling 
between  Leeds  and  the  capital,  has  recorded, 
in  his  Diary,  such  a  series  of  perils  and  dis- 
asters as  might  suffice  for  a  journey  to  the 
Frozen  Ocean  or  to  the  Desert  of  Sahara. 
On  one  occasion  he  learned  that  the  floods  were 
out  between  Ware  and  London,  that  passengers 
had  to  swim  for  their  lives,  and  that  a  higgler 
had  perished  in  the  attempt  to  cross.  In  con- 
sequence of  these  tidings  he  turned  out  of  the 
high-road,  and  was  conducted  across  some 
meadows,  where  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
ride  to  the  saddle  skirts  in  water.  In  the 
course  of  another  journey  he  narrowly  escaped 
being  swept  away  by  an  inundation  of  the  Trent. 
He  was  afterwards  detained  at  Stamford  four 
days,  on  account  of  the  state  of  the  roads,  and 
then  ventured  to  proceed  only  because  fourteen 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons,  who  were 
going  up  in  a  body  to  Parliament  with  guides 
and  numerous  attendants,  took  him  into  their 
company.  On  the  roads  of  Derbyshire,  trav- 
ellers were  in  constant  fear  for  their  necks, 
and  were  frequently  compelled  to  alight  and 
lead  their  beasts.  The  great  route  through 
Wales  to  Holyhead  was  in  such  a  state  that,  in 
1685,  a  viceroy,  going  to  Ireland,  was  five  hours 
in  travelling  fourteen  miles,  from  Saint  Asaph 
to  Conway.  Between  Conway  and  Beaumaris 
he  was  forced  to  walk  great  part  of  the  way; 
and  his  lady  was  carried  in  a  litter.  His 
coach  was,  with  much  difficulty,  and  by  the 
help  of  many  hands,  brought  after  him  entire. 
In  genera],  carriages  were  taken  to  pieces  at 
Conway,  and  borne,  on  the  shoulders  of  stout 
Welsh  peasants,  to  the  Menai  Straits.  In  some 
parts  of  Kent  and  Sussex  none  but  the  strongest 
horses  could,  in  winter,  get  through  the  bog, 
in  which,  at  every  step,  they  sank  deep.  The 
markets  were  often  inaccessible  during  several 
months.  It  is  said  that  the  fruits  of  the  earth 
were  sometimes  suffered  to  rot  in  one  place, 
while  in  another  place,  distant  only  a  few  miles, 
the  supply  fell  far  short  of  the  demand.  The 
wheeled  carriages  were,  in  this  district,  generally 
pulled  by  oxen.     When  Prince  George  of  Den- 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


395 


mark  visited  the  stately  mansion  of  Petworth 
in  wet  weather,  he  was  six  hours  in  going  nine 
miles;  and  it  was  necessary  that  a  body  of 
sturdy  hinds  should  be  on  each  side  of  his 
coach,  in  order  to  prop  it.  Of  the  carriages 
which  conveyed  his  retinue,  several  were  upset 
and  injured.  A  letter  from  one  of  the  party 
has  been  preserved,  in  which  the  unfortunate 
courtier  complains  that,  during  fourteen  hours, 
he  never  once  alighted  except  when  his  coach 
was  overturned  or  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. 
******* 

On  the  best  highways  heavy  articles  were, 
in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second,  generally 
conveyed  from  place  to  place  by  stage  wagons. 
In  the  straw  of  these  vehicles  nestled  a  crowd 
of  passengers,  who  could  not  afford  to  travel 
by  coach  or  on  horseback,  and  who  were  pre- 
vented by  infirmity,  or  by  the  weight  of  their 
luggage,  from  going  on  foot.  The  expense  of 
transmitting  heavy  goods  in  this  way  was 
enormous.  From  London  to  Birmingham  the 
charge  was  seven  pounds  a  ton ;  from  London 
to  E.xeter,  twelve  pounds  a  ton.  This  was 
about  fifteen  pence  a  ton  for  every  mile,  more 
by  a  third  than  was  afterwards  charged  on 
turnpike  roads,  and  fifteen  times  what  is  now 
demanded  by  railway  companies.  The  cost  of 
conveyance  amounted  to  a  prohibitory  tax  on 
many  useful  articles.  Coal  in  particular  was 
never  seen  except  in  the  districts  where  it  was 
produced,  or  in  the  districts  to  which  it  could 
be  carried  by  sea,  and  was  indeed  always 
known  in  the  south  of  England  by  the  name 
of  sea  coal. 

On  by-roads,  and  generally  throughout  the 
country  north  of  York  and  west  of  Exeter, 
goods  were  carried  by  long  trains  of  pack 
horses.  These  strong  and  patient  beasts,  the 
breed  of  which  is  now  extinct,  were  attended  by 
a  class  of  men  who  seem  to  have  borne  much 
resemblance  to  the  Spanish  muleteers.  A  trav- 
eller of  humble  condition  often  found  it  con- 
venient to  perform  a  journey  mounted  on  a 
pack  saddle  between  two  baskets,  under  the 
care  of  these  hardy  guides.  The  expense  of 
this  mode  of  conveyance  was  small.  But  the 
caravan  moved  at  a  foot's  pace ;  and  in  winter 
the  cold  was  often  insupportable. 

The  rich  commonly  travelled  in  their  own 
carriages,  with  at  least  four  horses.  Cotton, 
the  facetious  poet,  attempted  to  go  from  London 
to  the  Peak  with  a  single  pair,  but  found  at 
Saint  Albans  that  the  journey  would  be  insup- 
portably  tedious,  and  altered  his  plan.  A 
coach  and  six  is  in  our  time  never  seen,  except 


as  part  of  some  pageant.  The  frequent  men- 
tion therefore  of  such  equipages  in  old  books  is 
likely  to  mislead  us.  We  attribute  to  mag- 
nificence what  was  really  the  effect  of  a  very 
disagreeable  necessity.  People,  in  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Second,  travelled  with  six  horses, 
because  with  a  smaller  number  there  was  great 
danger  of  sticking  fast  in  the  mire.  Nor  were 
even  six  horses  always  sufficient.  Vanbrugh, 
in  the  succeeding  generation,  described  with 
great  humour  the  way  in  which  a  country  gentle- 
man, newly  chosen  a  member  of  Parliament, 
went  up  to  London.  On  that  occasion  all  the 
exertions  of  six  beasts,  two  of  which  had  been 
taken  from  the  plough,  could  not  save  the 
family  coach  from  being  embedded  in  a  quag- 
mire. 

Public  carriages  had  recently  been  much 
improved.  During  the  years  which  immedi- 
ately followed  the  Restoration,  a  diligence  ran 
between  London  and  Oxford  in  two  days. 
The  passengers  slept  at  Beaconsfield.  At 
length,  in  the  spring  of  1669,  a  great  and  daring 
innovation  was  attempted.  It  was  announced 
that  a  vehicle,  described  as  the  Flying  Coach, 
would  perform  the  whole  journey  between 
sunrise  and  sunset.  This  spirited  under- 
taking was  solemnly  considered  and  sanctioned 
by  the  Heads  of  the  University,  and  aj)pears  to 
have  excited  the  same  sort  of  interest  which  is 
excited  in  our  own  time  by  the  opening  of  a  new 
railway.  The  Vice-Chancellor,  by  a  notice 
affixed  in  all  public  places,  prescribed  the  hour 
and  place  of  departure.  The  success  of  the 
experiment  was  complete.  At  six  in  the 
morning  the  carriage  began  to  move  from 
before  the  ancient  front  of  All  Souls  College; 
and  at  seven  in  the  evening  the  adventurous 
gentlemen  who  had  run  the  first  risk  were 
safely  deposited  at  their  inn  in  London.  The 
emulation  of  the  sister  University  was  moved; 
and  soon  a  diligence  was  set  up  which  in  one 
day  carried  passengers  from  Caml)ridge  to  the 
capital.  At  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  flying  carriages  ran  thrice  a  week 
from  London  to  the  chief  towns.  But  no 
stagecoach,  indeed  no  stage  wagon,  appears  to 
have  proceeded  further  north  than  York,  or 
further  west  than  Exeter.  The  ordinary  day's 
journey  of  a  flying  coach  was  about  fifty  miles 
in  the  summer;  but  in  winter,  when  the  ways 
were  bad  and  the  nights  long,  little  more  than 
thirty.  The  Chester  coach,  the  York  coach, 
and  the  Exeter  coach  generally  reached  London 
in  four  days  during  the  fine  season,  but  at 
Christmas  not  till  the  sLxth  day.     The  pas- 


396 


THOMAS   BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


sengers,  six  in  number,  were  all  seated  in  the 
carriage.  For  accidents  were  so  frequent  that 
it  would  have  been  most  perilous  to  mount  the 
roof.  The  ordinary  fare  was  about  twopence 
half-penny  a  mile  in  summer,  and  somewhat 
more  in  winter. 

*****        -x-        * 

In  spite  of  the  attractions  of  the  flying  coaches, 
it  was  still  usual  for  men  who  enjoyed  health 
and  vigour,  and  who  were  not  encumbered  by 
much  baggage,  to  perform  long  journeys  on 
horseback.  If  the  traveller  wished  to  move 
expeditiously,  he  rode  post.  Fresh  saddle 
horses  and  guides  were  to  be  procured  at  con- 
venient distances  along  all  the  great  lines  of 
road.  The  charge  was  threepence  a  mile  for 
each  horse,  and  fourpence  a  stage  for  the  guide. 
In  this  manner,  when  the  ways  were  good,  it 
was  possible  to  travel,  for  a  considerable  time, 
as  rapidly  as  by  any  conveyance  known  in 
England,  till  vehicles  were  propelled  by  steam. 
There  were  as  yet  no  post-chaises;  nor  could 
those  who  rode  in  their  own  coaches  ordinarily 
procure  a  change  of  horses.  The  King,  how- 
ever, and  the  great  officers  of  state  were  able 
to  command  relays.  Thus  Charles  commonly 
went  in  one  day  from  Whitehall  to  New- 
market, a  distance  of  about  fifty-five  miles, 
through  a  level  country;  and  this  was  thought 
by  his  subjects  a  proof  of  great  activity.  Evelyn 
performed  the  same  journey  in  company  with 
the  Lord  Treasurer  Clifford.  The  coach  was 
drawn  by  six  horses,  which  were  changed  at 
Bishop  Stortford,  and  again  at  Chesterford. 
The  travellers  reached  Newmarket  at  night. 
Such  a  mode  of  conveyance  seems  to  have  been 
considered  as  a  rare  luxury,  confined  to  princes 
and  ministers. 

Whatever  might  be  the  way  in  which  a 
journey  was  performed,  the  travellers,  unless 
they  were  numerous  and  well  armed,  ran  con- 
siderable risk  of  being  stopped  and  plundered. 
The  mounted  highwayman,  a  marauder  known 
to  our  generation  only  from  books,  was  to  be 
found  on  every  main  road.  The  waste  tracts 
which  lay  on  the  great  routes  near  London  were 
especially  haunted  by  plunderers  of  this  class. 
Hounslow  Heath,  on  the  Great  Western  Road, 
and  Finchley  Common,  on  the  Great  Northern 
Road,  were  perhaps  the  most  celebrated  of  these 
spots.  The  Cambridge  scholars  trembled 
when  they  approached  Epping  Forest,  even  in 
broad  daylight.  Seamen  who  had  just  been 
paid  off  at  Chatham  were  often  compelled  to 
deliver  their  purses  on  Gadshill,  celebrated  near 
a  hundred  years  earlier  by  the  greatest  of  poets 


as  the  scene  of  the  depredations  of  Falstaff. 
The  public  authorities  seem  to  have  been  often 
at  a  loss  how  to  deal  with  the  plunderers.  At 
one  time  it  was  announced  in  the  Gazette 
that  several  persons  who  were  strongly  sus- 
pected of  being  highwaymen,  but  against  whom 
there  was  not  sufficient  evidence,  would  be 
paraded  at  Newgate  in  riding-dresses:  their 
horses  would  also  be  shown;  and  all  gentlemen 
who  had  been  robbed  were  invited  to  inspect 
this  singular  exhibition.  On  another  occasipn 
a  pardon  was  publicly  offered  to  a  robber  if 
he  would  give  up  some  rough  diamonds,  of 
immense  value,  which  he  had  taken  when  he 
stopped  the  Harwich  mail.  A  short  time  after 
appeared  another  proclamation,  warning  the 
innkeepers  that  the  eye  of  the  government 
was  upon  them.  Their  criminal  connivance, 
it  was  affirmed,  enabled  banditti  to  infest  the 
roads  with  impunity.  That  these  suspicions 
were  not  without  foundation  is  proved  by  the 
dying  speeches  of  some  penitent  robbers  of  that 
age,  who  appear  to  have  received  from  the  inn- 
keepers services  much  resembling  those  which 
Farquhar's  Boniface  rendered  to  Gibbet. 
******* 
All  the  various  dangers  by  which  the  traveller 
was  beset  were  greatly  increased  by  darkness. 
He  was  therefore  commonly  desirous  of  having 
the  shelter  of  a  roof  during  the  night;  and  such 
shelter  it  was  not  difficult  to  obtain.  From  a 
very  early  period  the  inns  of  England  had  been 
renowned.  Our  first  great  poet  had  described 
the  excellent  accommodation  w-hich  they  af- 
forded to  the  pilgrims  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
Nine  and  twenty  persons  with  their  horses, 
found  room  in  the  wide  chambers  and  stables 
of  the  Tabard  in  Southwark.  The  food  was  of 
the  best,  and  the  wines  such  as  drew  the  com- 
pany on  to  drink  largely.  Two  hundred  years 
later,  under  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  William 
Harrison  gave  a  lively  description  of  the  plenty 
and  comfort  of  the  great  hostelries.  The  Con- 
tinent of  Europe,  he  said,  could  show  nothing 
like  them.  There  were  some  in  which  two  or 
three  hundred  people,  with  their  horses,  could 
without  difficulty  be  lodged  and  fed.  The 
bedding,  the  tapestry,  above  all,  the  abundance 
of  clean  and  fine  linen  was  matter  of  wonder. 
Valuable  plate  was  often  set  on  the  tables. 
Nay,  there  were  signs  which  had  cost  thirty 
or  forty  pounds.  In  the  seventeenth  century 
England  abounded  with  excellent  inns  of  every 
rank.  The  traveller  sometimes,  in  a  small 
village,  lighted  on  a  public-house  such  as 
Walton  has  described,  where  the  brick  floor 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


397 


was  swept  clean,  where  the  walls  were  stuck 
round  with  ballads,  where  the  sheets  smelled 
of  lavender,  and  where  a  blazing  fire,  a  cup  of 
good  ale,  and  a  dish  of  trouts  fresh  from  the 
neighbouring  brook,  were  to  be  procured  at 
small  charge.  At  the  larger  houses  of  entertain- 
ment were  to  be  found  beds  hung  with  silk, 
choice  cookery,  and  claret  equal  to  the  best 
which  was  drunk  in  London.  The  inn- 
keepers too,  it  was  said,  were  not  like  other 
innkeepers.  On  the  Continent  the  landlord 
was  the  tyrant  of  those  who  crossed  the  thresh- 
old. In  England  he  was  a  servant.  Never 
was  an  Englishman  more  at  home  than  when  he 
took  his  ease  in  his  inn.  Even  men  of  fortune, 
who  might  in  their  mansions  have  enjoyed 
every  luxury,  were  often  in  the  habit  of  passing 
their  evenings  in  the  parlour  of  some  neighbour- 
ing house  of  public  entertainment.  They  seem 
to  have  thought  that  comfort  and  freedom 
could  in  no  other  place  be  enjoyed  with  equal 
perfection.  This  feeling  continued  during 
many  generations  to  be  a  national  peculiarity. 
The  liberty  and  Jollity  of  inns  long  furnished 
matter  to  our  novelists  and  dramatists.  John- 
son declared  that  a  tavern  chair  was  the  throne 
of  human  felicity;  and  Shenstone  gently  com- 
plained that  no  private  roof,  however  friendly, 
gave  the  wanderer  so  warm  a  welcome  as  that 
which  was  to  be  found  at  an  inn. 

******* 
The  mode  in  which  correspondence  was 
carried  on  between  distant  places  may  excite 
the  scorn  of  the  present  generation ;  yet  it  was 
such  as  might  have  moved  the  admiration  and 
envy  of  the  polished  nations  of  antiquity,  or 
of  the  contemporaries  of  Raleigh  and  Cecil. 
A  rude  and  imperfect  establishment  of  posts 
for  the  conveyance  of  letters  had  been  set  up 
by  Charles  the  First,  and  had  been  swept  away 
by  the  civil  war.  Under  the  Commonwealth 
the  design  was  resumed.  At  the  Restoration 
the  proceeds  of  the  Post  Office,  after  all  ex- 
penses had  been  paid,  were  settled  on  the  Duke 
of  York.  On  most  lines  of  road  the  mails  went 
out  and  came  in  only  on  the  alternate  days. 
In  Cornwall,  in  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  and 
among  the  hills  and  lakes  of  Cumberland, 
letters  were  received  only  once  a  week.  During 
a  royal  progress  a  daily  post  was  despatched 
from  the  capital  to  the  place  where  the  court 
sojourned.  There  was  also  daily  communica- 
tion between  London  and  the  Downs;  and  the 
same  privilege  was  sometimes  extended  to 
Tunbridge  Wells  and  Bath  at  the  seasons  when 
those  places  were  crowded  by  the  great.     The 


bags  were  carried  on  horseback  day  and  night 
at  the  rate  of  about  five  miles  an  hour. 

The  revenue  of  this  establishment  was  not 
derived  solely  from  the  charge  for  the  trans- 
m  ssion  of  letters.  The  Post  Office  alone  was 
entitled  to  furnish  post  horses;  and,  from  the 
care  with  which  this  monopoly  was  guarded, 
we  may  infer  that  it  was  found  profitable.  If, 
indeed,  a  traveller  had  waited  half  an  hour 
without  being  supplied,  he  might  hire  a  horse 
wherever  he  could. 

To  facilitate  correspondence  between  one 
part  of  London  and  another  was  not  originally 
one  of  the  objects  of  the  Post  Office.  But, 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  an  enter- 
prising citizen  of  London,  William  Dockwray, 
set  up,  at  great  expense,  a  penny  post,  which 
delivered  letters  and  parcels  six  or  eight  times 
a  day  in  the  busy  and  crowded  streets  near  the 
Exchange,  and  four  times  a  day  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  capital.  This  improvement  was,  as  usual, 
strenuously  resisted.  The  porters  complained 
that  their  interests  were  attacked,  and  tore 
down  the  placards  in  which  the  scheme  was 
announced  to  the  public.  The  excitement 
caused  by  Godfrey's  death,  and  by  the  discovery 
of  Coleman's  papers,  was  then  at  the  height. 
A  cry  was  therefore  raised  that  the  penny 
post  was  a  popish  contrivance.  The  great 
Doctor  Gates,  it  was  affirmed,  had  hinted  a 
suspicion  that  the  Jesuits  were  at  the  bottom 
of  the  scheme,  and  that  the  bags,  if  examined, 
would  be  found  full  of  treason.  The  utility 
of  the  enterprise  was,  however,  so  great  and 
obvious  that  all  opposition  proved  fruitless. 
As  soon  as  it  became  clear  that  the  speculation 
would  be  lucrative,  the  Duke  of  York  com- 
plained of  it  as  an  infraction  of  his  monopoly; 
and  the  courts  of  law  decided  in  his  favour. 
******* 

No  part  of  the  load  which  the  old  mails 
carried  out  was  more  important  than  the  news- 
letters. In  1685  nothing  like  the  London  daily 
paper  of  our  time  existed,  or  could  exist. 
Neither  the  necessary  capital  nor  the  necessary 
skill  was  to  be  found.  Freedom  too  was  want- 
ing, a  want  as  fatal  as  that  of  either  capital 
or  skill.  The  press  was  not  indeed  at  that 
moment  under  a  general  censorship.  The 
licensing  act,  which  had  been  passed  soon  after 
the  Restoration,  had  expired  in  1679.  Any 
person  might  therefore  print,  at  his  own  risk, 
a  history,  a  sermon,  or  a  poem,  without  the 
previous  approbation  of  any  officer;  but  the 
judges  were  unanimously  of  opinion  that  this 
liberty  did  not  extend  to  Gazettes,  and  that, 


398 


THOMAS    B.\BINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


by  the  common  law  of  England,  no  man,  not 
authorised  by  the  Crown,  had  a  right  to  pub- 
lish political  news.  While  the  Whig  party  was 
still  formidable,  the  government  thought  it 
expedient  occasionally  to  connive  at  the  viola- 
tion of  the  rule.  During  the  great  battle  of  the 
Exclusion  Bill,  many  newspapers  were  suffered 
to  appear,  the  Protestant  Intelligence,  the  Cur- 
rent Intelligence,  the  Domestic  Intelligence, 
the  True  News,  the  London  Mercury.  None 
of  these  was  published  oftener  than  twice  a 
week.  None  exceeded  in  size  a  single  small 
leaf.  The  quantity  of  matter  which  one  of 
them  contained  in  a  year  was  not  more  than 
is  often  found  in  two  numbers  of  the  Times. 
After  the  defeat  of  the  Whigs  it  was  no  longer 
necessary  for  the  King  to  be  sparing  in  the  use 
of  that  which  all  his  judges  had  pronounced  to 
be  his  undoubted  prerogative.  At  the  close  of 
his  reign  no  newspaper  was  suffered  to  appear 
without  his  allowance;  and  his  allowance  was 
given  exclusively  to  the  London  Gazette.  The 
London  Gazette  came  out  only  on  Mondays 
and  Thursdays.  The  contents  generally  were 
a  royal  proclamation,  two  or  three  Tory  ad- 
dresses, notices  of  two  or  three  promotions, 
an  account  of  a  skirmish  between  the  imperial 
troops  and  the  janizaries  on  the  Danube,  a 
description  of  a  highwayman,  an  announce- 
ment of  a  grand  cockfight  between  two  persons 
of  honour,  and  an  advertisement  offering  a 
reward  for  a  strayed  dog.  The  whole  made  up 
two  pages  of  moderate  size.  Whatever  was 
communicated  respecting  matters  of  the  highest 
moment  was  communicated  in  the  most  meagre 
and  formal  style.  Sometimes,  indeed,  when  the 
government  was  disposed  to  gratify  the  public 
curiosity  respecting  an  important  transaction, 
a  broadside  was  put  forth  giving  fuller  details 
than  could  be  found  in  the  Gazette;  but 
neither  the  Gazette  nor  any  supplementary 
broadside  printed  by  authority  ever  contained 
any  intelligence  which  it  did  not  suit  the  pur- 
poses of  the  court  to  publish.  The  most 
important  parliamentary  debates;  the  most 
important  state  trials,  recorded  in  our  history, 
were  passed  over  in  profound  silence.  In  the 
capital  the  coffee-houses  supplied  in  some 
measure  the  place  of  a  journal.  Thither  the 
Londoners  flocked^  as  the  Athenians  of  old 
flocked  to  the  market-place,  to  hear  whether 
there  was  any  news.  There  men  might  learn 
how  brutally  a  Whig  had  been  treated  the  day 
before  in  Westminster  Hall,  what  horrible 
accounts  the  letters  from  Edinburgh  gave  of 
the  torturing  of  Covenanters,  how  grossly  the 


Navy  Board  had  cheated  the  Crown  in  the 
victualling  of  the  fleet,  and  what  grave  charges 
the  Lord  Privy  Seal  had  brought  against  the 
Treasury  in  the  matter  of  the  hearth  money. 
But  people  who  lived  at  a  distance  from  the 
great  theatre  of  political  contention  could  be 
kept  regularly  informed  of  what  was  passing 
there  only  by  means  of  news-letters.  To  pre- 
pare such  letters  became  a  calling  in  London, 
as  it  now  is  among  the  natives  of  India.  The 
news-writer  rambled  from  coffee-room  to  coffee- 
room,  collecting  reports,  squeezed  himself  into 
the  Sessions  House  at  the  Old  Bailey  if  there 
was  an  interesting  trial,  nay,  perhaps  obtained 
admission  to  the  gallery  of  Whitehall,  and  no- 
ticed how  the  King  and  Duke  looked.  In  this 
way  he  gathered  materials  for  weekly  epistles 
destined  to  enlighten  some  county  town  or 
some  bench  of  rustic  magistrates.  Such  were 
the  sources  from  which  the  inhabitants  of  the 
largest  provincial  cities,  and  the  great  body  of 
the  gentry  and  clergy,  learned  almost  all  that 
they  knew  of  the  history  of  their  own  time. 
We  must  suppose  that  at  Cambridge  there  were 
as  many  persons  curious  to  know  what  was 
passing  in  the  world  as  at  almost  any  place  in 
the  kingdom,  out  of  London.  Yet  at  Cam- 
bridge, during  a  great  part  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  the  Doctors  of  Laws  and  the  Masters 
of  Arts  had  no  regular  supply  of  news  except 
through  the  London  Gazette.  At  length  the 
services  of  one  of  the  collectors  of  intelligence 
in  the  capital  were  employed.  That  was  a 
memorable  day  on  which  the  first  news-letter 
from  London  was  laid  on  the  table  of  the  only 
coffee-room  in  Cambridge.  At  the  seat  of  a 
man  of  fortune  in  the  country  the  news-letter 
was  impatiently  expected.  Within  a  week  after 
it  had  arrived  it  had  been  thumbed  by  twenty 
families.  It  furnished  the  neighbouring  squires 
with  matter  for  talk  over  their  October,  and  the 
neighbouring  rectors  with  topics  for  sharp 
sermons  against  Whiggery  or  Popery.  Many 
of  these  curious  journals  might  doubtless  still 
be  detected  by  a  diligent  search  in  the  archives 
of  old  families.  Some  are  to  be  found  in  our 
public  libraries:  and  one  series,  which  is  not 
the  least  valuable  part  of  the  literary  treasures 
collected  by  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  will  be  oc- 
casionally quoted  in  the  course  of  this  work. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  there  were 
then  no  provincial  newspapers.  Indeed,  ex- 
cept in  the  capital  and  at  the  two  Universities, 
there  was  scarcely  a  printer  in  the  kingdom. 
The  only  press  in  England  north  of  Trent 
appears  to  have  been  at  York. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


399 


Literature  which  could  be  carried  by  the 
post  bag  then  formed  the  greater  part  of  the 
intellectual  nutriment  ruminated  by  the  coun- 
try divines  and  country  justices.  The  diffi- 
cuhy  and  expense  of  conveying  large  packets 
from  place  to  place  was  so  great,  that  an  ex- 
tensive work  was  longer  in  making  its  way 
from  Paternoster  Row  to  Devonshire  or  Lan- 
cashire than  it  now  is  in  reaching  Kentucky. 
How  scantily  a  rural  parsonage  was  then  fur- 
nished, even  with  books  the  most  necessary 
to  a  theologian,  has  already  been  remarked. 
The  houses  of  the  gentry  were  not  more  plenti- 
fully supplied.  Few  knights  of  the  shire  had 
libraries  so  good  as  may  now  perpetually  be 
found  in  a  servants'  hall,  or  in  the  back  par- 
lour of  a  small  shopkeeper.  An  esquire  passed 
among  his  neighbours  for  a  great  scholar,  if 
Hudibras  and  Baker's  Chronicle,  Tarlton's 
Jests  and  the  Seven  Champions  of  Christen- 
dom, lay  in  his  hall  window  among  the  fishing- 
rods  and  fowling-pieces.  No  circulating  li- 
brary, no  book  society,  then  existed  even  in 
the  capital:  but  in  the  capital  those  students 
who  could  not  afford  to  purchase  largely  had 
a  resource.  The  shops  of  the  great  book- 
sellers, near  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard,  were 
crowded  every  day  and  all  day  long  with 
readers;  and  a  known  customer  was  often 
permitted  to  carry  a  volume  home.  In  the 
country  there  was  no  such  accommodation ; 
and  every  man  was  under  the  necessity  of  buy- 
ing whatever  he  wished  to  read. 

As  to  the  lady  of  the  manor  and  her  daugh- 
ters, their  literary  stores  generally  consisted  of 
a  prayer  book  and  a  receipt  book.  But  in 
truth  they  lost  little  by  living  in  rural  seclusion. 
For,  even  in  the  highest  ranks,  and  in  those 
situations  which  afforded  the  greatest  facilities 
for  mental  improvement,  the  English  women 
of  that  generation  were  decidedly  worse  edu- 
cated than  they  have  been  at  any  other  time 
since  the  revival  of  learning.  At  an  earlier 
period  they  had  studied  the  masterpieces  of 
ancient  genius.  In  the  present  day  they 
seldom  bestow  much  attention  on  the  dead 
languages;  but  they  are  familiar  with  the 
tongue  of  Pascal  and  Moliere,  with  the  tongue 
of  Dante  and  Tasso,  with  the  tongue  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller;  nor  is  there  any  purer  or  more 
graceful  English  than  that  which  accomplished 
women  now  speak  and  write.  But,  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the 
culture  of  the  female  mind  seems  to  have  been 
almost  entirely   neglected.     If  a   damsel    had 


the  least  smattering  of  literature  she  was  re- 
garded as  a  prodigy.  Ladies  highly  born, 
highly  bred,  and  naturally  quick-witted,  were 
unable  to  write  a  line  in  their  mother  tongue 
without  solecisms  and  faults  of  spelling  such 
as  a  charity  girl  would  now  be  ashamed  to 
commit. 

The  explanation  may  easily  be  found. 
Extravagant  licentiousness,  the  natural  effect 
of  extravagant  austerity,  was  now  the  mode; 
and  licentiousness  had  produced  its  ordinary 
effect,  the  moral  and  intellectual  degradation 
of  women.  To  their  personal  beauty  it  was 
the  fashion  to  pay  rude  and  impudent  homage. 
But  the  admiration  and  desire  which  they  in- 
spired were  seldom  mingled  with  respect,  with 
affection,  or  with  any  chivalrous  sentiment. 
The  quahties  which  fit  them  to  be  companions, 
advisers,  confidential  friends,  rather  repelled 
than  attracted  the  libertines  of  Whitehall.  In 
that  court  a  maid  of  honour,  who  dressed  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  do  full  justice  to  a  white 
bosom,  who  ogled  significantly,  who  danced 
voluptuously,  who  excelled  in  pert  rej)artee, 
who  was  not  ashamed  to  romp  with  Lords  of 
the  Bedchamber  and  Captains  of  the  Guards, 
to  sing  sly  verses  with  sly  expression,  or  to 
put  on  a  page's  dress  for  a  frolic,  was  more 
likely  to  be  followed  and  admired,  more  likely 
to  be  honoured  with  royal  attentions,  more 
likely  to  win  a  rich  and  noble  husband  than 
Jane  Grey  or  Lucy  Hutchinson  would  have 
been.  In  such  circumstances  the  standard  of 
female  attainments  was  necessarily  low;  and 
it  was  more  dangerous  to  be  above  that  stand- 
ard than  to  be  beneath  it.  Extreme  ignorance 
and  frivolity  were  thought  less  unbecoming  in 
a  lady  than  the  slightest  tincture  of  pedantry. 
Of  the  too  celebrated  women  whose  faces  we 
still  admire  on  the  walls  of  Hampton  Court, 
few  indeed  were  in  the  habit  of  reading  any- 
thing more  valuable  than  acrostics,  lampoons, 
and  translations  of  the  Clelia  and  the  Grand 
Cyrus. 

The  literary  acquirements,  even  of  the  ac- 
complished gentlemen  of  that  generation,  seem 
to  have  been  somewhat  less  solid  and  pro- 
found than  at  an  earlier  or  a  later  period. 
Greek  learning,  at  least,  did  not  flourish 
among  us  in  the  days  of  Charles  the  Second, 
as  it  had  flourished  before  the  civil  war,  or 
as  it  again  flourished  long  after  the  Revolution. 
There  were  undoubtedly  scholars  to  whom 
the  whole  Greek  literature,  from  Homer  to 
Photius,  was  familiar:  but  such  scholars  were 
to    be    found    almost   exclusively    among   the 


400 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


clergy  resident  at  the  Universities,  and  even  at 
the  Universities  were  few,  and  were  not  fully 
appreciated.  At  Cambridge  it  was  not  thought 
by  any  means  necessary  that  a  divine  should 
be  able  to  read  the  Gospels  in  the  original. 
Nor  was  the  standard  at  Oxford  higher. 
When,  in  the  reign  of  William  the  Third, 
Christ  Church  rose  up  as  one  man  to  defend 
the  genuineness  of  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris, 
that  great  college,  then  considered  as  the  first 
seat  of  philology  in  the  kingdom,  could  not 
muster  such  a  stock  of  Attic  learning  as  is  now 
possessed  by  several  youths  at  every  great 
public  school.  It  may  easily  be  supposed  that 
a  dead  language,  neglected  at  the  Universities, 
was  not  much  studied  by  men  of  the  world. 
In  a  former  age  the  poetry  and  eloquence  of 
Greece  had  been  the  delight  of  Raleigh  and 
Falkland.  In  a  later  age  the  poetry  and  elo- 
quence of  Greece  were  the  delight  of  Pitt  and 
Fox,  of  Windham  and  Grenville.  But  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  there 
was  in  England  scarcely  one  eminent  states- 
man who  could  read  with  enjoyment  a  page  of 
Sophocles  or  Plato. 

Good  Latin  scholars  were  numerous.  The 
language  of  Rome,  indeed,  had  not  altogether 
lost  its  imperial  prerogatives,  and  was  still,  in 
many  parts  of  Europe,  almost  indispensable 
to  a  traveller  or  a  negotiator.  To  speak  it 
well  was  therefore  a  much  more  common 
accomplishment  than  in  our  time;  and  neither 
Oxford  nor  Cambridge  wanted  poets  who,  on 
a  great  occasion,  could  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
throne  happy  imitations  of  the  verses  in  which 
Virgil  and  Ovid  had  celebrated  the  greatness  of 
Augustus. 

Yet  even  the  Latin  was  giving  way  to  a 
younger  rival.  France  united  at  that  time 
almost  every  species  of  ascendency.  Her 
military  glory  was  at  the  height.  She  had 
vanquished  mighty  coalitions.  She  had  dic- 
tated treaties.  She  had  subjugated  great  cities 
and  provinces.  She  had  forced  the  Castilian 
pride  to  yield  her  the  precedence.  She  had 
summoned  Italian  princes  to  prostrate  them- 
selves at  her  footstool.  Her  authority  was 
supreme  in  all  matters  of  good  breeding,  from 
a  duel  to  a  minuet.  She  determined  how  a 
gentleman's  coat  must  be  cut,  how  long  his 
peruke  must  be,  whether  his  heels  must  be 
high  or  low,  and  whether  the  lace  on  his  hat 
must  be  broad  or  narrow.  In  literature  she 
gave  law  to  the  world.  The  fame  of  her  great 
writers  filled  Europe. 


It  would  have  been  well  if  our  writers  had 
also  copied  the  decorum  which  their  great 
French  contemporaries,  with  few  exceptions, 
preserved;  for  the  profligacy  of  the  English 
plays,  satires,  songs,  and  novels  of  that  age  is 
a  deep  blot  on  our  national  fame.  The  evil 
may  easily  be  traced  to  its  source.  The  wits 
and  the  Puritans  had  never  been  on  friendly 
terms.  There  was  no  sympathy  between  the 
two  classes.  They  looked  on  the  whole  system 
of  human  life  from  different  points  and  in 
different  lights.  The  earnest  of  each  was  the 
jest  of  the  other.  The  pleasures  of  each  were 
the  torments  of  the  other.  To  the  stern  pre- 
cisian even  the  innocent  sport  of  the  fancy 
seemed  a  crime.  To  light  and  festive  natures 
the  solemnity  of  the  zealous  brethren  furnished 
copious  matter  of  ridicule.  From  the  Refor- 
mation to  the  civil  war,  almost  every  writer, 
gifted  with  a  fine  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  had 
taken  some  opportunity  of  assailing  the  straight- 
haired,  snuffling,  whining  saints,  who  christened 
their  children  out  of  the  Book  of  Nehemiah, 
who  groaned  in  spirit  at  the  sight  of  Jack  in 
the  Green,  and  who  thought  it  impious  to 
taste  plum  porridge  on  Christmas  day.  At 
length  a  time  came  when  the  laughers  began 
to  look  grave  in  their  turn.  The  rigid,  ungainly 
zealots,  after  having  furnished  much  good 
sport  during  two  generations,  rose  up  in  arms, 
conquered,  ruled,  and,  grimly  smiling,  trod 
down  under  their  feet  the  whole  crowd  of 
mockers.  The  wounds  inflicted  by  gay  and 
petulant  malice  were  retaliated  with  the  gloomy 
and  implacable  malice  peculiar  to  bigots  who 
mistake  their  own  rancour  for  virtue.  The 
theatres  were  closed.  The  players  were 
flogged.  The  press  was  put  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  austere  licensers.  The  Muses  were 
banished  from  their  own  favourite  haunts, 
Cambridge  and  Oxford.  Cowley,  Crashaw, 
and  Cleveland  were  ejected  from  their  fellow- 
ships. The  young  candidate  for  academical 
honours  was  no  longer  required  to  write  Ovid- 
ian  epistles  or  Virgilian  pastorals,  but  was 
strictly  interrogated  by  a  synod  of  lowering 
Supralapsarians  as  to  the  day  and  hour  when 
he  experienced  the  new  birth.  Such  a  system 
was  of  course  fruitful  of  hypocrites.  Under 
sober  clothing  and  under  visages  composed 
to  the  expression  of  austerity  lay  hid  during 
several  years  the  intense  desire  of  license  and 
of  revenge.  At  length  that  desire  was  gratified. 
The  Restoration  emancipated  thousands  of 
minds  from  a  yoke  which  had  become  insup- 
portable.    The   old   fight    recommenced,    but 


THE   HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


401 


with  an  animosity  altogether  new.  It  was  now 
not  a  sportive  combat,  but  a  war  to  the  death. 
The  Roundhead  had  no  better  quarter  to  ex- 
pect from  those  whom  he  had  persecuted  than 
a  cruel  slave-driver  can  expect  from  insurgent 
slaves  still  bearing  the  marks  of  his  collars  and 
his  scourges. 

The  war  between  wit  and  Puritanism  soon 
became  a  war  between  wit  and  morality.  The 
hostility  excited  by  a  grotesque  caricature  of 
Virtue  did  not  spare  Virtue  herself.  Whatever 
the  canting  Roundhead  had  regarded  with 
reverence  was  insulted.  Whatever  he  had 
proscribed  was  favoured.  Because  he  had  been 
scrupulous  about  trifles,  all  scruples  were 
treated  with  derision.  Because  he  had  covered 
his  failings  with  the  mask  of  devotion,  men 
were  encouraged  to  obtrude  with  Cynic  impu- 
dence all  their  most  scandalous  vices  on  the 
public  eye.  Because  he  had  punished  illicit 
love  with  barbarous  severity,  virgin  purity  and 
conjugal  fidelity  were  made  a  jest.  To  that 
sanctimonious  jargon  which  was  his  shibljoleth 
was  opposed  another  jargon  not  less  absurd 
and  much  more  odious.  As  he  never  opened 
his  mouth  except  in  scriptural  phrase,  the  new 
breed  of  wits  and  fine  gentlemen  never  opened 
their  mouths  without  uttering  ribaldry  of  which 
a  porter  would  now  be  ashamed,  and  without 
calling  on  their  Maker  to  curse  them,  sink 
them,  confound  them,  blast  them,  and  damn 
them. 

It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  our  polite 
literature,  when  it  revived  with  the  revival  of 
the  old  civil  and  ecclesiastical  polity,  should 
have  been  profoundly  immoral.  A  few  emi- 
nent men,  who  belonged  to  an  earlier  and 
better  age,  were  exempt  from  the  general 
contagion.  The  verse  of  Waller  still  breathed 
the  sentiments  which  had  animated  a  more 
chivalrous  generation.  Cowley,  distinguished 
as  a  loyalist  and  as  a  man  of  letters,  raised 
his  voice  courageously  against  the  immorality 
which  disgraced  both  letters  and  loyalty.  A 
mightier  poet,  tried  at  once  by  pain,  danger, 
poverty,  obloquy,  and  blindness,  meditated, 
undisturbed  by  the  obscene  tumult  which  raged 
all  around  him,  a  song  so  sublime  and  so  holy 
that  it  would  not  have  misbecome  the  lips  of 
those  ethereal  Virtues  whom  he  saw,  with  that 
inner  eye  which  no  calamity  could  darken, 
flinging  down  on  the  jasper  pavement  their 
crowns  of  amaranth  and  gold.  The  vigorous 
and  fertile  genius  of  Butler,  if  it  did  not  alto- 
gether escape  the  prevailing  infection,  took  the 
disease  in  a  mild  form.     But  these  were  men 


whose  minds  had  been  trained  in  a  world 
which  had  passed  away.  They  gave  place  in 
no  long  time  to  a  younger  generation  of  wits; 
and  of  that  generation,  from  Dryden  down  to 
Durfey,  the  common  characteristic  was  hard- 
hearted, shameless,  swaggering  licentiousness, 
at  once  inelegant  and  inhuman.  The  influ- 
ence of  these  writers  was  doubtless  noxious, 
yet  less  noxious  than  it  would  have  been  had 
they  been  less  depraved.  The  poison  which 
they  administered  was  so  strong  that  it  was, 
in  no  long  time,  rejected  with  nausea.  None 
of  them  understood  the  dangerous  art  of  asso- 
ciating images  of  unlawful  pleasure  with  all 
that  is  endearing  and  ennobling.  None  of 
them  was  aware  that  a  certain  decorum  is 
essential  even  to  voluptuousness,  that  draper}- 
may  be  more  alluring  than  exposure,  and  that 
the  imagination  may  be  far  more  powerfully 
moved  by  delicate  hints  which  impel  it  to  exert 
itself  than  by  gross  descriptions  which  it  takes 
in  passively. 

The  spirit  of  the  anti-Puritan  reaction  per- 
vades almost  the  whole  polite  literature  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second.  But  the  very 
quintessence  of  that  spirit  will  be  found  in  the 
comic  drama.  The  playhouses,  shut  by  the 
meddling  fanatic  in  the  day  of  his  power, 
were  again  crowded.  To  their  old  attractions 
new  and  more  powerful  attractions  had  been 
added.  Scenery,  dresses,  and  decorations, 
such  as  would  now  be  thought  mean  or  absurd, 
but  such  as  would  have  been  esteemed  in- 
credibly magnificent  by  those  who,  early  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  sat  on  the  filthy 
benches  of  the  Hope,  or  under  the  thatched 
roof  of  the  Rose,  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  mul- 
titude. The  fascination  of  sex  was  called  in 
to  aid  the  fascination  of  art:  and  the  young 
spectator  saw,  with  emotions  unknown  to  the 
contemporaries  of  Shakcsj)care  and  Jonson, 
tender  and  sprightly  heroines  personated  by 
lovely  women.  From  the  day  on  which  the 
theatres  were  reopened  they  became  semi- 
naries of  vice;  and  the  evil  propagated  itself. 
The  profligacy  of  the  representations  soon 
drove  away  sober  ])eople.  The  frivolous  and 
dissolute  who  remained  required  every  year 
stronger  and  stronger  stimulants.  Thus  the 
artists  corrupted  the  spectators,  and  the  spec- 
tators the  artists,  till  the  turpitude  of  the 
drama  became  such  as  must  astonish  all  who 
are  not  aware  that  extreme  relaxation  is  the 
natural  efl'ect  of  extreme  restraint,  and  that 
an  age  of  hypocrisy  is,  in  the  regular  course  of 
things,  followed  by  an  age  of  impudence. 


402 


THOMAS    Bx\BINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  the  times 
than  the  care  with  which  the  poets  con- 
trived to  put  all  their  loosest  verses  into  the 
mouths  of  women.  The  compositions  in 
which  the  greatest  license  was  taken  were 
the  epilogues.  They  were  almost  always  re- 
cited by  favourite  actresses;  and  nothing 
charmed  the  depraved  audience  so  much  as 
to  hear  lines  grossly  indecent  repeated  by  a 
beautiful  girl,  who  was  supposed  to  have  not 
yet  lost  her  innocence. 

******* 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  drama;  and  the 
drama  was  the  department  of  polite  literature 
in  which  a  poet  had  the  best  chance  of  obtain- 
ing a  subsistence  by  his  pen.  The  sale  of 
books  was  so  small  that  a  man  of  the  great- 
est name  could  hardly  expect  more  than  a  pit- 
tance for  the  copyright  of  the  best  performance. 
There  cannot  be  a  stronger  instance  than  the 
fate  of  Dryden's  last  production,  the  Fables. 
That  volume  was  published  when  he  was  uni- 
versally admitted  to  be  the  chief  of  living 
English  poets.  It  contains  about  twelve  thou- 
sand lines.  The  versification  is  admirable,  the 
narratives  and  descriptions  full  of  life.  To  this 
day  Palamon  and  Arcite,  Cymon  and  Iphigenia, 
Theodore  and  Honoria,  are  the  delight  both  of 
critics  and  of  schoolboys.  The  collection  in- 
cludes Alexander's  Feast,  the  noblest  ode  in 
our  language.  For  the  copyright  Dryden 
received  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  less 
than  in  our  days  has  sometimes  been  paid  for 
two  articles  in  a  review.  Nor  does  the  bargain 
seem  to  have  been  a  hard  one.  For  the  book 
went  off  slowly;  and  the  second  edition  was 
not  required  till  the  author  had  been  ten  years 
in  his  grave.  By  writing  for  the  theatre  it  was 
possible  to  earn  a  much  larger  sum  with  much 
less  trouble.  Southern  made  seven  hundred 
pounds  by  one  play.  Otway  was  raised  from 
beggary  to  temporary  afifluence  by  the  success 
of  his  Don  Carlos.  Shadwell  cleared  a  hundred 
and  thirty  pounds  by  a  single  representation  of 
the  Squire  of  Alsatia.  The  consequence  was 
that  every  man  who  had  to  live  by  his  wit 
wrote  plays,  whether  he  had  any  internal 
vocation  to  write  plays  or  not.  It  was  thus 
with  Dryden.  As  a  satirist  he  has  rivalled 
Juvenal.  As  a  didactic  poet  he  perhaps 
might,  with  care  and  meditation,  have  rivalled 
Lucretius.  Of  lyric  poets  he  is,  if  not  the 
most  sublime,  the  most  brilliant  and  spirit 
stirring.  But  nature,  profuse  to  him  of  many 
rare  gifts,  had  withheld  from  him  the  dramatic 
faculty.     Nevertheless,  all  the  energies  of  his 


best  years  were  wasted  on  dramatic  composi- 
tion. He  had  too  much  judgment  not  to  be 
aware  that  in  the  power  of  exhibiting  character 
by  means  of  dialogue  he  was  deficient.  That 
deficiency  he  did  his  best  to  conceal,  some- 
times by  surprising  and  amusing  incidents, 
sometimes  by  stately  declamation,  sometimes 
by  harmonious  numbers,  sometimes  by  ribaldry 
but  too  well  suited  to  the  taste  of  a  profane 
and  licentious  pit.  Yet  he  never  obtained  any 
theatrical  success  equal  to  that  which  rewarded 
the  exertions  of  some  men  far  inferior  to  him 
in  general  powers.  He  thought  himself  fortu- 
nate if  he  cleared  a  hundred  guineas  by  a 
play;  a  scanty  remuneration,  yet  apparently 
larger  than  he  could  have  earned  in  any  other 
way  by  the  same  quantity  of  labour. 

The  recompense  which  the  wits  of  that  age 
could  obtain  from  the  public  was  so  small, 
that  they  were  under  the  necessity  of  eking 
out  their  incomes  by  levying  contributions  on 
the  great.  Every  rich  and  good-natured  lord 
was  pestered  by  authors  with  a  mendicancy  so 
importunate,  and  a  flattery  so  abject,  as  may 
in  our  time  seem  incredible.  The  patron  to 
whom  a  work  was  inscribed  was  expected  to 
reward  the  writer  with  a  purse  of  gold.  The 
fee  paid  for  the  dedication  of  a  book  was 
often  much  larger  than  the  sum  which  any 
publisher  would  give  for  the  copyright.  Books 
were  therefore  frequently  printed  merely  that 
they  might  be  dedicated.  This  traffic  in  praise 
produced  the  effect  which  might  have  been 
expected.  Adulation  pushed  to  the  verge, 
sometimes  of  nonsense,  and  sometimes  of  im- 
piety, was  not  thought  to  disgrace  a  poet. 
Independence,  veracity,  self-respect,  were  things 
not  required  by  the  world  from  him.  In  truth, 
he  was  in  morals  something  between  a  pander 
and  a  beggar. 

******* 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that,  while  the 
lighter  literature  of  England  was  thus  becom- 
ing a  nuisance  and  a  national  disgrace,  the 
English  genius  was  effecting  in  science  a  revo- 
lution which  will,  to  the  end  of  time,  be  reckoned 
among  the  highest  achievements  of  the  human 
intellect.  Bacon  had  sown  the  good  seed  in  a 
sluggish  soil  and  an  ungenial  season.  He  had 
not  expected  an  early  crop,  and  in  his  last 
testament  had  solemnly  bequeathed  his  fame 
to  the  next  age.  During  a  whole  generation, 
his  philosophy  had,  amidst  tumults,  wars,  and 
proscriptions,  been  slowly  ripening  in  a  few 
well-constituted  minds.  While  factions  were 
struggling   for   dominion   over  each   other,   a 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


403 


small  body  of  sages  had  turned  away  with 
benevolent  disdain  from  the  conflict,  and  had 
devoted  themselves  to  the  nobler  work  of  ex- 
tending the  dominion  of  man  over  matter. 
As  soon  as  tranquillity  was  restored,  these 
teachers  easily  found  attentive  audience.  For 
the  discipline  through  which  the  nation  had 
passed  had  brought  the  public  mind  to  a 
temper  well  fitted  for  the  reception  of  the 
Verulamian  doctrine.  The  civil  troubles  had 
stimulated  the  faculties  of  the  educated  classes, 
and  had  called  forth  a  restless  activity  and  an 
insatiable  curiosity,  such  as  had  not  before 
been  known  among  us.  Yet  the  effect  of  those 
troubles  was  that  schemes  of  political  and 
religious  reform  were  generally  regarded  with 
suspicion  and  contempt.  During  twenty  years 
the  chief  employment  of  busy  and  ingenious 
men  had  been  to  frame  constitutions  with 
first  magistrates,  without  first  magistrates,  with 
hereditary  senates,  with  senates  appointed  by 
lot,  with  annual  senates,  with  perpetual  senates. 
In  these  plans  nothing  was  omitted.  All  the 
detail,  all  the  nomenclature,  all  the  ceremonial 
of  the  imaginary  government  was  fully  set 
forth  —  Polemarchs  and  Phylarchs,  Tribes 
and  Galaxies,  the  Lord  Archon  and  the  Lord 
Strategus.  Which  ballot  boxes  were  to  be 
green  and  which  red,  which  balls  were  to  be  of 
gold  and  which  of  silver,  which  magistrates 
were  to  wear  hats  and  which  black  velvet  caps 
with  peaks,  how  the  mace  was  to  be  carried 
and  when  the  heralds  were  to  uncover,  these, 
and  a  hundred  more  such  trifles,  were  gravely 
considered  and  arranged  by  men  of  no  com- 
mon capacity  and  learning.  But  the  time  for 
these  visions  had  gone  by;  and,  if  any  stead- 
fast republican  still  continued  to  amuse  him- 
self with  them,  fear  of  puljlic  derision  and  of  a 
criminal  information  generally  induced  him 
to  keep  his  fancies  to  himself.  It  was  now 
unpopular  and  unsafe  to  mutter  a  word  against 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  monarchy:  but 
daring  and  ingenious  men  might  indemnify 
themselves  by  treating  with  disdain  what  had 
lately  been  considered  as  the  fundamental 
laws  of  nature.  The  torrent  which  had  been 
dammed  up  in  one  channel  rushed  violently 
into  another.  The  revolutionary  spirit,  ceasing 
to  operate  in  politics,  began  to  exert  itself  with 
unprecedented  vigour  and  hardihood  in  every 
department  of  physics.  The  year  1660,  the 
era  of  the  restoration  of  the  old  constitution, 
is  also  the  era  from  which  dates  the  ascendency 
of  the  new  philosophy.  In  that  year  the  Royal 
Society,  destined  to  be  a  chief  agent  in  a  long 


series  of  glorious  and  salutarj'  reforms,  began 
to  exist.  In  a  few  months  experimental  sci- 
ence became  all  the  mode.  The  transfusion  of 
blood,  the  ponderation  of  air,  the  fixation  of 
mercury,  succeeded  to  that  place  in  the  public 
mind  which  had  been  lately  occupied  by  the 
controversies  of  the  Rota.  Dreams  of  perfect 
forms  of  government  made  way  for  dreams 
of  wings  with  which  men  were  to  fly  from  the 
Tower  to  the  Abbey,  and  of  double-keeled 
shi]:)S  which  were  never  to  founder  in  the 
fiercest  storm.  All  classes  were  hurried  along 
by  the  prevailing  sentiment.  Cavalier  and 
Roundhead,  Churchman  and  Puritan,  were 
for  once  allied.  Divines,  jurists,  statesmen, 
nobles,  princes,  swelled  the  triumph  of  the 
Baconian  philosophy.  Poets  sang  with  emu- 
lous fervour  the  approach  of  the  golden  age. 
Cowley,  in  lines  weighty  with  thought  and  re- 
splendent with  wit,  urged  the  chosen  seed  to 
take  possession  of  the  promised  land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey,  that  land  which  their 
great  deliverer  and  lawgiver  had  seen,  as  from 
the  summit  of  Pisgah,  but  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  enter.  Dryden,  with  more  zeal  than 
knowledge,  joined  his  voice  to  the  general 
acclamation,  and  foretold  things  which  neither 
he  nor  anybody  else  understood.  The  Royal 
Society,  he  predicted,  would  soon  lead  us  to 
the  extreme  verge  of  the  globe,  and  there  de- 
light us  with  a  better  view  of  the  moon.  Two 
able  and  aspiring  prelates,  \\'ard.  Bishop  of 
Salisbury,  and  Wilkins,  Bishop  of  Chester, 
were  conspicuous  among  the  leaders  of  the 
movement.  Its  history  was  eloquently  written 
by  a  younger  divine,  who  was  rising  to  high 
distinction  in  his  profession,  Thomas  Sprat, 
afterward  Bishop  of  Rochester.  Both  Chief 
Justice  Hale  and  Lord  Keeper  Guildford  stole 
some  hours  from  the  business  of  their  courts 
to  write  on  hydrostatics.  Indeed,  it  was 
under  the  immediate  direction  of  Guildford 
that  the  first  barometers  ever  exposed  to  sale 
in  London  were  constructed.  Chemistry  di- 
vided, for  a  time,  with  wine  and  love,  with  the 
stage  and  the  gaming-table,  with  the  intrigues 
of  a  courtier  and  the  intrigues  of  a  demagogue, 
the  attention  of  the  fickle  Buckingham.  Ruj)crt 
has  the  credit  of  having  invented  mezzotinto; 
and  from  him  is  named  that  curious  bubble  of 
glass  which  has  long  amused  children  and 
puzzled  philosophers.  Charles  himself  had  a 
laboratory  at  Whitehall,  and  was  far  more 
active  and  attentive  there  than  at  the  council 
board.  It  was  almost  necessary  to  the  char- 
acter of  a  fine  gentleman  to  have  something 


404 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


to  say  about  air-pumps  and  telescopes;  and 
even  fine  ladies,  now  and  then,  thought  it 
becoming  to  affect  a  taste  for  science,  went  in 
coaches  and  six  to  visit  the  Gresham  curiosi- 
ties, and  broke  forth  into  cries  of  delight  at 
finding  that  a  magnet  really  attracted  a  needle, 
and  that  a  microscope  really  made  a  fly  look 
as  large  as  a  sparrow. 

In  this,  as  in  every  stir  of  the  human  mind, 
there  was  doubtless  something  which  might 
well  move  a  smile.  It  is  the  universal  law 
that  whatever  pursuit,  whatever  doctrine,  be- 
comes fashionable,  shall  lose  a  portion  of  that 
dignity  which  it  has  possessed  while  it  was 
confined  to  a  small  but  earnest  minority,  and 
was  loved  for  its  own  sake  alone.  It  is  true 
that  the  follies  of  some  persons  who,  without 
any  real  aptitude  for  science,  professed  a  pas- 
sion for  it,  furnished  matter  of  contemptuous 
mirth  to  a  few  malignant  satirists  who  be- 
longed to  the  preceding  generation,  and  were 
not  disposed  to  unlearn  the  lore  of  their  youth. 
But  it  is  not  less  true  that  the  great  work 
of  interpreting  nature  was  performed  by  the 
English  of  that  age  as  it  had  never  before  been 
performed  in  any  age  by  any  nation.  The 
spirit  of  Francis  Bacon  was  abroad,  a  spirit 
admirably  compounded  of  audacity  and  so- 
briety. There  was  a  strong  persuasion  that 
the  whole  world  was  full  of  secrets  of  high 
moment  to  the  happiness  of  man,  and  that 
man  had,  by  his  Maker,  been  entrusted  with 
the  key  which,  rightly  used,  would  give  access 
to  them.  There  was  at  the  same  time  a  con- 
viction that  in  physics  it  was  impossible  to 
arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  general  laws  except 
by  the  careful  observation  of  particular  facts. 
Deeply  impressed  with  these  great  truths,  the 
professors  of  the  new  philosophy  applied  them- 
selves to  their  task,  and,  before  a  quarter  of  a 
century  had  expired,  they  had  given  ample 
earnest  of  what  has  since  been  achieved. 
Already  a  reform  of  agriculture  had  been 
commenced.  New  vegetables  were  cultivated. 
New  implements  of  husbandry  were  employed. 
New  manures  were  applied  to  the  soil.  Evelyn 
had,  under  the  formal  sanction  of  the  Royal 
Society,  given  instruction  to  his  countrymen 
in  planting.  Temple,  in  his  intervals  of 
leisure,  had  tried  many  experiments  in  horti- 
culture, and  had  proved  that  many  delicate 
fruits,  the  natives  of  more  favoured  climates, 
might,  with  the  help  of  art,  be  grown  on 
English  ground.  Medicine,  which  in  France 
was  still  in  abject  bondage,  and  afforded  an 
inexhaustible  subject  of  just  ridicule  to  Moliere, 


had  in  England  become  an  experimental  and 
progressive  science,  and  every  day  made  some  • 
new  advance,  in  defiance  of  Hippocrates  and  I 
Galen.  The  attention  of  speculative  men  had  ■ 
been,  for  the  first  time,  directed  to  the  im- 
portant subject  of  sanitary  police.  The  great 
plague  of  1665  induced  them  to  consider  with 
care  the  defective  architecture,  draining,  and 
ventilation  of  the  capital.  The  great  fire  of 
1666  afforded  an  opportunity  for  effecting 
extensive  improvements.  The  whole  matter 
was  diligently  examined  by  the  Royal  Society; 
and  to  the  suggestions  of  that  body  must  be 
partly  attributed  the  changes  which,  though 
far  short  of  what  the  public  welfare  required, 
yet  made  a  wide  difference  between  the  new 
and  the  old  London,  and  probably  put  a  final 
close  to  the  ravages  of  pestilence  in  our  coun- 
try. At  the  same  time  one  of  the  founders 
of  the  Society,  Sir  William  Petty,  created  the 
science  of  political  arithmetic,  the  humble  but 
indispensable  handmaid  of  political  philosophy. 
No  kingdom  of  nature  was  left  unexplored. 
To  that  period  belong  the  chemical  discoveries 
of  Boyle,  and  the  earliest  botanical  researches 
of  Sloane.  It  was  then  that  Ray  made  a  new 
classification  of  birds  and  fishes,  and  that  the 
attention  of  Woodward  was  first  drawn  towards 
fossils  and  shells.  One  after  another  phan- 
toms which  had  haunted  the  world  through 
ages  of  darkness  fled  before  the  light.  As- 
trology and  alchemy  became  jests.  Soon  there 
was  scarcely  a  county  in  which  some  of  the 
Quorum  did  not  smile  contemptuously  when 
an  old  woman  was  brought  before  them  for 
riding  on  broomsticks  or  giving  cattle  the  mur- 
rain. But  it  was  in  those  noblest  and  most 
arduous  departments  of  knowledge  in  which 
induction  and  mathematical  demonstration 
cooperate  for  the  discovery  of  truth,  that  the 
English  genius  won  in  that  age  the  most 
memorable  triumphs.  John  Wallis  placed  the 
whole  system  of  statics  on  a  new  foundation. 
Edmund  Halley  investigated  the  properties  of 
the  atmosphere,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea, 
the  laws  of  magnetism,  and  the  course  of  the 
comets;  nor  did  he  shrink  from  toil,  peril,  and 
exile  in  the  cause  of  science.  While  he,  on 
the  rock  of  Saint  Helena,  mapped  the  con- 
stellations of  the  southern  hemisphere,  our 
national  observatory  was  rising  at  Greenwich; 
and  John  Flamsteed,  the  first  Astronomer 
Royal,  was  commencing  that  long  series  of 
observations  which  is  never  mentioned  with- 
out respect  and  gratitude  in  any  part  of  the 
globe.     But  the  glory  of  these  men,  eminent 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


405 


as  they  were,  is  cast  into  the  shade  by  the 
transcendent  lustre  of  one  immortal  name.  In 
Isaac  Newton  two  kinds  of  intellectual  power, 
which  have  little  in  common,  and  which  are 
not  often  found  together  in  a  very  high  degree 
of  vigour,  but  which  nevertheless  are  equally 
necessary  in  the  most  sublime  departments  of 
physics,  were  united  as  they  have  never  been 
united  before  or  since.  There  may  have  been 
minds  as  happily  constituted  as  his  for  the 
cultivation  of  pure  mathematical  science; 
there  may  have  been  minds  as  happily  con- 
stituted for  the  cultivation  of  science  purely 
experimental;  but  in  no  other  mind  have  the 
demonstrative  faculty  and  the  inductive  faculty 
coexisted  in  such  supreme  excellence  and  per- 
fect harmony.  Perhaps  in  the  days  of  Scotists 
and  Thomists  even  his  intellect  might  have 
run  to  waste,  as  many  intellects  ran  to  waste 
which  were  inferior  only  to  his.  Happily  the 
spirit  of  the  age  on  which  his  lot  was  cast 
gave  the  right  direction  to  his  mind;  and  his 
mind  reacted  with  tenfold  force  on  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  In  the  year  1685  his  fame,  though 
splendid,  was  only  dawning;  but  his  genius 
was  in  the  meridian.  His  great  work,  that 
work  which  effected  a  revolution  in  the  most 
important  provinces  of  natural  philosophy,  had 
been  completed,  but  was  not  yet  published, 
and  was  just  about  to  be  submitted  to  the 
consideration  of  the  Royal  Society. 

******* 
It  is  time  that  this  description  of  the  Eng- 
land which  Charles  the  Second  governed  should 
draw  to  a  close.  Yet  one  subject  of  the  highest 
moment  still  remains  untouched.  Nothing 
has  yet  been  said  of  the  great  body  of  the 
people,  of  those  who  held  the  ploughs,  who 
tended  the  oxen,  who  toiled  at  the  looms  of 
Norwich,  and  squared  the  Portland  stone  for 
Saint  Paul's.  Nor  can  very  much  be  said. 
The  most  numerous  class  is  precisely  the  class 
respecting  which  we  have  the  most  meagre 
information.  In  those  times  philanthropists 
did  not  yet  regard  it  as  a  sacred  duty,  nor  had 
demagogues  yet  found  it  a  lucrative  trade,  to 
talk  and  write  about  the  distress  of  the  labourer. 
History  was  too  much  occupied  with  courts  and 
camps  to  spare  a  line  for  the  hut  of  the  peasant 
or  the  garret  of  the  mechanic.  The  press 
now  often  sends  forth  in  a  day  a  greater 
quantity  of  discussion  and  declamation  about 
the  condition  of  the  workingman  than  was 
published  during  the  twenty-eight  years  which 
elapsed  between  the  Restoration  and  the 
Revolution.     But  it  would  be  a  great  error  to 


infer  from  the  increase  of  complaint  that  there 
has  been  any  increase  of  misery. 

The  great  criterion  of  the  state  of  the  com- 
mon people  is  the  amount  of  their  wages; 
and  as  four-fifths  of  the  common  people  were, 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  employed  in  agricul- 
ture, it  is  especially  important  to  ascertain 
what  were  then  the  wages  of  agricultural  in- 
dustry. On  this  subject  we  have  the  means 
of  arriving  at  conclusions  sufficiently  exact  for 
our  purpose. 

Sir  William  Petty,  whose  mere  assertion 
carries  great  weight,  informs  us  that  a  labourer 
was  by  no  means  in  the  lowest  state  who 
received  for  a  day's  work  fourpence  with  food, 
or  eightpence  without  food.  Four  shillings  a 
week  therefore  were,  according  to  Patty's  cal- 
culation, fair  agricultural  wages. 

That  this  calculation  was  not  remote  from 
the  truth,  we  have  abundant  proof.  About 
the  beginning  of  the  year  1685  the  justices 
of  Warwickshire,  in  the  exercise  of  a  power 
entrusted  to  them  by  an  act  of  Elizabeth,  fi.xed, 
at  their  quarter  sessions,  a  scale  of  wages  for 
the  county,  and  notified  that  every  employer 
who  gave  more  than  the  authorised  sum,  and 
every  workingman  who  received  more,  would 
be  liable  to  punishment.  The  wages  of  the 
common  agricultural  labourer,  from  March  to 
September,  were  fixed  at  the  precise  amount 
mentioned  by  Petty,  namely,  four  shillings  a 
week  without  food.  From  September  to  March 
the  wages  were  to  be  only  three  and  sixjjence  a 
week. 

But  in  that  age,  as  in  ours,  the  earnings  of 
the  peasants  were  very  different  in  different 
parts  of  the  kingdom.  The  wages  of  War- 
wickshire were  probably  about  the  average, 
and  those  of  the  counties  near  the  Scottish 
border  below  it:  but  there  were  more  favoured 
districts.  In  the  same  year,  1685,  a  gentle- 
man of  Devonshire,  named  Richard  Dunning, 
published  a  small  tract,  in  which  he  described 
the  condition  of  the  poor  of  that  county. 
That  he  understood  his  subject  well  it  is  im- 
possible to  doubt;  for  a  few  months  later  his 
work  was  reprinted,  and  was,  by  the  magis- 
trates assembled  in  quarter  sessions  at  Exeter, 
strongly  recommended  to  the  attention  of  all 
parochial  ofliccrs.  According  to  him  the 
wages  of  the  Devonshire  peasant  were,  with- 
out food,  about  five  shillings  a  week. 

Still  better  was  the  condition  of  the  labourer 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bury  Saint  Edmund's. 
The  magistrates  of  Suffolk  met  there  in  the 
spring  of  1682  to  fix  a  rate  of  wages,  and  resolved 


4o6 


THOMAS   BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


that,  where  the  labourer  was  not  boarded,  he 
should  have  five  shillings  a  week  in  winter, 
and  six  in  summer. 

In  1661  the  justices  of  Chelmsford  had 
fixed  the  wages  of  the  Essex  labourer,  who 
was  not  boarded,  at  six  shillings  in  winter, 
and  seven  in  summer.  This  seems  to  have 
been  the  highest  remuneration  given  in  the 
kingdom  for  agricultural  labour  between  the 
Restoration  and  the  Revolution;  and  it  is  to 
be  observed  that,  in  the  year  in  which  this 
order  was  made,  the  necessaries  of  life  were 
immoderately  dear.  Wheat  was  at  seventy 
shillings  the  quarter,  which  would  even  now 
be  considered  as  almost  a  famine  price. 
******* 

The  remuneration  of  workmen  employed  in 
manufactures  has  always  been  higher  than  that 
of  the  tillers  of  the  soil.  In  the  year  1680,  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Commons  remarked 
that  the  high  wages  paid  in  this  country  made 
it  impossible  for  our  textures  to  maintain  a 
competition  with  the  produce  of  the  Indian 
looms.  An  English  mechanic,  he  said,  in- 
stead of  slaving  like  a  native  of  Bengal  for 
a  piece  of  copper,  exacted  a  shilling  a  day. 
Other  evidence  is  extant,  which  proves  that  a 
shilling  a  day  was  the  pay  to  which  the  English 
manufacturer  then  thought  himself  entitled, 
but  that  he  was  often  forced  to  work  for  less. 
The  common  people  of  that  age  were  not  in 
the  habit  of  meeting  for  public  discussion,  of 
haranguing,  or  of  petitioning  Parliament.  No 
newspaper  pleaded  their  cause.  It  was  in 
rude  rhyme  that  their  love  and  hatred,  their 
exultation  and  their  distress,  fotind  utterance. 
A  great  part  of  their  history  is  to  be  learned 
only  from  their  ballads.  One  of  the  most  re- 
markable of  the  popular  lays  chanted  about 
the  streets  of  Norwich  and  Leeds  in  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Second  may  still  be  read  on  the 
original  broadside.  It  is  the  vehement  and 
bitter  cry  of  labour  against  capital.  It  de- 
scribes the  good  old  times  when  every  artisan 
employed  in  the  woollen  manufacture  lived  as 
well  as  a  farmer.  But  those  times  were  past. 
Sixpence  a  day  was  now  all  that  could  be 
earned  by  hard  labour  at  the  loom.  If  the 
poor  complained  that  they  could  not  live  on 
such  a  pittance,  they  were  told  that  they  were 
free  to  take  it  or  leave  it.  For  so  miserable  a 
recompense  were  the  producers  of  wealth  com- 
pelled to  toil,  rising  early  and  lying  down  late, 
while  the  master  clothier,  eating,  sleeping,  and 
idling,  became  rich  by  their  exertions.  A 
shilling  a  day,  the  poet  declares,  is  what  the 


weaver  would  have,  if  justice  were  done.  We 
may  therefore  conclude  that,  in  the  generation 
which  preceded  the  Revolution,  a  workman 
employed  in  the  great  staple  manufacture  of 
England  thought  himself  fairly  paid  if  he 
gained  six  shillings  a  week. 

It  may  here  be  noticed  that  the  practice  of 
setting  children  prematurely  to  work,  a  practice 
which  the  state,  the  legitimate  protector  of 
those  who  cannot  protect  themselves,  has,  in 
our  time,  wisely  and  humanely  interdicted, 
prevailed  in  the  seventeenth  century  to  an 
extent  which,  when  compared  with  the  extent 
of  the  manufacturing  system,  seems  almost  in- 
credible. At  Norwich,  the  chief  seat  of  the 
clothing  trade,  a  little  creature  of  six  years  old 
was  thought  fit  for  labour.  Several  writers  of 
that  time,  and  among  them  some  who  were 
considered  as  eminently  benevolent,  mention, 
with  exultation,  the  fact  that,  in  that  single 
city,  boys  and  girls  of  very  tender  age  created 
wealth  exceeding  what  was  necessary  for  their 
own  subsistence  by  twelve  thousand  potinds 
a  year.  The  more  carefully  we  examine  the 
history  of  the  past,  the  more  reason  shall  we 
find  to  dissent  from  those  who  imagine  that 
our  age  has  been  fruitful  of  new  social  evils. 
The  truth  is  that  the  evils  are,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  old.  That  which  is  new  is  the 
intelligence  which  discerns  and  the  humanity 
which  remedies  them. 

When  we  pass  from  the  weavers  of  cloth  to 
a  different  class  of  artisans,  our  inquiries  will 
still  lead  us  to  nearly  the  same  conclusions. 
During  several  generations,  the  Commissioners 
of  Greenwich  Hospital  have  kept  a  register  of 
the  wages  paid  to  different  classes  of  workmen 
who  have  been  employed  in  the  repairs  of  the 
building.  From  this  valuable  record  it  ap- 
pears that,  in  the  course  of  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years,  the  daily  earnings  of  the  brick- 
layer have  risen  from  half  a  crown  to  four 
and  tenpence,  those  of  the  mason  from  half  a 
crown  to  five  and  threepence,  those  of  the 
carpenter  from  half  a  crown  to  five  and  five- 
pence,  and  those  of  the  plumber  from  three 
shillings  to  five  and  sixpence. 

It  seems  clear,  therefore,  that  the  wages  of 
labour  estimated  in  money,  were,  in  1685,  not 
more  than  half  of  what  they  now  are;  and 
there  were  few  articles  important  to  the  work- 
ingman  of  which  the  price  was  not,  in  1685, 
more  than  half  of  what  it  now  is.  Beer  was 
undoubtedly  much  cheaper  in  that  age  than 
at  present.  Meat  was  also  cheaper,  but  was 
still  so  dear  that  hundreds  of  thousands  of 


THE    HISTORY    OF    ENGLAND 


407 


families  scarcely  knew  the  taste  of  it.  In  the 
cost  of  wheat  there  has  been  very  little  change. 
The  average  price  of  the  quarter,  during  the 
last  twelve  years  of  Charles  the  Second,  was 
fifty  shillings.  Bread,  therefore,  such  as  is 
now  given  to  the  inmates  of  a  workhouse,  was 
then  seldom  seen,  even  on  the  trencher  of  a 
yeoman  or  of  a  shopkeeper.  The  great  ma- 
jority of  the  nation  lived  almost  entirely  on 
rye,  barley,  and  oats. 

******* 

Of  the  blessings  which  civilisation  and 
philosophy  bring  with  them  a  large  proportion 
is  common  to  all  ranks,  and  would,  if  with- 
drawn, be  missed  as  painfully  by  the  labourer 
as  by  the  peer.  The  market-place  which  the 
rustic  can  now  reach  with  his  cart  in  an  hour 
was,  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago,  a  day's 
journey  from  him.  The  street  which  now 
affords  to  the  artisan,  during  the  whole  night, 
a  secure,  a  convenient,  and  a  brilliantly  lighted 
walk  was,  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago,  so 
dark  after  sunset  that  he  would  not  have  been 
able  to  see  his  hand,  so  ill  paved  that  he  would 
have  run  constant  risk  of  breaking  his  neck, 
and  so  ill  watched  that  he  would  have  been  in 
imminent  danger  of  being  knocked  down  and 
plundered  of  his  small  earnings.  Every  brick- 
layer who  falls  from  a  scaffold,  every  sweeper 
of  a  crossing  who  is  run  over  by  a  carriage, 
may  now  have  his  wounds  dressed  and  his 
limbs  set  with  a  skill  such  as,  a  hundred  and 
sixty  years  ago,  all  the  wealth  of  a  great  lord 
like  Ormond,  or  of  a  merchant  prince  like 
Clayton,  could  not  have  purchased.  Some 
frightful  diseases  have  been  extirpated  by 
science;  'and  some  have  been  banished  by 
police.  The  term  of  human  life  has  been 
lengthened  over  the  whole  kingdom,  and  es- 
pecially in  the  towns.  The  year  1685  was  not 
accounted  sickly;  yet  in  the  year  1685  more 
than  one  in  twenty-three  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  capital  died.  At  present  only  one  inhab- 
itant of  the  capital  in  forty  dies  annually.  The 
difference  in  salubrity  between  the  London  of 
the  nineteenth  century  and  the  London  of  the 
seventeenth  century  is  very  far  greater  than  the 
difference  between  London  in  an  ordinary  year 
and  London  in  a  year  of  cholera. 

Still  more  important  is  the  benefit  which 
all  orders  of  society,  and  especially  the  lower 
orders,  have  derived  from  the  mollifying  in- 
fluence of  civilisation  on  the  national  character. 
The  groundwork  of  that  character  has  indeed 
been  the  same  through  many  generations,  in 
the  sense    in  which  the    groundwork  of    the 


character  of  an  individual  may  be  said  to  be 
the  same  when  he  is  a  rude  and  thoughtless 
schoolboy  and  when  he  is  a  refined  and  accom- 
plished man.  It  is  pleasing  to  reflect  that  the 
public  mind  of  England  has  softened  while  it 
has  ripened,  and  that  we  have,  in  the  course 
of  ages,  become,  not  only  a  wiser,  but  also  a 
kinder  people.  There  is  scarcely  a  page  of 
the  history  or  lighter  literature  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  which  does  not  contain  some 
proof  that  our  ancestors  were  less  humane 
than  their  posterity.  The  discipline  of  work- 
shops, of  schools,  of  private  families,  though 
not  more  efhcient  than  at  present,  was  infinitely 
harsher.  Masters,  well  born  and  bred,  were  in 
the  habit  of  beating  their  servants.  Pedagogues 
knew  no  way  of  imparting  knowledge  but  by 
beating  their  pupils.  Husbands,  of  decent 
station,  were  not  ashamed  to  beat  their  wives. 
The  implacability  of  hostile  factions  was  such 
as  we  can  scarcely  conceive.  Whigs  were  dis- 
posed to  murmur  because  Stafford  was  suffered 
to  die  without  seeing  his  bowels  burned  before 
his  face.  Tories  reviled  and  insulted  Russell 
as  his  coach  passed  from  the  Tower  to  the 
scaffold  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  As  little 
mercy  was  shown  by  the  populace  to  sufferers 
of  a  humbler  rank.  If  an  offender  was  put 
into  the  pillory,  it  was  well  if  he  escaped  with 
life  from  the  shower  of  brickbats  and  paving- 
stones.  If  he  was  tied  to  the  cart's  tail,  the 
crowd  pressed  round  him,  imploring  the  hang- 
man to  give  it  the  fellow  well,  and  make  him 
howl.  Gentlemen  arranged  parties  of  pleasure 
to  Bridewell  on  court  days  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  the  wretched  women  who  beat  hemp 
there  whipped.  A  man  pressed  to  death  for 
refusing  to  plead,  a  woman  burned  for  coining, 
excited  less  sympathy  than  is  now  felt  for  a 
galled  horse  or  an  overdriven  ox.  Fights 
compared  with  which  a  boxing-match  is  a 
refined  and  humane  spectacle  were  among  the 
favourite  diversions  of  a  large  part  of  the 
town.  Multitudes  assembled  to  see  gladiators 
hack  each  other  to  pieces  with  deadly  weapons, 
and  shouted  with  delight  when  one  of  the  com- 
batants lost  a  finger  or  an  eye.  The  prisons 
were  hells  on  earth,  seminaries  of  every  crime 
and  of  every  disease.  At  the  assizes  the  lean 
and  yellow  culprits  brought  with  them  from 
their  cells  to  the  dock  an  atmosphere  of  stench 
and  pestilence  which  sometimes  avenged  them 
signally  on  bench,  bar,  and  jury.  But  on  all 
this  misery  society  looked  with  profound  in- 
difference. Nowhere  could  be  found  that 
sensitive  and  restless  compassion  which  has, 


4o8 


THOMAS    BABINGTON,    LORD    MACAULAY 


in  our  time,  extended  a  powerful  protection  to 
the  factory  child,  to  the  Hindoo  widow,  to  the 
negro  slave,  which  pries  into  the  stores  and 
water-casks  of  every  emigrant  ship,  which 
winces  at  every  lash  laid  on  the  back  of  a 
drunken  soldier,  which  will  not  suffer  the  thief 
in  the  hulks  to  be  ill  fed  or  overworked,  and 
which  has  repeatedly  endeavoured  to  save  the 
life  even  of  the  murderer.  It  is  true  that 
compassion  ought,  like  all  other  feelings,  to  be 
under  the  government  of  reason,  and  has,  for 
want  of  such  government,  produced  some 
ridiculous  and  some  deplorable  effects.  But 
the  more  we  study  the  annals  of  the  past,  the 
more  shall  we  rejoice  that  we  live  in  a  merciful 
age,  in  an  age  in  which  cruelty  is  abhorred, 
and  in  which  pain,  even  when  deserved,  is 
inflicted  reluctantly  and  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
Every  class  doubtless  has  gained  largely  by 
this  great  moral  change:  but  the  class  which 
has  gained  most  is  the  poorest,  the  most  de- 
pendent, and  the  most  defenceless. 

The  general  effect  of  the  evidence  which  has 
been  submitted  to  the  reader  seems  hardly  to 
admit  of  doubt.  Yet,  in  spite  of  evidence, 
many  will  still  image  to  themselves  the  Eng- 
land of  the  Stuarts  as  a  more  pleasant  country 
than  the  England  in  which  we  live.  It  may 
at  first  sight  seem  strange  that  society,  while 
constantly  moving  forward  with  eager  speed, 
should  be  constantly  looking  backward  with 
tender  regret.  But  these  two  propensities,  in- 
consistent as  they  may  appear,  can  easily  be 
resolved  into  the  same  principle.  Both  spring 
from  our  impatience  of  the  state  in  which  we 
actually  are.  That  impatience,  while  it  stimu- 
lates us  to  surpass  preceding  generations,  dis- 
poses us  to  overrate  their  happiness.  It  is, 
in  some  sense,  unreasonable  and  ungrateful  in 
us  to  be  constantly  discontented  with  a  condi- 
tion which  is  constantly  improving.  But,  in 
truth,  there  is  constant  improvement  precisely 
because  there  is  constant  discontent.  If  we 
were  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  present,  we 
should  cease  to  contrive,  to  labour,  and  to 
save  with  a  view  to  the  future.  And  it  is 
natural  that,  being  dissatisfied  with  the  present, 
we  should  form  a  too  favourable  estimate  of  the 
past. 

In  truth  we  are  under  a  deception  similar  to 
that  which  misleads  the  traveller  in  the  Arabian 


desert.  Beneath  the  caravan  all  is  dry  and 
bare;  but  far  in  advance,  and  far  in  the  rear, 
is  the  semblance  of  refreshing  waters.  The 
pilgrims  hasten  forward  and  find  nothing  but 
sand  where  an  hour  before  they  had  seen  a 
lake.  They  turn  their  eyes  and  see  a  lake 
where  an  hour  before  they  were  toiling  through 
sand.  A  similar  illusion  seems  to  haunt  na- 
tions through  every  stage  of  the  long  progress 
from  poverty  and  barbarism  to  the  highest 
degrees  of  opulence  and  civilisation.  But,  if 
we  resolutely  chase  the  mirage  backward,  we 
shall  find  it  recede  before  us  into  the  regions 
of  fabulous  antiquity.  It  is  now  the  fashion 
to  place  the  golden  age  of  England  in  times 
when  noblemen  were  destitute  of  comforts  the 
want  of  which  would  be  intolerable  to  a  modern 
footman,  when  farmers  and  shopkeepers  break- 
fasted on  loaves  the  very  sight  of  which  would 
raise  a  riot  in  a  modern  workhouse,  when  to 
have  a  clean  shirt  once  a  week  was  a  privilege 
reserved  for  the  higher  class  of  gentry,  when 
men  died  faster  in  the  purest  country  air  than 
they  now  die  in  the  most  pestilential  lanes  of 
our  towns,  and  when  men  died  faster  in  the 
lanes  of  our  towns  than  they  now  die  on  the 
coast  of  Guiana.  We  too  shall,  in  our  turn, 
be  outstripped,  and  in  our  turn  be  envied. 
It  may  well  be,  in  the  twentieth  century,  that 
the  peasant  of  Dorsetshire  may  think  himself 
miserably  paid  with  twenty  shillings  a  week; 
that  the  carpenter  at  Greenwich  may  receive 
ten  shillings  a  day;  that  labouring  men  may 
be  as  little  used  to  dine  without  meat  as  they 
now  are  to  eat  rye  bread;  that  sanitary  police 
and  medical  discoveries  may  have  added 
several  more  years  to  the  average  length  of 
human  life;  that  numerous  comforts  and 
luxuries  which  are  now  unknown,  or  confined 
to  a  few,  may  be  within  the  reach  of  every 
diligent  and  thrifty  workingman.  And  yet  it 
may  then  be  the  mode  to  assert  that  the  in- 
crease of  wealth  and  the  progress  of  science 
have  benefited  the  few  at  the  expense  of  the 
many,  and  to  talk  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria as  the  time  when  England  was  truly 
merry  England,  when  all  classes  were  bound 
together  by  brotherly  sympathy,  when  the  rich 
did  not  grind  the  faces  of  the  poor,  and  when 
the  poor  did  not  envy  the  splendour  of  the 
rich. 


THE    NINETEENTH    CENTURY.    H 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

(1801-1890) 

From  THE   IDEA   OF  A   UNIVERSITY 

DISCOURSE  VI 

Knowledge  viewed  in  Relation  to  Learning 


I  suppose  the  primd -facie  view  which  the 
public  at  large  would  take  of  a  University, 
considering  it  as  a  place  of  Education,  is  noth- 
ing more  or  less  than  a  place  for  acquiring  a 
great  deal  of  knowledge  on  a  great  many  sub- 
jects. Memory  is  one  of  the  tirst  developed 
of  the  mental  faculties;  a  boy's  business  when 
he  goes  to  school  is  to  learn,  that  is,  to  store 
up  things  in  his  memory.  For  some  years 
his  intellect  is  little  more  than  an  instrument 
for  taking  in  facts,  or  a  receptacle  for  storing 
them;  he  welcomes  them  as  fast  as  they  come 
to  him;  he  lives  on  what  is  without;  he  has 
his  eyes  ever  about  him ;  he  has  a  lively  sus- 
ceptibility of  impressions;  he  imbibes  infor- 
mation of  every  kind ;  and  little  does  he  make 
his  own  in  a  true  sense  of  the  word,  living 
rather  upon  his  neighbours  all  around  him. 
He  has  opinions,  religious,  political,  and  liter- 
ary, and,  for  a  boy,  is  very  positive  in  them 
and  sure  about  them;  but  he  gets  them  from 
his  schoolfellows,  or  his  masters,  or  his  parents, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Such  as  he  is  in  his  other 
relations,  such  also  is  he  in  his  school  exercises; 
his  mind  is  observant,  sharp,  ready,  retentive; 
he  is  almost  passive  in  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge.  I  say  this  in  no  disparagement  of 
the  idea  of  a  clever  boy.  Geography,  chro- 
nology, history,  language,  natural  history,  he 
heaps  up  the  matter  of  these  studies  as  treas- 
ures for  a  future  day.  It  is  the  seven  years  of 
plenty  with  him:  he  gathers  in  by  handfuls, 
like  the  Egyptians,  without  counting;  and 
though,  as  time  goes  on,  there  is  e.xercise  for 
his  argumentative  powers  in  the  Elements  of 
Mathematics,  and  for  his  taste  in  the  Poets 
and  Orators,  still,  while  at  school,  or  at  least, 


till  quite  the  last  years  of  his  time,  he  acquires, 
and  little  more;  and  when  he  is  leaving  for 
the  University,  he  is  mainly  the  creature  of 
foreign  influences  and  circumstances,  and 
made  up  of  accidents,  homogeneous  or  not, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Moreover,  the  moral 
habits,  which  are  a  boy's  praise,  encourage 
and  assist  this  result;  that  is,  diligence,  assi- 
duity, regularity,  despatch,  persevering  appli- 
cation ;  for  these  are  the  direct  conditions  of 
acquisition,  and  naturally  lead  to  it.  Acquire- 
ments, again,  are  emphatically  producible,  and 
at  a  moment;  they  are  a  something  to  show, 
both  for  master  and  scholar;  an  audience, 
even  though  ignorant  themselves  of  the  sulj- 
jects  of  an  examination,  can  comprehend  when 
questions  are  answered  and  when  they  are 
not.  Here  again  is  a  reason  why  mental  cul- 
ture is  in  the  minds  of  men  identified  with  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge. 

The  same  notion  possesses  the  public  mind, 
when  it  passes  on  from  the  thought  of  a  school 
to  that  of  a  University:  and  with  the  best  of 
reasons  so  far  as  this,  that  there  is  no  true 
culture  without  acquirements,  and  that  phi- 
losophy presupposes  knowledge.  It  requires  a 
great  deal  of  reading,  or  a  wide  range  of  in- 
formation, to  warrant  us  in  putting  forth  our 
opinions  on  any  serious  subject;  and  without 
such  learning  the  most  original  mind  may  be 
able  indeed  to  dazzle,  to  amuse,  to  refute,  to 
perplex,  but  not  to  come  to  any  useful  result 
or  any  trustworthy  conclusion.  There  are  in- 
deed persons  who  profess  a  different  view  of 
the  matter,  and  even  act  upon  it.  Every  now 
and  then  you  will  find  a  person  of  vigorous 
or  fertile  mind,  who  relies  upon  his  own  re- 
sources, despises  all  former  authors,  and  gives 
the  world,  with  the  utmost  fearlessness,  his 
views  upon  religion,  or  history,  or  any  other 
popular  subject.  And  his  works  may  sell  for 
a  while;  he  may  get  a  name  in  his  day;  but 
this  will  be  all.  His  readers  are  sure  to  find 
on  the  long  run  that  his  doctrines  are  mere 
theories,  and  not  the  expression  of  facts,  that 
they  are  chaff  instead  of  bread,  and  then  his 
popularity  drops  as  suddenly  as  it  rose. 


409 


4IO 


JOHN   HENRY,  CARDINAL   NEWMAN 


Knowledge  then  is  the  indispensable  condi- 
tion of  expansion  of  mind,  and  the  instrument 
of  attaining  to  it;  this  cannot  be  denied,  it  is 
ever  to  be  insisted  on;  I  begin  with  it  as  a 
first  principle;  however,  the  very  truth  of  it 
carries  men  too  far,  and  coniirms  to  them  the 
notion  that  it  is  the  whole  of  the  matter.  A 
narrow  mind  is  thought  to  be  that  which  con- 
tains little  knowledge;  and  an  enlarged  mind, 
that  which  holds  a  great  deal;  and  what 
seems  to  put  the  matter  beyond  dispute  is, 
the  fact  of  the  great  number  of  studies  which 
are  pursued  in  a  University,  by  its  very  pro- 
fession. Lectures  are  given  on  every  kind  of 
subject ;  examinations  are  held ;  prizes  awarded. 
There  are  moral,  metaphysical,  physical  Pro- 
fessors; Professors  of  languages,  of  history,  of 
mathematics,  of  experimental  science.  Lists 
of  questions  are  published,  wonderful  for  their 
range  and  depth,  variety  and  difficulty ;  treatises 
are  written,  which  carry  upon  their  very  face  the 
evidence  of  extensive  reading  or  multifarious 
information;  what  then  is  wanting  for  mental 
culture  to  a  person  of  large  reading  and  scien- 
tific attainments?  what  is  grasp  of  mind  but 
acquirement  ?  where  shall  philosophical  repose 
be  found,  but  in  the  consciousness  and  enjoy- 
ment of  large  intellectual  possessions  ? 

And  yet  this  notion  is,  I  conceive,  a  mis- 
take, and  my  present  business  is  to  show  that 
it  is  one,  and  that  the  end  of  a  Liberal  Educa- 
tion is  not  mere  knowledge,  or  knowledge  con- 
sidered in  its  matter;  and  I  shall  best  attain 
my  object,  by  actually  setting  down  some 
cases,  which  will  be  generally  granted  to  be 
instances  of  the  process  of  enlightenment  or 
enlargement  of  mind,  and  others  which  are  not, 
and  thus,  by  the  comparison,  you  will  be  able 
to  judge  for  yourselves.  Gentlemen,  whether 
Knowledge,  that  is,  acquirement,  is  after  all 
the  real  principle  of  the  enlargement,  or 
whether  that  principle  is  not  rather  something 
beyond  it. 


For  instance,  let  a  person,  whose  experience 
has  hitherto  been  confined  to  the  more  calm 
and  unpretending  scenery  of  these  islands, 
whether  here  or  in  England,  go  for  the  first 
time  into  parts  where  physical  nature  puts  on 
her  wilder  and  more  awful  forms,  whether  at 
home  or  abroad,  as  into  mountainous  districts; 
or  let  one,  who  has  ever  lived  in  a  quiet  village, 
go  for  the  first  time  to  a  great  metropolis,  — 
then  I  suppose  he  will  have  a  sensation  which 
perhaps  he  never  had  before.     He  has  a  feel- 


ing not  in  addition  or  increase  of  former  feel- 
ings, but  of  something  different  in  its  nature. 
He  will  perhaps  be  borne  forward,  and  find 
for  a  time  that  he  has  lost  his  bearings.  He 
has  made  a  certain  progress,  and  he  has  a 
consciousness  of  mental  enlargement;  he  does 
not  stand  where  he  did,  he  has  a  new  centre, 
and  a  range  of  thoughts  to  which  he  was  before 
a  stranger. 

Again,  the  view  of  the  heavens  which  the 
telescope  opens  upon  us,  if  allowed  to  fill  and 
possess  the  mind,  may  almost  whirl  it  round 
and  make  it  dizzy.  It  brings  in  a  flood  of 
ideas,  and  is  rightly  called  an  intellectual  en- 
largement, whatever  is  meant  by  the  term. 

And  so  again,  the  sight  of  beasts  of  prey 
and  other  foreign  animals,  their  strangeness, 
the  originality  (if  I  may  use  the  term)  of  their 
forms  and  gestures  and  habits  and  their  va- 
riety and  independence  of  each  other,  throw 
us  out  of  ourselves  into  another  creation,  and 
as  if  under  another  Creator,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press the  temptation  which  may  come  on  the 
mind.  We  seem  to  have  new  faculties,  or  a 
new  exercise  for  our  faculties,  by  this  addition 
to  our  knowledge;  like  a  prisoner,  who,  hav- 
ing been  accustomed  to  wear  manacles  or 
fetters,  suddenly  finds  his  arms  and  legs  free. 

Hence  Physical  Science  generally,  in  all  its 
departments,  as  bringing  before  us  the  exu- 
berant riches  and  resources,  yet  the  orderly 
course,  of  the  Universe,  elevates  and  excites 
the  student,  and  at  first,  I  may  say,  almost 
takes  away  his  breath,  while  in  time  it  exercises 
a  tranquillising   influence  upon  him. 

Again,  the  study  of  history  is  said  to  enlarge 
and  enlighten  the  mind,  and  why?  because, 
as  I  conceive,  it  gives  it  a  power  of  judging  of 
passing  events,  and  of  all  events,  and  a  con- 
scious superiority  over  them,  which  before  it 
did  not  possess. 

And  in  like  manner,  what  is  called  seeing 
the  world,  entering  into  active  life,  going  into 
society,  travelling,  gaining  acquaintance  with 
the  various  classes  of  the  community,  coming 
into  contact  with  the  principles  and  modes  of 
thought  of  various  parties,  interests,  and  races, 
their  views,  aims,  habits  and  manners,  their 
religious  creeds  and  forms  of  worship,  —  gain- 
ing experience  how  various  yet  how  alike  men 
are,  how  low-minded,  how  bad,  how  opposed, 
yet  how  confident  in  their  opinions;  all  this 
exerts  a  perceptible  influence  upon  the  mind, 
which  it  is  impossible  to  mistake,  be  it  good 
or  be  it  bad,  and  is  popularly  called  its  en- 
largement. 


THE    IDEA    OF    A    UNIVERSITY 


411 


And  then  again,  the  ^rst  time  the  mind 
comes  across  the  arguments  and  speculations 
of  unbelievers,  and  feels  what  a  novel  light 
they  cast  upon  what  he  has  hitherto  accounted 
sacred;  and  still  more,  if  it  gives  in  to  them 
and  embraces  them,  and  throws  off  as  so 
much  prejudice  what  it  has  hitherto  held, 
and,  as  if  waking  from  a  dream,  begins  to 
realise  to  its  imagination  that  there  is  now  no 
such  thing  as  law  and  the  transgression  of 
law,  that  sin  is  a  phantom,  and  punishment  a 
bugbear,  that  it  is  free  to  sin,  free  to  enjoy 
the  world  and  the  flesh;  and  still  further, 
when  it  does  enjoy  them,  and  reflects  that  it 
may  think  and  hold  just  what  it  will,  that  "the 
world  is  all  before  it  where  to  choose,"  and 
what  system  to  build  up  as  its  own  private 
persuasion ;  when  this  torrent  of  wilful  thoughts 
rushes  over  and  inundates  it,  who  will  deny 
that  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  or 
what  the  mind  takes  for  knowledge,  has  made 
it  one  of  the  gods,  with  a  sense  of  expansion 
and  elevation,  —  an  intoxication  in  reality, 
stfll,  so  far  as  the  subjective  state  of  the  mind 
goes,  an  illumination?  Hence  the  fanaticism 
of  individuals  or  nations,  who  suddenly  cast 
off  their  Maker.  Their  eyes  are  opened;  and, 
like  the  judgment-stricken  king  in  the  Tragedy, 
they  see  two  suns,  and  a  magic  universe,  out 
of  which  they  look  back  upon  their  former 
state  of  faith  and  innocence  with  a  sort  of 
contempt  and  indignation,  as  if  they  were  then 
but  fools,  and  the  dupes  of  imposture. 

On  the  other  hand.  Religion  has  its  own 
enlargement,  and  an  enlargement,  not  of  tu- 
mult, but  of  peace.  It  is  often  remarked  of 
uneducated  persons,  who  have  hitherto  thought 
little  of  the  unseen  world,  that,  on  their  turn- 
ing to  God,  looking  into  themselves,  regulat- 
ing their  hearts,  reforming  their  conduct,  and 
meditating  on  death  and  judgment,  heaven 
and  hell,  they  seem  to  become,  in  point  of 
intellect,  different  beings  from  what  they  were. 
Before,  they  took  things  as  they  came,  and 
thought  no  more  of  one  thing  than  another. 
But  now  every  event  has  a  meaning;  they 
have  their  own  estimate  of  whatever  happens 
to  them ;  they  are  mindful  of  times  and  seasons, 
and  compare  the  present  with  the  past ;  and  the 
world,  no  longer  dull,  monotonous,  unprofitable, 
and  hopeless,  is  a  various  and  complicated  drama, 
with  parts  and  an  object,  and  an  awful  moral. 


Now  from  these  instances,  to  which  many 
more  might  be  added,   it  is  plain,  first,  that 


the  communication  of  knowledge  certainly  is 
either  a  condition  or  the  means  of  that  sense 
of  enlargement  or  enlightenment,  of  which  at 
this  day  we  hear  so  much  in  certain  quarters: 
this  cannot  be  denied;  but  next,  it  is  equally 
plain,  that  such  communication  is  not  the  whole 
of  the  process.  The  enlargement  consists, 
not  merely  in  the  passive  reception  into  the 
mind  of  a  number  of  ideas  hitherto  unknown 
to  it,  but  in  the  mind's  energetic  and  simul- 
taneous action  upon  and  towards  and  among 
those  new  ideas,  which  are  rushing  in  upon  it. 
It  is  the  action  of  a  formative  power,  reducing 
to  order  and  meaning  the  matter  of  our  acquire- 
ments; it  is  a  making  the  objects  of  our  know- 
ledge subjectively  our  own,  or,  to  use  a  familiar 
word,  it  is  a  digestion  of  what  we  receive,  into 
the  substance  of  our  previous  state  of  thought; 
and  without  this  no  enlargement  is  said  to 
follow.  There  is  no  enlargement,  unless  there 
be  a  comparison  of  ideas  one  with  another, 
as  they  come  before  the  mind,  and  a  systematis- 
ing  of  them.  We  feel  our  minds  to  be  growing 
and  expanding  then,  when  we  not  only  learn, 
but  refer  what  we  learn  to  what  we  know  al- 
ready. It  is  not  the  mere  addition  to  our 
knowledge  that  is  the  illumination;  but  the 
locomotion,  the  movement  onwards,  of  that 
mental  centre,  to  which  both  what  we  know, 
and  what  we  are  learning,  the  accumulating 
mass  of  our  acquirements,  gravitates.  And 
therefore  a  truly  great  intellect,  and  recognised 
to  be  such  by  the  common  opinion  of  mankind, 
such  as  the  intellect  of  Aristotle,  or  of  St. 
Thomas,  or  of  Newton,  or  of  Goethe,  (I  pur- 
posely take  instances  within  and  without  the 
Catholic  pale,  when  I  would  speak  of  the 
intellect  as  such,)  is  one  which  takes  a  connected 
view  of  old  and  new,  past  and  present,  far  and 
near,  and  which  has  an  insight  into  the  in- 
fluence of  all  these  one  on  another;  without 
which  there  is  no  whole,  and  no  centre.  It 
possesses  the  knowledge,  not  only  of  things, 
but  also  of  their  mutual  and  true  relations; 
knowledge,  not  merely  considered  as  acquire- 
ment, but  as  philosophy. 

Accordingly,  when  this  analytical,  distribu- 
tive, harmonising  process  is  away,  the  mind 
experiences  no  enlargement,  and  is  not  reck- 
oned as  enlightened  or  comprehensive,  whatever 
it  may  add  to  its  knowledge.  For  instance,  a 
great  memory,  as  I  have  already  said,  does  not 
make  a  philosopher,  any  more  than  a  dictionary 
can  be  called  a  grammar.  There  are  men  who 
embrace  in  their  minds  a  vast  multitude  of 
ideas,  but   with   little   sensibility  about   their 


412 


JOHN   HENRY,    CARDINAL   NEWMAN 


real  relations  towards  each  other.  These  may 
be  antiquarians,  annalists,  naturalists;  they 
may  be  learned  in  the  law ;  they  may  be  versed 
in  statistics;  they  are  most  useful  in  their  own 
place;  I  should  shrink  from  speaking  dis- 
respectfully of  them;  still,  there  is  nothing  in 
such  attainments  to  guarantee  the  absence  of 
narrowness  of  mind.  If  they  are  nothing  more 
than  well-read  men,  or  men  of  information, 
they  have  not  what  specially  deserves  the  name 
of  culture  of  mind,  or  fulfils  the  type  of  Liberal 
Education. 

In  like  manner,  we  sometimes  fall  in  with 
persons  who  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  of  the  men  who,  in  their  day,  have  played 
a  conspicuous  part  in  it,  but  who  generalise 
nothing,  and  have  no  observation,  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word.  They  abound  in  informa- 
tion in  detail,  curious  and  entertaining,  about 
men  and  things;  and,  having  lived  under  the 
influence  of  no  very  clear  or  settled  principles, 
religious  or  political,  they  speak  of  every  one 
and  everything,  only  as  so  many  phenomena, 
which  are  complete  in  themselves,  and  lead  to 
nothing,  not  discussing  them,  or  teaching  any 
truth,  or  instructing  the  hearer,  but  simply 
talking.  No  one  would  say  that  these  persons, 
well  informed  as  they  are,  had  attained  to  any 
great  culture  of  intellect  or  to  philosophy. 

The  case  is  the  same  still  more  strikingly 
where  the  persons  in  question  are  beyond  dis- 
pute men  of  inferior  powers  and  deficient  edu- 
cation. Perhaps  they  have  been  much  in  for- 
eign countries,  and  they  receive,  in  a  passive, 
otiose,  unfruitful  way,  the  various  facts  which 
are  forced  upon  them  there.  Seafaring  men, 
for  example,  range  from  one  end  of  the  earth 
to  the  other;  but  the  multiplicity  of  external 
objects  which  they  have  encountered  forms 
no  symmetrical  and  consistent  picture  upon 
their  imagination;  they  see  the  tapestry  of 
human  life,  as  it  were,  on  the  wrong  side,  and  it 
tells  no  story.  They  sleep,  and  they  rise  up, 
and  they  find  themselves,  now  in  Europe,  now 
in  Asia;  they  see  visions  of  great  cities  and  wild 
regions;  they  are  in  the  marts  of  commerce, 
or  amid  the  islands  of  the  South;  they  gaze  on 
Pompey's  Pillar,  or  on  the  Andes;  and  noth- 
ing which  meets  them  carries  them  forward  or 
backward,  to  any  idea  beyond  itself.  Nothing 
has  a  drift  or  relation ;  nothing  has  a  history  or 
a  promise.  Everything  stands  by  itself,  and 
comes  and  goes  in  its  turn,  like  the  shifting 
scenes  of  a  show,  which  leave  the  spectator 
where  he  was.  Perhaps  you  are  near  such  a 
man  on  a  particular  occasion,  and  expect  him 


to  be  shocked  or  perplexed  at  something  which 
occurs;  but  one  thing  is  much  the  same  to  him 
as  another,  or,  if  he  is  perplexed,  it  is  as  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  whether  it  is  right  to 
admire,  or  to  ridicule,  or  to  disapprove,  while 
conscious  that  some  expression  of  opinion  is 
expected  from  him ;  for  in  fact  he  has  no  stand- 
ard of  judgment  at  all,  and  no  landmarks  to 
guide  him  to  a  conclusion.  Such  is  mere  ac- 
quisition, and,  I  repeat,  no  one  would  dream 
of  calling  it  philosophy. 


Instances,  such  as  these,  confirm,  by  the  con- 
trast, the  conclusion  I  have  already  drawn  from 
those  which  preceded  them.  That  only  is  true 
enlargement  of  mind  which  is  the  power  of 
viewing  many  things  at  once  as  one  whole,  of 
referring  them  severally  to  their  true  place  in 
the  universal  system,  of  understanding  their 
respective  values,  and  determining  their  mutual 
dependence.  Thus  is  that  form  of  Universal 
Knowledge,  of  which  I  have  on  a  former  oc- 
casion spoken,  set  up  in  the  individual  intellect, 
and  constitutes  its  perfection.  Possessed  of 
this  real  illumination,  the  mind  never  views 
any  part  of  the  extended  subject-matter  of 
Knowledge  without  recollecting  that  it  is  but 
a  part,  or  without  the  associations  which  spring 
from  this  recollection.  It  makes  everything  in 
some  sort  lead  to  everything  else;  it  would 
communicate  the  image  of  the  whole  to  every 
separate  portion,  till  that  whole  becomes  in 
imagination  like  a  spirit,  everywhere  pervading 
and  penetrating  its  component  parts,  and  giving 
them  one  definite  meaning.  Just  as  our  bodily 
organs,  when  mentioned,  recall  their  function 
in  the  body,  as  the  word  "creation"  suggests 
the  Creator,  and  "subjects"  a  sovereign,  so, 
in  the  mind  of  the  Philosopher,  as  we  are  ab- 
stractedly conceiving  of  him,  the  elements  of 
the  physical  and  moral  world,  sciences,  arts, 
pursuits,  ranks,  offices,  events,  opinions,  indi- 
vidualities, are  all  viewed  as  one,  with  correla- 
tive functions,  and  as  gradually  by  successive 
combinations  converging,  one  and  all,  to  the 
true  centre. 

To  have  even  a  portion  of  this  illuminative 
reason  and  true  philosophy  is  the  highest  state 
to  which  nature  can  aspire,  in  the  way  of  in- 
tellect; it  puts  the  mind  above  the  influence 
of  chance  and  necessity,  above  anxiety,  sus- 
pense, unsettlement,  and  superstition,  which  is 
the  lot  of  the  many.  Men,  whose  minds  are 
possessed  with  some  one  object,   take  exag- 


THE    IDEA    OF    A    UNIVERSITY 


413 


gcrated  views  of  its  importance,  are  feverish  in 
the  pursuit  of  it,  make  it  the  measure  of  things 
which  are  utterly  foreign  to  it,  and  are  startled 
and  despond  if  it  happens  to  fail  them.  They 
are  ever  in  alarm  or  in  transport.  Those  on 
the  other  hand  who  have  no  object  or  principle 
whatever  to  hold  by,  lose  their  way,  every  step 
they  take.  They  are  thrown  out,  and  do  not 
know  what  to  think  or  say,  at  every  fresh  junc- 
ture; they  have  no  view  of  persons,  or  occur- 
rences, or  facts,  which  come  suddenly  upon 
them,  and  they  hang  upon  the  opinion  of  others, 
for  want  of  internal  resources.  But  the  in- 
tellect, which  has  been  disciplined  to  the  per- 
fection of  its  powers,  which  knows,  and  thinks 
while  it  knows,  which  has  learned  to  leaven  the 
dense  mass  of  facts  and  events  with  the  elastic 
force  of  reason,  such  an  intellect  cannot  be 
partial,  cannot  be  exclusive,  cannot  be  impetu- 
ous, cannot  be  at  a  loss,  cannot  but  be  patient, 
collected,  and  majestically  calm,  because  it  dis- 
cerns the  end  in  every  beginning,  the  origin  in 
every  end,  the  law  in  every  interruption,  the  limit 
in  each  delay;  because  it  ever  knows  where  it 
stands,  and  how  its  path  lies  from  one  point  to 
another.  It  is  the  Terpaywvos  of  the  Peripatetic, 
and  has  the  "nil  admirari"  of  the  Stoic, — 

Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cof;noscere  causas, 
Atque  mctus  omnes,  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjccit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Achcrontis  avari.' 

There  are  men  who,  when  in  difficulties,  origi- 
nate at  the  moment  vast  ideas  or  dazzling 
projects;  who,  under  the  influence  of  excite- 
ment, are  able  to  cast  a  light,  almost  as  if  from 
inspiration,  on  a  subject  or  course  of  action 
which  comes  before  them ;  who  have  a  sudden 
presence  of  mind  equal  to  any  emergency, 
rising  with  the  occasion,  and  an  undaunted 
magnanimous  bearing,  and  an  energy  and 
keenness  which  is  but  made  intense  by  oppo- 
sition. This  is  genius,  this  is  heroism;  it  is 
the  exhibition  of  a  natural  gift,  which  no  culture 
can  teach,  at  which  no  Institution  can  aim; 
here,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  concerned,  not 
with  mere  nature,  but  with  training  and  teach- 
ing. That  perfection  of  the  Intellect,  which 
is  the  result  of  Education,  and  its  beau  ideal, 
to  be  imparted  to  individuals  in  their  respective 
measures,  is  the  clear,  calm,  accurate  vision 
and  comprehension  of  all  things,  as  far  as  the 
finite  mind  can  embrace  them,  each  in  its  place, 
and  with  its  own  characteristics  upon  it.     It 

'  Fortunate  is  he  who  is  able  to  understand  things  in 
their  real  nature  and  can  trample  upon  fears  of  all  sorts 
and  inexorable  fate  and  the  noise  of  greedy  Acheron. 


is  almost  prophetic  from  its  knowledge  of  his- 
tory; it  is  almost  heart-searching  from  its 
knowledge  of  human  nature;  it  has  almost 
supernatural  charily  from  its  freedom  from 
littleness  and  prejudice ;  it  has  almost  the  repose 
of  faith,  because  nothing  can  startle  it;  it  has 
almost  the  beauty  and  harmony  of  heavenly 
contemplation,  so  intimate  is  it  with  the  eternal 
order  of  things  and  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


And  now,  if  I  may  take  for  granted  that  the 
true  and  adequate  end  of  intellectual  training 
and  of  a  University  is  not  Learning  or  Acquire- 
ment, but  rather,  is  Thought  or  Reason  exer- 
cised upon  Knowledge,  or  what  may  be  called 
Philosophy,  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  explain 
the  various  mistakes  which  at  the  present  day 
beset  the  subject  of  University  Education. 

I  say  then,  if  we  would  improve  the  intellect, 
first  of  all,  we  must  ascend ;  we  cannot  gain  real 
knowledge  on  a  level;  we  must  generalise,  we 
must  reduce  to  method,  we  must  have  a  grasp 
of  principles,  and  group  and  shape  our  acqui- 
sitions by  means  of  them.  It  matters  not 
whether  our  field  of  operation  be  wide  or 
limited;  in  every  case,  to  command  it,  is 
to  mount  above  it.  Who  has  not  felt  the  irri- 
tation of  mind  and  impatience  created  by  a 
deep,  rich  country,  visited  for  the  first  time,  with 
winding  lanes,  and  high  hedges,  and  green 
steeps,  and  tangled  woods,  and  everything 
smiling  indeed,  but  in  a  maze?  The  same 
feeling  comes  upon  us  in  a  strange  city,  when 
we  have  no  map  of  its  streets.  Hence  you  hear 
of  practised  travellers,  when  they  first  come 
into  a  place,  mounting  .some  high  hill  or  church 
tower,  by  way  of  reconnoitring  its  neighbour- 
hood. In  like  manner,  you  must  be  above  your 
knowledge,  not  under  it,  or  it  will  oppress  you; 
and  the  more  you  have  of  it,  the  greater  will  be 
the  load.  The  learning  of  a  Salmasius  or  a 
Barman,  unless  you  are  its  master  will  be  your 
tyrant.  "Imperat  aut  servit";'  if  you  can 
wield  it  with  a  strong  arm,  it  is  a  great  weapon ; 
otherwise. 

Vis  concili  expers 

Mole  ruit  sua  ;  ^ 

You  will  be  overwhelmed,  like  Tarpeia,  by  the 
heavy  wealth  which  you  have  exacted  from 
tributarv  generations. 

Instances  abound;  there  are  authors  who 
are  as  {)ointlcss  as  they  are  inexhaustible  in 

•  It  cither  rules  or  serves.  ^  Power  without  judg- 
ment falls  of  its  own  weight. 


414 


JOHN   HENRY,    CARDINAL   NEWMAN 


their  literary  resources.  They  measure  know- 
ledge by  bulk,  as  it  lies  in  the  rude  block,  with- 
out symmetry,  without  design.  How  many 
commentators  are  there  on  the  Classics,  how 
many  on  Holy  Scripture,  from  whom  we  rise 
up,  wondering  at  the  learning  which  has  passed 
before  us,  and  wondering  why  it  passed  !  How 
many  writers  are  there  of  Ecclesiastical  History, 
such  as  Mosheim  or  Du  Pin,  who,  breaking  up 
their  subject  into  details,  destroy  its  life,  and 
defraud  us  of  the  whole  by  their  anxiety  about 
the  parts !  The  Sermons,  again,  of  the  English 
Divines  in  the  seventeenth  century,  how  often 
are  they  mere  repertories  of  miscellaneous  and 
ofificious  learning!  Of  course  Catholics  also 
may  read  without  thinking;  and  in  their  case, 
equally  as  with  Protestants,  it  holds  good,  that 
such  knowledge  is  unworthy  of  the  name, 
knowledge  which  they  have  not  thought 
through,  and  thought  out.  Such  readers  are 
only  possessed  by  their  knowledge,  not  possessed 
of  it ;  nay,  in  matter  of  fact  they  are  often  even 
carried  away  by  it,  without  any  volition  of  their 
own.  Recollect,  the  Memory  can  tyrannise, 
as  well  as  the  Imagination.  Derangement,  I 
believe,  has  been  considered  as  a  loss  of  con- 
trol over  the  sequence  of  ideas.  The  mind, 
once  set  in  motion,  is  henceforth  deprived  of 
the  power  of  initiation,  and  becomes  the  victim 
of  a  train  of  associations,  one  thought  sug- 
gesting another,  in  the  way  of  cause  and  efTect, 
as  if  by  a  meshanical  process,  or  some  physical 
necessity.  No  one,  who  has  had  experience  of 
men  of  studious  habits,  but  must  recognise 
the  existence  of  a  parallel  phenomenon  in  the 
case  of  those  who  have  over-stimulated  the 
Memory.  In  such  persons  Reason  acts  almost 
as  feebly  and  as  impotently  as  in  the  madman ; 
once  fairly  started  on  any  subject  whatever, 
they  have  no  power  of  self-control;  they  pas- 
sively endure  the  succession  of  impulses  which 
are  evolved  out  of  the  original  exciting  cause; 
they  are  passed  on  from  one  idea  to  another  and 
go  steadily  forward,  plodding  along  one  line 
of  thought  in  spite  of  the  amplest  concessions 
of  the  hearer,  or  wandering  from  it  in  endless 
digression  in  spite  of  his  remonstrances.  Now, 
if,  as  is  very  certain,  no  one  would  envy  the 
madman  the  glow  and  originality  of  his  con- 
ceptions, why  must  we  extol  the  cultivation  of 
that  intellect,  which  is  the  prey,  not  indeed  of 
barren  fancies  but  of  barren  facts,  of  random 
intrusions  from  without,  though  not  of  morbid 
imaginations  from  within  ?  And  in  thus  speak- 
ing, I  am  not  denying  that  a  strong  and  ready 
memory  is  in  itself  a  real  treasure;    I  am  not 


disparaging  a  well-stored  mind,  though  it  be 
nothing  besides,  provided  it  be  sober,  any  more 
than  I  would  despise  a  bookseller's  shop:  —  it 
is  of  great  value  to  others,  even  when  not  so  to 
the  owner.  Nor  am  I  banishing,  far  from  it, 
the  possessors  of  deep  and  multifarious  learning 
from  my  ideal  University;  they  adorn  it  in  the 
eyes  of  men ;  I  do  but  say  that  they  constitute 
no  type  of  the  results  at  which  it  aims;  that  it 
is  no  great  gain  to  the  intellect  to  have  enlarged 
the  memory  at  the  expense  of  faculties  which 
are  indisputably  higher. 


Nor  indeed  am  I  supposing  that  there  is 
any  great  danger,  at  least  in  this  day,  of  over- 
education;  the  clanger  is  on  the  other  side. 
I  will  tell  you.  Gentlemen,  what  has  been  the 
practical  error  of  the  last  twenty  years,  —  not 
to  load  the  memory  of  the  student  with  a  mass 
of  undigested  knowledge,  but  to  force  upon  him 
so  much  that  he  has  rejected  all.  It  has  been 
the  error  of  distracting  and  enfeebling  the  mind 
by  an  unmeaning  profusion  of  subjects;  of  im- 
plying that  a  smattering  in  a  dozen  branches 
of  study  is  not  shallowness,  which  it  really  is, 
but  enlargement,  which  it  is  not;  of  consider- 
ing an  acquaintance  with  the  learned  names 
of  things  and  persons,  and  the  possession  of 
clever  duodecimos,  and  attendance  on  eloquent 
lecturers,  and  membership  with  scientitic  insti- 
tutions, and  the  sight  of  the  experiments  of  a 
platform  and  the  specimens  of  a  museum,  that 
all  this  was  not  dissipation  of  mind,  but  pro- 
gress. All  things  now  are  to  be  learned  at  once, 
not  first  one  thing,  then  another,  not  one  well, 
but  many  badly.  Learning  is  to  be  without 
exertion,  without  attention,  without  toil ; 
without  grounding,  without  advance,  without 
finishing.  There  is  to  be  nothing  individual 
in  it;  and  this,  forsooth,  is  the  wonder  of  the 
age.  What  the  steam  engine  does  with  matter, 
the  printing  press  is  to  do  with  mind;  it  is  to 
act  mechanically,  and  the  population  is  to  be 
passively,  almost  unconsciously  enlightened, 
by  the  mere  multiplication  and  dissemination 
of  volumes.  Whether  it  be  the  school  boy 
or  the  school  girl,  or  the  youth  at  college,  or 
the  mechanic  in  the  town,  or  the  politician  in 
the  senate,  all  have  been  the  victims  in  one  way 
or  other  of  this  most  preposterous  and  perni- 
cious of  delusions.  Wise  men  have  lifted  up 
their  voices  in  vain ;  and  at  length,  lest  their 
own  institutions  should  be  outshone  and  should 
disappear  in  the  folly  of  the  hour,  they  have 


THE    IDEA    OF    A    UNIVERSITY 


415 


been  obliged,  as  far  as  they  could  with  a  good 
conscience,  to  humour  a  spirit  which  they  could 
not  withstand,  and  make  temporising  conces- 
sions at  which  they  could  not  but  inwardly  smile. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that,  because  I  so 
speak,  therefore  I  have  some  sort  of  fear  of  the 
education  of  the  people:  on  the  contrary,  the 
more  education  they  have,  the  better,  so  that 
it  is  really  education.  Nor  am  I  an  enemy 
to  the  cheap  publication  of  scientific  and 
literary  works,  which  is  now  in  vogue:  on  the 
contrary,  I  consider  it  a  great  advantage,  con- 
venience, and  gain ;  that  is,  to  those  to  whom 
education  has  given  a  capacity  for  using  them. 
Further,  I  consider  such  innocent  recreations  as 
science  and  literature  are  able  to  furnish  will 
be  a  very  fit  occupation  of  the  thoughts  and  the 
leisure  of  young  persons,  and  may  be  made  the 
means  of  keeping  them  from  bad  employments 
and  bad  companions.  Moreover,  as  to  that 
superficial  acquaintance  with  chemistry,  and 
geology,  and  astronomy,  and  political  economy, 
and  modern  history,  and  biography,  and  other 
branches  of  knowledge,  which  periodical  liter- 
ature and  occasional  lectures  and  scientific 
institutions  diffuse  through  the  community,  I 
think  it  a  graceful  accomplishment,  and  a  suit- 
able, nay,  in  this  day  a  necessary  accomplish- 
ment, in  the  case  of  educated  men.  Nor, 
lastly,  am  I  disparaging  or  discouraging  the 
thorough  acquisition  of  any  one  of  these  studies, 
or  denying  that,  as  far  as  it  goes,  such  thorough 
acquisition  is  a  real  education  of  the  mind. 
All  I  say  is,  call  things  by  their  right  names,  and 
do  not  confuse  together  ideas  which  are  es- 
sentially different.  A  thorough  knowledge  of 
one  science  and  a  superficial  acquaintance 
with  many,  are  not  the  same  thing;  a  smatter- 
ing of  a  hundred  things  or  a  memory  for  detail, 
is  not  a  philosophical  or  comprehensive  view. 
Recreations  are  not  education;  accomplish- 
ments are  not  education.  Do  not  say,  the 
people  must  be  educated,  when,  after  all, 
you  only  mean,  amused,  refreshed,  soothed, 
put  into  good  spirits  and  good  humour,  or  kept 
from  vicious  excesses.  I  do  not  say  that  such 
amusements,  such  occupations  of  mind,  are 
not  a  great  gain;  but  they  are  not  education. 
You  may  as  well  call  drawing  and  fencing  edu- 
cation, as  a  general  knowledge  of  botany  or 
conchology.  Stuffing  birds  or  playing  stringed 
instruments  is  an  elegant  pastime,  and  a  re- 
source to  the  idle,  but  it  is  not  education; 
it  does  not  form  or  cultivate  the  intellect. 
Education  is  a  high  word;  it  is  the  preparation 
for  knowledge,  and  it  is  the  imparting  of  know- 


ledge in  proportion  to  that  preparation.  We 
require  intellectual  eyes  to  know  withal,  as 
bodily  eyes  for  sight.  We  need  both  objects 
and  organs  intellectual;  we  cannot  gain  them 
without  setting  about  it;  we  cannot  gain  them 
in  our  sleep,  or  by  hap-hazard.  The  best 
telescope  does  not  dispense  with  eyes;  the 
printing  press  or  the  lecture  room  will  assist 
us  greatly,  but  we  must  be  true  to  ourselves, 
we  must  be  parties  in  the  work.  A  University 
is,  according  to  the  usual  designation,  an  Alma 
Mater,  knowing  her  children  one  by  one,  not 
a  foundry  or  a  mint,  or  a  treadmill. 


I  protest  to  you.  Gentlemen,  that  if  I  had  to 
choose  between  a  so-called  University,  which 
dispensed  with  residence  and  tutorial  super- 
intendence, and  gave  its  degrees  to  any  person 
who  passed  an  examination  in  a  wide  range  of 
subjects,  and  a  University  which  had  no  pro- 
fessors or  examinations  at  all,  but  merely 
brought  a  number  of  young  men  together  for 
three  or  four  years,  and  then  sent  them  away 
as  the  University  of  Oxford  is  said  to  have 
done  some  sixty  years  since,  if  I  were  asked 
which  of  these  two  methods  was  the  better 
discipline  of  the  intellect,  —  mind,  I  do  not 
say  which  is  morally  the  better,  for  it  is  plain 
that  compulsory  study  must  be  a  good  and 
idleness  an  intolerable  mischief, — but  if  I 
must  determine  which  of  the  two  courses 
was  the  more  successful  in  training,  moulding, 
enlarging  the  mind,  which  sent  out  men  the 
more  fitted  for  their  secular  duties,  which  pro- 
duced better  public  men,  men  of  the  world, 
men  whose  names  would  descend  to  posterity, 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  giving  the  preference 
to  that  University  which  did  nothing,  over  that 
which  exacted  of  its  members  an  acquaintance 
with  every  science  under  the  sun.  And,  para- 
dox as  this  may  seem,  still  if  results  be  the  test 
of  systems,  the  influence  of  the  public  schools 
and  colleges  of  England,  in  the  course  of  the 
last  century,  at  least  will  bear  out  one  side  of 
the  contrast  as  I  have  drawn  it.  What  would 
come,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the  ideal  systems 
of  education  which  have  fascinated  the  imagi- 
nation of  this  age,  could  they  ever  take  clTect, 
and  whether  they  would  not  produce  a  genera- 
tion frivolous,  narrow-minded,  and  resource- 
less,  intellectually  considered,  is  a  fair  subject 
for  del)ate;  but  so  far  is  certain,  that  the  Uni- 
versities and  scholastic  establishments,  to  which 
I  refer,  and  which  did  little  more  than  bring 


4i6 


JOHN    HENRY,    CARDINAL    NEWMAN 


together  first  boys  and  then  youths  in  large 
numbers,  these  institutions,  with  miseral^le  de- 
formities on  the  side  of  morals,  with  a  hollow 
profession  of  Christianity,  and  a  heathen  code 
of  ethics,  —  I  say,  at  least  they  can  boast  of  a 
succession  of  heroes  and  statesmen,  of  literary 
men  and  philosophers,  of  men  conspicuous  for 
great  natural  virtues,  for  habits  of  business, 
for  knowledge  of  life,  for  practical  judgment, 
for  cultivated  tastes,  for  accomplishments,  who 
have  made  England  what  it  is,  —  able  to  sub- 
due the  earth,  able  to  domineer  over  Catholics. 

How  is  this  to  be  explained?  I  suppose  as 
follows.  When  a  multitude  of  young  men, 
keen,  open-hearted,  sympathetic,  and  observ- 
ant, as  young  men  are,  come  together  and 
freely  mix  with  each  other,  they  are  sure  to 
learn  one  from  another,  even  if  there  be  no 
one  to  teach  them;  the  conversation  of  all  is 
a  series  of  lectures  to  each,  and  they  gain  for 
themselves  new  ideas  and  views,  fresh  matter 
of  thought,  and  distinct  principles  for  judging 
and  acting,  day  Vjy  day.  An  infant  has  to 
learn  the  meaning  of  the  information  which  its 
senses  convey  to  it,  and  this  seems  to  be  its 
employment.  It  fancies  all  that  the  eye  pre- 
sents to  it  to  be  close  to  it,  till  it  actually 
learns  the  contrary,  and  thus  by  practice  does 
it  ascertain  the  relations  and  uses  of  those  first 
elements  of  knowledge  which  are  necessary 
for  its  animal  existence.  A  7)arallel  teaching 
is  necessary  for  our  social  being,  and  it  is  se- 
cured by  a  large  school  or  a  college;  and  this 
effect  may  be  fairly  called  in  its  own  depart- 
ment an  enlargement  of  mind.  It  is  seeing  the 
world  on  a  small  field  with  little  trouble;  for 
the  pupils  or  students  come  from  very  different 
places,  and  with  widely  different  notions,  and 
there  is  much  to  generalise,  much  to  adjust, 
much  to  eliminate,  there  are  interrelations  to 
be  defined,  and  conventional  rules  to  be  es- 
tabli.shed,  in  the  process,  by  which  the  whole 
as.semblage  is  moulded  together,  and  gains  one 
tone  and  one  character. 

Let  it  be  clearly  understood,  I  repeat  it, 
that  I  am  not  taking  into  account  moral  or 
religious  consiflerations;  I  am  but  saying 
that  that  youthful  community  will  constitute 
a  whole,  it  will  embody  a  specific  idea,  it  will 
represent  a  doctrine,  it  will  administer  a  code 
of  cf)nduct,  and  it  will  furnish  principles  of 
thought  and  action.  It  will  give  birth  to  a  living 
teaching,  which  in  course  of  time  will  take  the 
,  shape  of  a. self-perpetuating  tradition,  or  ag^^wms 
loci,  as  it  is  sometimes  called;  which  haunts  the 
home  where  it  has  been  born,  and  which  imbues 


and  forms,  more  or  less,  and  one  by  one,  every 
individual  who  is  successively  brought  under  its 
shadow.  Thus  it  is  that,  independent  of  direct 
instruction  on  the  part  of  Superiors,  there  is  a 
sort  of  self-education  in  the  academic  institu- 
tions of  Protestant  England;  a  characteristic 
tone  of  thought,  a  recognised  standard  of  judg- 
ment is  found  in  them,  which,  as  developed  in 
the  individual  who  is  submitted  to  it,  becomes 
a  twofold  source  of  strength  to  him,  both  from 
the  distinct  stamp  it  impresses  on  his  mind, 
and  from  the  bond  of  union  which  it  creates 
between  him  and  others,  —  effects  which  are 
shared  by  the  authorities  of  the  place,  for  they 
themselves  have  been  educated  in  it,  and  at 
all  times  are  exposed  to  the  influence  of  its 
ethical  atmosphere.  Here  then  is  a  real  teach- 
ing, whatever  be  its  standards  and  principles, 
true  or  false;  and  it  at  least  tends  towards  cul- 
tivation of  the  intellect;  it  at  least  recogni.scs 
that  knowledge  is  something  more  than  a  sort 
of  passive  reception  of  scraj)S  and  details;  it  is 
a  something,  and  it  does  a  something,  which 
never  will  issue  from  the  most  strenuous  efforts 
of  a  set  of  teachers,  with  no  mutual  sympathies 
and  no  intercommunion,  of  a  set  of  examiners 
with  no  opinions  which  they  dare  profess,  and 
with  no  common  principles,  who  are  teaching 
or  questioning  a  set  of  youths  who  do  not  know 
them,  and  do  not  know  each  other,  on  a  large 
number  of  subjects,  different  in  kind,  and 
connected  by  no  wide  philosophy,  three  times 
a  week,  or  three  times  a  year,  or  once  in  three 
years,  in  chill  lecture-rooms  or  on  a  pompous 
anniversary. 


Nay,  self -education  in  any  shape,  in  the  most 
restricted  sense,  is  preferable  to  a  system  of 
teaching  which,  professing  so  much,  really 
does  so  little  for  the  mind.  Shut  your  College 
gates  against  the  votary  of  knowledge,  throw 
him  back  upon  the  scarchings  and  the  efi"orts 
of  his  own  mind;  he  will  gain  by  being  spared 
an  entrance  into  your  Babel.  Few  indeed 
there  are  who  can  dispense  with  the  stimulus 
and  support  of  instructors,  or  will  do  anything 
at  all,  if  left  to  themselves.  And  fewer  still 
(though  such  great  minds  are  to  be  found), 
who  will  not,  from  such  unassisted  attempts, 
contract  a  self-reliance  and  a  self-esteem,  which 
are  not  only  moral  evils,  but  serious  hindrances 
to  the  attainment  of  truth.  And  next  to  none, 
perhaps,  or  none,  who  will  not  be  reminrled 
from  time  to  time  of  the  disadvantage  under 
which  they  lie,  by  their  imperfect  grounding. 


GEORGE    BORROW 


417 


by  the  breaks,  deficiencies,  and  irregularities 
of  tlieir  knowledge,  by  the  eccentricity  of  opin- 
ion and  the  confusion  of  principle  which 
they  exhibit.  They  will  be  too  often  ignorant 
of  what  every  one  knows  and  takes  for  granted, 
of  that  multitude  of  small  truths  which  fall 
upon  the  mind  like  dust,  impalpable  and  ever 
accumulating;  they  may  be  unable  to  converse, 
they  may  argue  perversely,  they  may  pride 
themselves  on  their  worst  paradoxes  or  their 
grossest  truisms,  they  may  be  full  of  their  own 
mode  of  viewing  things,  unwilling  to  be  put  out 
of  their  way,  slow  to  enter  into  the  minds  of 
others;  —  but,  with  these  and  whatever  other 
liabilities  upon  their  heads,  they  are  likely  to 
have  more  thought,  more  mind,  more  philoso- 
phy, more  true  enlargement,  than  those  ear- 
nest but  ill-used  persons,  who  are  forced  to  load 
their  minds  with  a  score  of  subjects  against 
an  examination,  who  have  too  much  on  their 
hands  to  indulge  themselves  in  thinking  or 
investigation,  who  devour  premiss  and  conclu- 
sion together  with  indiscriminate  greediness, 
who  hold  whole  sciences  on  faith,  and  commit 
demonstrations  to  memory,  and  who  too  of- 
ten, as  might  be  expected,  when  their  period  of 
education  is  passed,  throw  up  all  they  have 
learned  in  disgust,  having  gained  nothing 
really  by  their  anxious  labours,  except  perhaps 
the  habit  of  application. 

Yet  such  is  the  better  specimen  of  the  fruit 
of  that  ambitious  system  whicli  has  of  late  years 
been  making  way  among  us:  for  its  result  on 
ordinary  minds,  and  on  the  common  run  of 
students,  is  less  satisfactory  still;  they  leave 
their  place  of  education  simply  dissipated  and 
rela.xed  by  the  multiplicity  of  subjects,  which 
they  have  never  really  mastered,  and  so  shallow 
as  not  even  to  know  their  shallowness.  How 
much  better,  I  say,  is  it  for  the  active  and 
thoughtful  intellect,  where  such  is  to  be  found, 
to  eschew  the  College  and  the  University  alto- 
gether, than  to  submit  to  a  drudgery  so  ignoble, 
a  mockery  so  contumelious !  How  much  more 
profitable  for  the  independent  mind,  after  the 
mere  rudiments  of  education,  to  range  through 
a  library  at  randc^n,  taking  down  books  as  they 
meet  him,  and  j^ursuing  the  trains  of  thought 
which  his  mother  wit  suggests !  How  much 
healthier  to  wander  into  the  fields,  and  there 
with  the  exiled  Prince  to  find  "tongues  in  the 
trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks!"  How 
much  more  genuine  an  education  is  that  of  the 
poor  boy  in  the  Poem  —  a  Poem,  whether  in 
conception  or  in  execution,  one  of  the  most 
touching  in  our  language  —  who,  not    in    the 


wide  world,  but  ranging  day  by  day  around  his 
widowed  mother's  home,  "a  dexterous  gleaner" 
in  a  narrow  field,  and  with  only  such  slender 
outfit 

"  as  the  village  school  and  books  a  few 
Supplied," 

contrived  from  the  beach,  and  the  quay,  and 
the  fisher's  boat,  and  the  inn's  fireside,  and  the 
tradesman's  shop,  and  the  shepherd's  walk,  and 
the  smuggler's  hut,  and  the  mossy  moor,  and 
the  screaming  gulls,  and  the  restless  waves, 
to  fashion  for  himself  a  philosophy  and  a 
poetry  of  his  own  ! 

But  in  a  large  subject,  I  am  exceeding  my 
necessary  limits.  Gentlemen,  I  must  conclude 
abruptly;  and  postpone  any  summing  up  of 
my  argument,  should  that  be  necessary,  to 
another  day. 

GEORGE  BORROW   (1803-1881) 

LAVENGRO 

CHAPTER   LXX 

I  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  en- 
deavouring to  teach  myself  the  mysteries  of  my 
new  profession.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  very 
successful,  but  the  time  passed  agreeably, 
and  was  therefore  not  ill  spent.  Towards 
evening  I  flung  my  work  aside,  took  some 
refreshment,  and  afterwards  a  walk. 

This  time  I  turned  up  the  small  footpath, 
of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  It  led  in 
a  zigzag  manner  through  thickets  of  hazel, 
elder,  and  sweet  brier;  after  following  its 
windings  for  somewhat  better  than  a  furlong, 
I  heard  a  gentle  sound  of  water,  and  presently 
came  to  a  small  rill,  which  ran  directly  across 
the  path.  I  was  rejoiced  at  the  sight,  for  I 
had  already  experienced  the  want  of  water, 
which  I  yet  knew  must  be  nigh  at  hand,  as 
I  was  in  a  place  to  all  appearance  occasionally 
frequented  by  wandering  people,  who  I  was 
aware  never  take  up  their  quarters  in  places 
where  water  is  difiicult  to  be  obtained.  Forth- 
with I  stretched  myself  on  the  ground,  and  took 
a  long  and  delicious  draught  of  the  crystal 
stream,  and  then,  seating  myself  in  a  bush,  I 
continued  for  some  time  gazing  on  the  water  as 
it  purled  tinkling  away  in  its  channel  through 
an  opening  in  the  hazels,  and  should  ha\e 
probablv  continued  much  longer  had  not  the 
thought  that  I  had  left  my  property  unprotected 
compelled  me  to  rise  and  return  to  my  encamp- 
ment. 


4i8 


GEORGE   BORROW 


Night  came  on,  and  a  beautiful  night  it  was ; 
up  rose  the  moon,  and  innumerable  stars  decked 
the  firmament  of  heaven.  I  sat  on  the  shaft, 
my  eyes  turned  upwards.  I  had  found  it: 
there  it  was  twinkling  millions  of  miles  above 
me,  mightiest  star  of  the  system  to  which  we 
belong:  of  all  stars,  the  one  which  has  the 
most  interest  for  me  —  the  star  Jupiter. 

Why  have  I  always  taken  an  interest  in  thee, 

0  Jupiter?  I  know  nothing  about  thee,  save 
what  every  child  knows,  that  thou  art  a  big 
star,  whose  only  light  is  derived  from  moons. 
And  is  not  that  knowledge  enough  to  make 
me  feel  an  interest  in  thee  ?  Ay,  truly,  I  never 
look  at  thee  without  wondering  what  is  going 
on  in  thee;  what  is  life  in  Jupiter?  That  there 
is  life  in  Jupiter  who  can  doubt?  There  is 
life  in  our  own  little  star,  therefore  there  must 
be  life  in  Jupiter,  which  is  not  a  little  star. 
But  how  different  must  life  be  in  Jupiter  from 
what  it  is  in  our  own  little  star!  Life  here  is 
life  beneath  the  dear  sun  —  life  in  Jupiter  is 
life  beneath  moons  —  four  moons  —  no  single 
moon  is  able  to  illumine  that  vast  bulk.  All 
know  what  life  is  in  our  own  little  star;  it  is 
anything  but  a  routine  of  happiness  here,  where 
the  dear  sun  rises  to  us  every  day:  then  how 
sad  and  moping  must  life  be  in  mighty  Jupiter, 
on  which  no  sun  ever  shines,  and  which  is 
never  lighted  save  by  pale  moonbeams!  The 
thought  that  there  is  more  sadness  and  melan- 
choly in  Jupiter  than  in  this  world  of  ours, 
where,  alas !  there  is  but  too  much,  has  always 
made  me  take  a  melancholy  interest  in  that 
huge  distant  star. 

Two  or  three  days  passed  by  in  much  the 
same  manner  as  the  first.     During  the  morning 

1  worked  upon  my  kettles,  and  employed  the  re- 
maining part  of  the  day  as  I  best  could.  The 
whole  of  this  time  I  only  saw  two  individuals, 
rustics,  who  passed  by  my  encampment  with- 
out vouchsafing  me  a  glance;  they  probably 
considered  themselves  my  superiors,  as  perhaps 
they  were. 

One  very  brilliant  morning,  as  I  sat  at  work 
in  very  good  spirits,  for  by  this  time  I  had 
actually  mended  in  a  very  creditable  way,  as  I 
imagined,  two  kettles  and  a  frying  pan,  I  heard 
a  voice  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  path 
leading  to  the  rivulet;  at  first  it  sounded  from 
a  considerable  distance,  but  drew  nearer  by 
degrees.  I  soon  remarked  that  the  tones  were 
exceedingly  sharp  and  shrill,  with  yet  some- 
thing of  childhood  in  them.  Once  or  twice 
I  distinguished  certain  words  in  the  song  which 
the  voice  was  singing;    the  words  were  —  but 


no,  I  thought  again  I  was  probably  mistaken  — 
and  then  the  voice  ceased  for  a  time ;  presently 
I  heard  it  again,  close  to  the  entrance  of  the 
footpath;  in  another  moment  I  heard  it  in  the 
lane  or  glade  in  which  stood  my  tent,  where  it 
abruptly  stopped,  but  not  before  I  had  heard  the 
very  words  which  I  at  first  thought  I  had  distin- 
guished. 

I  turned  my  head ;  at  the  entrance  of  the  foot- 
path, which  might  be  about  thirty  yards  from 
the  place  where  I  was  sitting,  I  perceived  the 
figure  of  a  young  girl ;  her  face  was  turned  tow- 
ards me,  and  she  appeared  to  be  scanning  me 
and  my  encampment;  after  a  little  time  she 
looked  in  the  other  direction,  only  for  a  moment, 
however;  probably  observing  nothing  in  that 
quarter,  she  again  looked  towards  me,  and 
almost  immediately  stepped  forward;  and, 
as  she  advanced,  sang  the  song  which  I  had 
heard  in  the  wood,  the  first  words  of  which 
were  those  which  I  have  already  alluded  to. 

"The  Rommany  chi 
And  the  Rommany  chal, 
Shall  jaw  tasaulor 
To  drab  the  bawlor, 
And  dook  the  gry 
Of  the  farming  rye."  ' 

A  very  pretty  song,  thought  I,  falling  again 
hard  to  work  upon  my  kettle;  a  very  pretty 
song,  which  bodes  the  farmers  much  good. 
Let  them  look  to  their  cattle. 

"All  alone  here,  brother?"  said  a  voice  close 
by  me,  in  sharp  but  not  disagreeable  tones. 

I  made  no  answer,  but  continued  my  work, 
click,  click,  with  the  gravity  which  became 
one  of  my  profession.  I  allowed  at  least  half 
a  minute  to  elapse  before  I  even  lifted  up  my 
eyes. 

A  girl  of  about  thirteen  was  standing  before 
me;  her  features  were  very  pretty,  but  with 
a  peculiar  expression ;  her  complexion  was  a 
clear  olive,  and  her  jet  black  hair  hung  back 
upon  her  shoulders.  She  was  rather  scantily 
dressed,  and  her  arms  and  feet  were  bare; 
round  her  neck,  however,  was  a  handsome  string 
of  corals,  with  ornaments  of  gold;  in  her  hand 
she  held  a  bulrush. 

"All  alone  here,  brother?"  said  the  girl, 
as  I  looked  up;  "all  alone  here,  in  the  lane; 
where  are  your  wife  and  children?" 

"Why  do  you  call  me  brother?"  said  I;  "I 
am  no  brother  of  yours.     Do  you  take  me  for 

*  For  the  translation,  see  p.  423  below. 


LAVENGRO 


419 


one  of  your  people?  I  am  no  gipsy;  not  I, 
indeed !" 

"Don't  be  afraid,  brother,  you  are  no  Roman 

—  Roman  indeed,  you  are  not  handsome 
enough  to  be  a  Roman;  not  black  enough, 
tinker  though  you  be.  If  I  called  you  brother, 
it  was  because  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  call 
you.  Marry,  come  up,  brother,  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  have  you  for  a  brother." 

"Then  you  don't  like  me?" 

"Neither  like  you,  nor  dislike  you,  brother; 
what  will  you  have  for  that  kekaubi?" 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  to  me  in  that 
un-Christian  way;  what  do  you  mean,  young 
gentlewoman?" 

"Lord,  brother,  what  a  fool  you  are;  every 
tinker  knows  what  a  kekaubi  is.  I  was  asking 
you  what  you  would  have  for  that  kettle." 

"Three-and-sixpence,  young  gentlewoman; 
isn't  it  well  mended?" 

"Well  mended !  I  could  have  done  it  better 
myself;  three-and-sixpence!  it's  only  fit  to  be 
played  at  football  with." 

"I  will  take  no  less  for  it,  young  gentle- 
woman;  it  has  caused  me  a  world  of  trouble." 

"I  never  saw  a  worse  mended  kettle.  I  say, 
brother,  your  hair  is  white." 

"'Tis  nature;  your  hair  is  black;  nature, 
nothing  but  nature." 

"I  am  young,  brother;  my  hair  is  black  — 
that's  nature:  you  are  young,  brother;  your 
hair  is  white  —  that's  not  nature." 

"I  can't  help  it  if  it  be  not,  but  it  is  nature 
after  all;  did  you  never  see  gray  hair  on  the 
young?" 

"Never!  I  have  heard  it  is  true  of  a  gray 
lad,  and  a  bad  one  he  was.     Oh,  so  bad." 

"Sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it,  sister;    do, to  oblige  me,  pretty  sister." 

"Hey,  brother,  you  don't  speak  as  you  did 

—  you  don't  speak  like  a  gorgio,  you  speak  like 
one  of  us,  you  call  me  sister." 

"As  you  call  me  brother;  I  am  not  an  uncivil 
person  after  all,  sister." 

"I  say,  brother,  tell  me  one  thing,  and  look 
me  in  the  face  —  there  —  do  you  speak 
Rommany?" 

"Rommany!  Rommany!  what  is  Rom- 
many?" 

"What  is  Rommany?  our  language,  to  be 
sure ;  tell  me,  brother,  only  one  thing,  you  don't 
speak  Rommany?" 

"You  say  it." 

"I  don't  say  it,  I  wish  to  know.  Do  you 
speak  Rommany?" 

"Do  you  mean  thieves'  slang  —  cant?    no. 


I  don't  speak  cant,  I  don't  like  it,  I  only  know 
a  few  words;  they  call  a  sixpence  a  tanner, 
don't  they?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  sitting  down 
on  the  ground,  "I  was  almost  thinking  —  well, 
never  mind,  you  don't  know  Rommany.  I 
say,  brother,  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  the 
kekaubi." 

"I  thought  you  said  it  was  badly  mended?" 

"Yes,  yes,  brother,  but — " 

"I  thought  you  .said  it  was  only  fit  to  be  played 
at  football  with?" 

"Yes,  yes,  brother,  but — " 

"What  will  you  give  for  it?" 

"Brother,  I  am  the  poor  person's  child,  I 
will  give  you  sixpence  for  the  kekaubi." 

"Poor  person's  child;  how  came  you  by  that 
necklace?" 

"Be  civil,  brother;  am  I  to  have  the  ke- 
kaubi?" 

"Not  for  sixpence;  isn't  the  kettle  nicely 
mended?" 

"I  never  saw  a  nicer  mended  kettle,  brother; 
am  I  to  have  the  kekaubi,  brother?" 

"You  like  me  then?" 

"I  don't  dislike  you  —  I  dislike  no  one; 
there's  only  one,  and  him  I  don't  dislike,  him 
I  hate." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"I  scarcely  know,  I  never  saw  him,  but  'tis 
no  affair  of  yours,  you  don't  speak  Rommany; 
you  will  let  me  have  the  kekaubi,  jjrelty 
brother?" 

"You  may  have  it,  but  not  for  sixpence,  1'!! 
give  it  to  you." 

"Parraco  tute,  that  is,  I  thank  you,  brother; 
the  rikkeni  kekaubi  is  now  mine.  O,  rare! 
I  thank  you  kindly,  brother." 

Starting  up,  she  flung  the  bulrush  aside  which 
she  had  hitherto  held  in  her  hand,  and  seizing 
the  kettle,  she  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and 
then  began  a  kind  of  dance,  flourishing  the 
kettle  over  her  head  the  while,  and  singing  — 

"The  Rommany  chi 
And  the  Rommany  chal, 
Shall  jaw  tasaulor 
To  drab  the  bawlor, 
And  (look  the  gry 
Of  the  farming  rye." 

"Good  by,  brother,  I  must  be  going." 

"Good  in',  sister,  why  do  you  sing  that 
wicked  song?" 

"Wicked  song,  hey,  brother!  you  don't  un- 
derstand the  song !" 

"Ha,  ha!    gipsy   daughter,"  said  I,  starting 


420 


GEORGE   BORROW 


up  and  clapping  my  hands,  "I  don't  understand 
Rommany,  don't  I?  You  shall  see;  here's 
the  answer  to  your  gillie  — 

"  'The  Rommany  chi 
And  the  Rommany  chal 
Love  Luripen 
And  dukkeripen, 
And  hokkeripen, 
And  every  pen 
But  Lachipen 
And  tatchipen.' " 

The  girl,  who  had  given  a  slight  start  when  I 
began,  remained  for  some  time  after  I  had  con- 
cluded the  song,  standing  motionless  as  a  statue, 
with  the  kettle  in  her  hand.  At  length  she 
came  towards  me,  and  stared  me  full  in  the 
face.  "Gray,  tall,  and  talks  Rommany," 
said  she  to  herself.  In  her  countenance  there 
was  an  expression  which  I  had  not  seen  before 
—  an  expression  which  struck  me  as  being 
composed  of  fear,  curiosity,  and  the  deepest 
hate.  It  was  momentary,  however,  and  was 
succeeded  by  one  smiling,  frank,  and  open. 
"Ha,  ha,  brother,"  said  she,  "well,  I  like  you 
all  the  better  for  talking  Rommany;  it  is  a 
sweet  language,  isn't  it?  especially  as  you  sing 
it.  How  did  you  pick  it  up?  But  you  picked 
it  up  upon  the  roads,  no  doubt?  Ha,  it  was 
funny  in  you  to  pretend  not  to  know  it,  and  you 
so  flush  with  it  all  the  time;  it  was  not  kind 
in  you,  however,  to  frighten  the  poor  person's 
child  so  by  screaming  out,  but  it  was  kind  in 
you  to  give  the  rikkeni  kekaubi  to  the  child  of 
the  poor  person.  She  will  be  grateful  to  you; 
she  will  bring  you  her  little  dog  to  show  you, 
her  pretty  juggal;  the  poor  person's  child  will 
come  and  see  you  again;  you  are  not  going 
away  to-day,  I  hope,  or  to-morrow,  pretty 
brother,  gray-haired  brother  —  you  are  not 
going  away  to-morrow,  I  hope?" 

"Nor  the  next  day,"  said  I,  "only  to  take 
a  stroll  to  see  if  I  can  sell  a  kettle;  good  by, 
little  sister,  Rommany  sister,  dingy  sister." 

"Good  by,  tall  brother,"  said  the  girl,  as 
she  departed,  singing 

"  The  Rommany  chi,"  etc. 

"There's  something  about  that  girl  that  I 
don't  understand,"  said  I  to  myself;  "some- 
thing mysterious.  However,  it  is  nothing  to 
me,  she  knows  not  who  I  am,  and  if  she  did, 
what  then?" 

Late  that  evening  as  I  sat  on  the  shaft  of  my 
cart  in  deep  meditation,  with  my  arms  folded, 
I  thought  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the  bu.shes  over 
against  me.     I  turned  my  eyes  in  that  direction, 


but  saw  nothing.  "Some  bird,"  said  I;  "an 
owl,  perhaps;"  and  once  more  I  fell  into  medi- 
tation; my  mind  wandered  from  one  thing  to 
another  —  musing  now  on  the  structure  of  the 
Roman  tongue  —  now  on  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  Persian  power  —  and  now  on  the  powers 
vested  in  recorders  at  quarter  sessions.  I  was 
thinking  what  a  fine  thing  it  must  be  to  be 
a  recorder  of  the  peace,  when  lifting  up  my 
eyes,  I  saw  right  opposite,  not  a  culprit  at  the 
bar,  but,  staring  at  me  through  a  gap  in  the 
bush,  a  face  wild  and  strange,  half  covered  with 
gray  hair;  I  only  saw  it  a  moment,  the  next  it 
had  disappeared. 

CHAPTER   LXXI 

The  next  day  at  an  early  hour,  I  harnessed 
my  little  pony,  and,  putting  my  things  in  my 
cart,  I  went  on  my  projected  stroll.  Crossing 
the  moor,  I  arrived  in  about  an  hour  at  a  small 
village,  from  which,  after  a  short  stay,  I  pro- 
ceeded to  another,  and  from  thence  to  a  third. 
I  found  that  the  name  of  Slingsby  was  well 
known  in  these  parts. 

"If  you  are  a  friend  of  Slingsby  you  must 
be  an  honest  lad,"  said  an  ancient  crone;  "you 
shall  never  want  for  work  whilst  I  can  give 
it  you.  Here,  take  my  kettle,  the  bottom  came 
out  this  morning,  and  lend  me  that  of  yours 
till  you  bring  it  back.  I'm  not  afraid  to  trust 
you  —  not  I.  Don't  hurry  yourself,  young 
man,  if  you  don't  come  back  for  a  fortnight  I 
shan't  have  the  worse  opinion  of  you." 

I  returned  to  my  quarters  at  evening,  tired 
but  rejoiced  at  heart ;  I  had  work  before  me  for 
several  days,  having  collected  various  kekaubies 
which  required  mending,  in  place  of  those  which 
I  left  behind  —  those  which  I  had  been  em- 
ployed upon  during  the  last  few  days.  I  found 
all  quiet  in  the  lane  or  glade,  and,  unharnessing 
my  little  horse,  I  once  more  pitched  my  tent 
in  the  old  spot  beneath  the  ash,  lighted  my 
fire,  ate  my  frugal  meal,  and  then,  after  looking 
for  some  time  at  the  heavenly  bodies,  and  more 
particularly  at  the  star  Jupiter,  I  entered  my 
tent,  lay  down  upon  my  pallet,  and  went  to 
sleep. 

Nothing  occurred  on  the  following  day 
which  requires  any  particular  notice,  nor 
indeed  on  the  one  succeeding  that.  It  was 
about  noon  on  the  third  day  that  I  sat  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  ash  tree;  I  was  not  at  work, 
for  the  weather  was  particularly  hot,  and  I  felt 
but  little  inclination  to  make  any  exertion. 
Leaning  my  back  against  the  tree,  I  was  not 


LAVENGRO 


421 


long  in  falling  into  a  slumber;  I  particularly 
jl  remember  that  slumber  of  mine  beneath  the 
ash  tree,  for  it  was  about  the  sweetest  that  I 
ever  enjoyed;  how  long  I  continued  in  it  I 
do  not  know ;  I  could  almost  have  wished  that 
it  had  lasted  to  the  present  time.  All  of  a 
sudden  it  appeared  to  me  that  a  voice  cried  in 
my  ear,  "Danger !  danger  !  danger ! "  Nothing 
seemingly  could  be  more  distinct  than  the 
words  which  I  heard ;  then  an  uneasy  sensation 
came  over  me,  which  I  strove  to  get  rid  of,  and 
at  last  succeeded,  for  I  awoke.  The  gipsy 
girl  was  standing  just  opposite  to  me,  with  her 
eyes  fLxed  upon  my  countenance;  a  singular 
kind  of  little  dog  stood  beside  her. 

"Ha!"  said  I,  "was  it  you  that  cried  danger? 
What  danger  is  there?" 

"Danger,  brother,  there  is  no  danger;  what 
danger  should  there  be?  I  called  to  my  little 
dog,  but  that  was  in  the  wood;  my  little  dog's 
name  is  not  danger,  but  stranger;  what  danger 
should  there  be,  brother?" 

"What,  indeed,  except  in  sleeping  beneath 
a  tree;  what  is  that  you  have  got  in  your 
hand?" 

"Something  for  you,"  said  the  girl,  sitting 
down  and  proceeding  to  untie  a  white  napkin ; 
"a  pretty  manricli,  so  sweet,  so  nice;  when  I 
went  home  to  my  people  I  told  my  grandbebee 
how  kind  you  had  been  to  the  poor  person's 
child,  and  when  my  grandbebee  saw  the  ke- 
kaubi,  she  said,  'Hir  mi  devlis,  it  won't  do  for 
the  poor  people  to  be  ungrateful;  by  my  God, 
I  will  bake  a  cake  for  the  young  harko  mes- 
cro.' " 

"But  there  are  two  cakes." 

"Yes,  brother,  two  cakes,  both  for  you;  my 
grandbebee  meant  them  both  for  you  —  but 
list,  brother,  I  will  have  one  of  them  for  bring- 
ing them.  I  know  you  will  give  me  one,  pretty 
brother,  gray-haired  brother  —  which  shall  I 
have,  brother?" 

In  the  napkin  were  two  round  cakes,  seem- 
ingly made  of  rich  and  costly  compounds,  and 
precisely  similar  in  form,  each  weighing  about 
half  a  pound. 

"Which  shall  I  have,  brother?"  said  the 
gipsy  girl. 

"Whichever  you  please." 

"No,  brother,  no,  the  cakes  are  yours,  not 
mine,  it  is  for  you  to  say." 

"Well,  then,  give  me  the  one  nearest  you, 
and  take  the  other." 

"Yes,  brother,  yes,"  said  the  girl;  and  taking 
the  cakes,  she  flung  them  into  the  air  two  or 
three  times,  catching  them  as  they  fell,  and 


singing  the  while.  "Pretty  brother,  gray- 
haired  brother  —  here,  brother,"  said  she, 
"here  is  your  cake,  this  other  is  mine." 

"Are  you  sure,"  said  I,  taking  the  cake, 
"that  this  is  the  one  I  chose?" 

"Quite  sure,  brother;  but  if  you  like  you 
can  have  mine;  there's  no  difference,  however 
—  shall  I  eat?" 

"Yes,  sister,  eat." 

"See,  brother,  I  do;  now,  brother,  eat,  pretty 
brother,  gray-haired  brother." 

"I  am  not  hungry." 

"Not  hungry!  well,  what  then  —  what  has 
being  hungry  to  do  with  the  matter?  It  is 
my  grandbebee's  cake  which  was  sent  because 
you  were  kind  to  the  poor  person's  child;  eat, 
brother,  eat,  and  we  shall  be  like  the  children 
in  the  wood  that  the  gorgios  speak  of." 

"The  children  in  the  wood  had  nothing  to 
eat." 

"Yes,  they  had  hips  and  haws;  we  have 
better.     Eat,  brother." 

"See,  sister,  I  do,"  and  I  ate  a  piece  of  the 
cake. 

"Well,  brother,  how  do  you  like  it?"  said 
the  girl,  looking  fi.xedly  at  me. 

"It  is  very  rich  and  sweet,  and  yet  there  is 
something  strange  about  it;  I  don't  think  I 
shall  eat  any  more." 

"Fie,  brother,  fie,  to  find  fault  with  the  poor 
person's  cake;  see,  I  have  nearly  eaten  mine." 

"That's  a  pretty  little  dog." 

"Is  it  not,  brother?  that's  my  juggal,  my 
little  sister,  as  I  call  her." 

"Come  here,  juggal,"  said  I  to  the  animal. 

"What  do  you  want  with  my  juggal?"  said 
the  girl. 

"Only  to  give  her  a  piece  of  cake,"  said  I, 
offering  the  dog  a  piece  which  I  had  just  broken 
off. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  girl,  snatch- 
ing the  dog  away;  "my  grandbebee's  cake  is 
not  for  dogs." 

"Why,  I  just  now  saw  you  give  the  animal 
a  piece  of  yours." 

"You  lie,  brother,  you  saw  no  such  thing; 
but  I  see  how  it  is,  you  wish  to  affront  the  poor 
person's  child.     I  shall  go  to  my  house." 

"Keep  still,  and  don't  be  angr}-;  see,  I  have 
eaten  the  piece  which  I  offered  the  dog.  I 
meant  no  offence.     It  is  a  sweet  cake  after  all." 

"Isn't  it,  brother?  I  am  glad  you  like  it. 
Offence  !  brother,  no  offence  at  all !  I  am  so 
glad  you  like  my  grandljebee's  cake,  but  she 
will  be  wanting  me  at  home.  Eat  one  piece 
more  of  grandbebee's  cake  and  I  will  go." 


422 


GEORGE   BORROW 


"I  am  not  hungr>',  I  will  put  the  rest  by." 

"One  piece  more  before  I  go,  handsome 
brother,  gray-haired  brother." 

"I  will  not  eat  any  more,  I  have  already 
eaten  more  than  I  wished  to  oblige  you;  if 
you  must  go,  good  day  to  you." 

The  girl  rose  upon  her  feet,  looked  hard  at 
me,  then  at  the  remainder  of  the  cake  which 
I  held  in  my  hand,  and  then  at  me  again,  and 
then  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  in  deep 
thought;  presently  an  air  of  satisfaction  came 
over  her  countenance,  she  smiled  and  said, 
"Well,  brother,  well,  do  as  you  please,  I  merely 
wished  you  to  eat  because  you  have  been  so  kind 
to  the  poor  person's  child.  She  loves  you  so, 
that  she  could  have  wished  to  have  seen  you  eat 
it  all ;  good  by,  brother,  I  dare  say  when  I  am 
gone  you  will  eat  some  more  of  it,  and  if  you 
don't  I  dare  say  you  have  eaten  enough  to  — 
to  —  show  your  love  for  us.  After  all  it  was 
a  poor  person's  cake,  a  Rommany  manricli, 
and  all  you  gorgios  are  somewhat  gorgious. 
Farewell,  brother,  pretty  brother,  gray-haired 
brother.     Come,  juggal." 

I  remained  under  the  ash  tree  seated  on  the 
grass  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  endeavoured  to 
resume  the  occupation  in  which  I  had  been  en- 
gaged before  I  fell  asleep,  but  I  felt  no  inclina- 
tion for  labour.  I  then  thought  I  would  sleep 
again,  and  once  more  reclined  against  the  tree, 
and  slumbered  for  some  little  time,  but  my 
sleep  was  more  agitated  than  before.  Some- 
thing appeared  to  bear  heavy  on  my  breast,  I 
struggled  in  my  sleep,  fell  on  the  grass,  and 
awoke;  my  temples  were  throbbing,  there 
was  a  burning  in  my  eyes,  and  my  mouth  felt 
parched ;  the  oppression  about  the  chest  which 
I  had  felt  in  my  sleep  still  continued.  "I 
must  shake  of!  these  feelings,"  said  I,  "and  get 
upon  my  legs."  I  walked  rapidly  up  and  down 
upon  the  green  sward;  at  length,  feeling  my 
thirst  increase,  I  directed  my  steps  down  the 
narrow  path  to  the  spring  which  ran  amidst 
the  bushes;  arriving  there,  I  knelt  down  and 
drank  of  the  water,  but  on  lifting  up  my  head 
I  felt  thirstier  than  before ;  again  I  drank,  but 
with  the  like  results;  I  was  about  to  drink  for 
the  third  time,  when  I  felt  a  dreadful  qualm 
which  instantly  robbed  me  of  nearly  all  my 
strength.  What  can  be  the  matter  with  me, 
thought  I;  but  I  suppose  I  have  made  myself 
ill  by  drinking  cold  water.  I  got  up  and  made 
the  best  of  my  way  back  to  my  tent;  before 
I  reached  it  the  qualm  had  seized  me  again, 
and  I  was  deadly  sick.  I  flung  myself  on  my 
pallet,  qualm  succeeded  qualm,  but  in  the  inter- 


vals my  mouth  was  dry  and  burning,  and  I 
felt  a  frantic  desire  to  drink,  but  no  water  was 
at  hand,  and  to  reach  the  spring  once  more 
was  impossible:  the  qualms  continued,  deadly 
pains  shot  through  my  whole  frame ;  I  could 
bear  my  agonies  no  longer,  and  I  fell  into  a 
trance  or  swoon.  How  long  I  continued  therein 
I  know  not;  on  recovering,  however,  I  felt 
somewhat  better,  and  attempted  to  lift  my  head 
off  my  couch;  the  next  moment,  however, 
the  qualms  and  pains  returned,  if  possible,  with 
greater  violence  than  before.  I  arn  dying, 
thought  I,  like  a  dog,  without  any  help;  and 
then  methought  I  heard  a  sound  at  a  distance 
like  people  singing,  and  then  once  more  I 
relapsed  into  my  swoon. 

I  revived  just  as  a  heavy  blow  sounded,  upon 
the  canvas  of  the  tent.  I  started,  but  my  con- 
dition did  not  permit  me  to  rise;  again  the 
same  kind  of  blow  sounded  upon  the  canvas; 
I  thought  for  a  moment  of  crying  out  and  re- 
questing assistance,  but  an  inexplicable  some- 
thing chained  my  tongue,  and  now  I  heard  a 
whisper  on  the  outside  of  the  tent.  "He  does 
not  move,  bebee,"  said  a  voice  which  I  knew. 
"I  should  not  wonder  if  it  has  done  for  him 
already;  however,  strike  again  with  your  ran ;" 
and  then  there  was  another  blow,  after  which 
another  voice  cried  aloud  in  a  strange  tone, 
"Is  the  gentleman  of  the  house  asleep,  or  is  he 
taking  his  dinner?"  I  remained  quite  silent 
and  motionless,  and  in  another  moment  the 
voice  continued,  "What,  no  answer?  what  can 
the  gentleman  of  the  house  be  about  that  he 
makes  no  answer?  perhaps  the  gentleman  of  the 
house  may  be  darning  his  stockings?"  There- 
upon a  face  peered  into  the  door  of  the  tent, 
at  the  farther  extremity  of  which  I  was  stretched. 
It  was  that  of  a  woman,  but  owing  to  the  pos- 
ture in  which  she  stood,  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  and  partly  owing  to  a  large  straw  bonnet, 
I  could  distinguish  but  very  little  of  the  features 
of  her  countenance.  I  had,  however,  recog- 
nised her  voice ;  it  was  that  of  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, Mrs.  Heme.  "Ho,  ho,  sir!"  said  she, 
"here  you  are.  Come  here,  Leonora,"  said 
she  to  the  gipsy  girl,  who  pressed  in  at  the  other 
side  of  the  door;  "here  is  the  gentleman,  not 
asleep,  but  only  stretched  out  after  dinner. 
Sit  down  on  your  ham,  child,  at  the  door,  I 
shall  do  the  same.  There  —  you  have  seen 
me  before,  sir,  have  you  not?" 

"The  gentleman  makes  no  answer,  bebee; 
perhaps  he  does  not  know  you." 

"I  have  known  him  of  old,  Leonora,"  said 
Mrs.  Heme;  "and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  though 


LAVENGRO 


42. 


I  spoke  to  him  just  now,  I  expected  no  an- 
swer." 

"It's  a  way  he  has,  bebee,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  child,  it's  a  way  he  has." 

"Take  off  your  bonnet,  bebee,  perhaps  he 
cannot  see  your  face." 

"I  do  not  think  that  will  be  of  much  use, 
child;  however,  I  will  take  otT  my  l)onnet — • 
there  —  and  shake  out  my  hair  —  there  — 
you  have  seen  this  hair  before,  sir,  and  this 
face—" 

"No  answer,  bebee." 

"Though  the  one  was  not  quite  so  gray,  nor 
the  other  so  wrinkled." 

"How  came  they  so,  bebee?" 

"All  along  of  this  gorgio,  child." 

"The  gentleman  in  the  house,  you  mean, 
bebee." 

"Yes,  child,  the  gentleman  in  the  house. 
God  grant  that  I  may  preserve  my  temper. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  my  name?  My  name  is 
Heme,  which  signifies  a  hairy  individual, 
though  neither  gray-haired  nor  wrinkled.  It 
is  not  the  nature  of  the  Hemes  to  be  gray  or 
wrinkled,  even  when  they  are  old,  and  I  am 
not  old." 

"How  old  are  you,  bebee?" 

"  Sixty-five  years,  child  —  an  inconsiderable 
number.  My  mother  was  a  hundred  and  one 
—  a  considerable  age  —  when  she  died,  yet 
she  had  not  one  gray  hair,  and  not  more  than 
six  wrinkles  —  an  inconsiderable  number." 

"She  had  no  griefs,  bebee?" 

"Plenty,  child,  but  not  like  mine." 

"Not  quite  so  hard  to  bear,  bebee?" 

"No,  child,  my  head  wanders  when  I  think 
of  them.  After  the  death  of  my  husband,  who 
came  to  his  end  untimeously,  I  went  to  live 
with  a  daughter  of  mine,  married  out  among 
certain  Romans  who  walk  about  the  eastern 
counties,  and  with  whom  for  some  time  I  found 
a  home  and  pleasant  society,  for  they  lived  right 
Romanly,  which  gave  my  heart  considerable 
satisfaction,  who  am  a  Roman  born,  and  hope 
to  die  so.  When  I  say  right  Romanly,  I  mean 
that  they  kept  to  themselves,  and  were  not 
much  given  to  blabbing  about  their  private 
matters  in  promiscuous  company.  Well,  things 
went  on  in  this  way  for  some  time,  when 
one  day  my  son-in-law  brings  home  a  young 
gorgio  of  singular  and  outrageous  ugliness, 
and,  without  much  preamble,  says  to  me  and 
to  mine,  'This  is  my  pal,  a'n't  he  a  beauty? 
fall  down  and  worship  him.'  'Hold,'  said  I, 
'I  for  one  will  never  consent  to  such  foolish- 
ness.'" 


"That  was  right,  bebee,  I  think  I  should 
have  done  the  same." 

"I  think  you  would,  child;  but  what  was  the 
profit  of  it?  The  whole  party  makes  an  al- 
mighty of  this  gorgio,  lets  him  into  their  ways, 
says  prayers  of  his  making,  till  things  come  to 
such  a  ])ass  that  my  own  daughter  says  to  me, 
'I  shall  buy  myself  a  veil  and  fan,  and  treat 
myself  to  a  play  and  sacrament.'  'Don't,' 
says  I;  says  she,  'I  should  like  for  once  in  my 
life  to  be  courtesied  to  as  a  Christian  gentle- 
woman.'" 

"Very  foolish  of  her,  bebee." 

"Wasn't  it,  child?  Where  was  I?  At  the 
fan  and  sacrament;  with  a  heavy  heart  I  put 
seven  score  miles  between  us,  came  back  to  the 
hairy  ones,  and  found  them  over-given  to  gor- 
gious  companions;  said  I,  'foolish  manners  is 
catching,  all  this  comes  of  that  there  gorgio.' 
Answers  the  child  Leonora,  'Take  comfort, 
bebee,  I  hate  the  gorgios  as  much  as  you  do.'" 

"And  I  say  so  again,  bebee,  as  much  or 
more." 

"Time  flows  on,  I  engage  in  many  matters, 
in  most  miscarry.  Am  sent  to  prison ;  says 
I  to  myself,  I  am  become  foolish.  Am  turned 
out  of  prison,  and  go  back  to  the  hairy  ones, 
who  receive  me  not  over  courteou.sly ;  says  I, 
for  their  unkindness,  and  my  own  foolishness, 
all  the  thanks  to  that  gorgio.  Answers  to  me 
the  child,  'I  wish  I  could  set  my  eyes  upon 
him,  bebee.'" 

"I  did  so,  bebee;   go  on." 

"'How  shall  I  know  him,  bebee?'  says  the 
child.  'Young  and  gray,  tall,  and  speaks 
Romanly.'  Runs  to  me  the  child,  and  says, 
'I've  found  him,  bebee.'  'Where,  child?'  says 
I.  'Come  with  me,  bebee,'  says  the  child. 
'That's  he,'  says  I,  as  I  looked  at  my  gentleman 
through  the  hedge." 

"Ha,  ha!  bebee,  and  here  he  lies,  poisoned 
like  a  hog." 

"You  have  taken  drows,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Heme;  "do  you  hear,  sir?  drows;  tip  him  a 
stave,  child,  of  the  song  of  poison." 

And  thereupon  the  girl  clapped  her  hands, 
and  sang  — 

"The  Rommany  churl 
And  the  Rommany  girl, 
To-morrow  shall  hie 
To  poison  the  sty, 
And  bewitch  on  the  mead 
The  farmer's  steed." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Heme; 
"the  child  has  tipped  you  a  stave  of  the  song  of 


424 


GEORGE    BORROW 


poison:  that  is,  she  has  sung  it  Christianly, 
though  perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  it 
Romanly;  you  were  always  fond  of  what  was 
Roman.     Tip  it  him  Romanly,  child." 

"He  has  heard  it  Romanly  already,  bebee; 
'twas  by  that  I  found  him  out,  as  I  told  you." 

"Halloo,  sir,  are  you  sleeping?  you  have 
taken  drows ;  the  gentleman  makes  no  answer. 
God  give  me  patience !" 

"And  what  if  he  doesn't,  bebee;  isn't  he 
poisoned  like  a  hog  ?  Gentleman !  indeed, 
why  call  him  gentleman?  if  he  ever  was  one 
he's  broke,  and  is  now  a  tinker,  and  a  worker 
of  blue  metal." 

"That's  his  way,  child,  to-day  a  tinker, 
to-morrow  something  else;  and  as  for  being 
drabbed,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  it." 

"Not  drabbed!  what  do  you  mean,  bebee? 
but  look  there,  bebee;  ha,  ha,  look  at  the 
gentleman's  motions." 

"He  is  sick,  child,  sure  enough.  Ho,  ho! 
sir,  you  have  taken  drows;  what,  another 
throe !  writhe,  sir,  writhe,  the  hog  died  by  the 
drow  of  gipsies ;  I  saw  him  stretched  at  evening. 
That's  yourself,  sir.  There  is  no  hope,  sir, 
no  help,  you  have  taken  drows ;  shall  I  tell  you 
your  fortune,  sir,  your  dukkerin?  God  bless 
you,  pretty  gentleman,  much  trouble  will  you 
have  to  suffer,  and  much  water  to  cross;  but 
never  mind,  pretty  gentleman,  you  shall  be 
fortunate  at  the  end,  and  those  who  hate  shall 
take  off  their  hats  to  you." 

"Hey,  bebee!"  cried  the  girl;  "what  is  this? 
what  do  you  mean?  you  have  blessed  the 
gorgio ! " 

"Blessed  him!  no,  sure;  what  did  I  say? 
Oh,  I  remember,  I'm  mad;  well,  I  can't  help 
it,  I  said  what  the  dukkerin  dook  told  me; 
woe's  me,  he'll  get  up  yet." 

"Nonsense,  bebee!  Look  at  his  motions, 
he's  drabbed,  spite  of  dukkerin." 

"Don't  say  so,  child;  he's  sick,  'tis  true,  but 
don't  laugh  at  dukkerin,  only  folks  do  that  that 
know  no  better.  I,  for  one,  will  never  laugh 
at  the  dukkerin  dook.  Sick  again;  I  wish  he 
was  gone." 

"He'll  soon  be  gone,  bebee;  let's  leave  him. 
He's  as  good  as  gone;   look  there,  he's  dead." 

"No,  he's  not,  he'll  get  up  —  I  feel  it;  can't 
we  hasten  him?" 

"Hasten  him!  yes,  to  be  sure;  set  the  dog 
upon  him.  Here,  juggal,  look  in  there,  my 
dog." 

The  dog  made  its  appearance  at  the  door  of 
the  tent,  and  began  to  bark  and  tear  up  the 
ground. 


"At  him,  juggal,  at  him;  he  wished  to 
poison,  to  drab  you.     Halloo!" 

The  dog  barked  violently,  and  seemed  about 
to  spring  at  my  face,  but  retreated. 

"The  dog  won't  fly  at  him,  child;  he  flashed 
at  the  dog  with  his  eye,  and  scared  him.  He'll 
get  up." 

"Nonsense,  bebee!  you  make  me  angry; 
how  should  he  get  up?" 

"The  dook  tells  me  so,  and,  what's  more, 
I  had  a  dream.  I  thought  I  was  at  York, 
standing  amidst  a  crowd  to  see  a  man  hung, 
and  the  crowd  shouted  'There  he  comes!' 
and  I  looked,  and,  lo  !  it  was  the  tinker;  before 
I  could  cry  with  joy  I  was  whisked  away,  and  I 
found  myself  in  Ely's  big  church,  which  was 
chock  full  of  people  to  hear  the  dean  preach, 
and  all  «^yes  were  turned  to  the  big  pulpit; 
and  presently  I  heard  them  say,  '  There 
he  mounts!'  and  I  looked  up  to  the  big 
pulpit,  and  lo !  the  tinker  was  in  the  pulpit, 
and  he  raised  his  arm  and  began  to  preach. 
Anon,  I  found  myself  at  York  again,  just  as 
the  drop  fell,  and  I  looked  up,  and  I  saw, 
not  the  tinker,  but  my  own  self  hanging  in 
the  air." 

"You  are  going  mad,  bebee;  if  you  want  to 
hasten  him,  take  your  stick  and  poke  him  in 
the  eye." 

"That  will  be  of  no  use,  child,  the  dukkerin 
tells  me  so  ;  but  I  will  try  what  I  can  do. 
Halloo,  tinker!  you  must  introduce  yourself 
into  a  quiet  family,  and  raise  confusion  — 
must  you?  You  must  steal  its  language,  and, 
what  was  never  done  before,  write  it  down 
Christianly  —  must  you?  Take  that  —  and 
that ; "  and  she  stabbed  violently  with  her  stick 
towards  the  end  of  the  tent. 

"That's  right,  bebee,  you  struck  his  face; 
now  once  more,  and  let  it  be  in  the  eye.  Stay, 
what's  that?  get  up,  bebee." 

"What's  the  matter,  child?" 

"Some  one  is  coming,  come  away." 

"Let  me  make  sure  of  him,  child;  he'll 
be  up  yet."  And  thereupon  Mrs.  Heme, 
rising,  leaned  forward  into  the  tent,  and  sup- 
porting herself  against  the  pole,  took  aim  in 
the  direction  of  the  farther  end.  "I  will 
thrust  out  his  eye,"  said  she;  and,  lunging  with 
her  stick,  she  would  probably  have  accom- 
plished her  purpose  had  not  at  that  moment 
the  pole  of  the  tent  given  way,  whereupon  she 
fell  to  the  ground,  the  canvas  falling  upon  her 
and  her  intended  victim. 

"Here's  a  pretty  affair,  bebee,"  screamed  the 
girl. 


1 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


425 


"He'll  get  up  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Heme,  from 
beneath  the  canvas. 

"Get  up !  —  get  up  yourself;  where  are  you? 
where  is  your  —  Here,  there,  bebee,  here's  the 
door;    there, make  haste,  they  are  coming." 

"He'll  get  up  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Heme,  recover- 
ing her  breath,  "the  dook  tells  me  so." 

'  *  Never  mindhimorthe  dook ;  he  is  drabbed ; 
come  away,  or  we  shall  be  grabbed  —  both  of 
us." 

"One  more  blow,  I  know  where  his  head 
lies." 

"You  are  mad,  bebee;  leave  the  fellow  — 
gorgio  avella." 

And  thereupon  the  females  hurried  away. 

A  vehicle  of  some  kind  was  evidently  drawing 
nigh;  in  a  little  time  it  came  alongside  of  the 
place  where  lay  the  fallen  tent,  and  stopped 
suddenly.  There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  a  parley  ensued  between  two  voices, 
one  of  which  was  that  of  a  woman.  It  was  not 
in  English,  but  in  a  deep  guttural  tongue. 

"Peth  yw  bono  sydd  yn  gorwedd  yna  ar  y 
ddaear?"  said  a  masculine  voice. 

"  Yn  wirionedd  —  I  do  not  know  what  it  can 
be,"  said  the  female  voice,  in  the  same  tongue. 

"Here  is  a  cart,  and  there  are  tools;  but  what 
is  that  on  the  ground?" 

"Something  moves  beneath  it;  and  what 
was  that  —  a  groan?" 

"Shall  I  get  down?" 

"Of  course,  Peter,  some  one  may  want  your 
help." 

"Then  I  will  get  down,  though  I  do  not  like 
this  place,  it  is  frequented  by  Egyptians,  and  I 
do  not  like  their  yellow  faces,  nor  their  clib- 
berty  clabber,  as  Master  Ellis  Wyn  says.  Now 
I  am  down.  It  is  a  tent,  Winifred,  and  see, 
here  is  a  boy  beneath  it.  Merciful  father! 
what  a  face!" 

A  middle-aged  man,  with  a  strongly  marked 
and  serious  countenance,  dressed  in  sober- 
coloured  habiliments,  had  lifted  up  the  stifling 
folds  of  the  tent  and  was  bending  over  me. 
"Can  you  speak,  my  lad?"  said  he  in  English, 
"what  is  the  matter  with  you?  if  you  could 
but  tell  me,  I  could  perhaps  help  you — " 
"What  is  it  that  you  say?  I  can't  hear  you. 
I  will  kneel  down;"  and  he  flung  himself  on 
the  ground,  and  placed  his  ear  close  to  my 
mouth.  "Now  speak  if  you  can.  Hey!  what! 
no,  sure,  God  forbid!"  then  starting  up,  he 
cried  to  a  female  who  sat  in  the  cart,  anxiously 
looking  on  —  "Gwenwyn!  gwenwyn !  yw 
y  gwas  wedi  ei  gwenwynaw.  The  oil!  Wini- 
fred, the  oil!" 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACK- 
ERAY   (1811-1863) 

THE   ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS 
STERNE 

Roger  Sterne,  Sterne's  father,  was  the  second 
son  of  a  numerous  race,  descendants  of  Richard 
Sterne,  Archbishop  of  York,  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.;  and  children  of  Simon  Sterne 
and  Mary  Jaques,  his  wife,  heiress  of  Elving- 
ton,  near  York.  Roger  was  an  ensign  in 
Colonel  Hans  Hamilton's  regiment,  and  en- 
gaged in  Flanders  in  Queen  Anne's  wars. 
He  married  the  daughter  of  a  noted  sutler. 
"N.  B.,  he  was  in  debt  to  him,"  his  son  writes, 
pursuing  the  paternal  biography  —  and  marched 
through  the  world  with  his  companion;  she 
following  the  regiment  and  bringing  many 
children  to  poor  Roger  Sterne.  The  Captain 
was  an  irascible  but  kind  and  simple  little  man, 
Sterne  says,  and  he  informs  us  that  his  sire  was 
run  through  the  body  at  Gibraltar,  by  a  brother 
oflicer,  in  a  duel  which  arose  out  of  a  dispute 
about  a  goose.  Roger  never  entirely  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  this  rencontre,  but  died 
presently  at  Jamaica,  whither  he  had  followed 
the  drum. 

Laurence,  his  second  child,  was  born  at 
Clonmel,  in  Ireland,  in  1713,  and  travelled 
for  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life,  on  his  father's 
march,  from  barrack  to  transport,  from  Ire- 
land to  England. 

One  relative  of  his  mother's  took  her  and  her 
family  under  shelter  for  ten  months  at  Mullin- 
gar;  another  collateral  descendant  of  the 
Archbishop's  housed  them  for  a  year  at  his 
castle  near  Carrickfergus.  Larry  Sterne  was 
put  to  school  at  Halifa.x  in  England,  finally 
was  adopted  by  his  kinsman  of  Elvington,  and 
parted  company  with  his  father,  the  Captain, 
who  marched  on  his  path  of  life  till  he  met  the 
fatal  goose  which  closed  his  career.  The  most 
picturesque  and  delightful  parts  of  Laurence 
Sterne's  writings  we  owe  to  his  recollections  of 
the  military  life.  Trim's  montcro  cap,  and 
Lc  Fevre's  sword,  and  dear  Uncle  Toi)y's 
roquelaure  are  doubtless  reminiscences  of  the 
boy,  who  had  lived  with  the  followers  of  \\"illiam 
and  Marlborough,  and  had  beat  time  with  his 
little  feet  to  the  fifes  of  Ramillies  in  Dublin 
barrack-yard,  or  played  with  the  torn  flags  and 
halberds' of  Malplaquet  on  the  parade-ground 
at  Clonmel. 

Laurence  remained   at   Halifax  school   till 


426 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


he  was  eighteen  years  old.  His  wit  and  clever- 
ness appear  to  have  acquired  the  respect  of 
his  master  here;  for  when  the  usher  whipped 
Laurence  for  writing  his  name  on  the  newly 
whitewashed  schoolroom  ceiling,  the  peda- 
gogue in  chief  rebuked  the  understrapper,  and 
said  that  the  name  should  never  be  effaced,  for 
Sterne  was  a  boy  of  genius,  and  would  come  to 
preferment. 

His  cousin,  the  Squire  of  Elvington,  sent 
Sterne  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  where  he 
remained  some  years,  and,  taking  orders, 
got,  through  his  uncle's  interest,  the  living  of 
Sutton  and  a  prebendal  stall  at  York.  Through 
his  wife's  connections  he  got  the  living  of  Still- 
ington.  He  married  her  in  1741,  having 
ardently  courted  the  young  lady  for  some  years 
previously.  It  was  not  until  the  young  lady 
fancied  herself  dying,  that  she  made  Sterne 
acquainted  with  the  extent  of  her  liking  for  him. 
One  evening  when  he  was  sitting  with  her,  with 
an  almost  broken  heart  to  see  her  so  ill  (the 
Reverend  Mr.  Sterne's  heart  was  a  good  deal 
broken  in  the  course  of  his  life),  she  said  — 
"My  dear  Laurey,  I  never  can  be  yours,  for  I 
verily  believe  I  have  not  long  to  live ;  but  I  have 
left  you  every  shilling  of  my  fortune;"  a  gen- 
erosity which  overpowered  Sterne.  She  re- 
covered: and  so  they  were  married,  and  grew 
heartily  tired  of  each  other  before  many  years 
were  over.  "Nescio  quid  est  materia  cum 
me,"  Sterne  writes  to  one  of  his  friends  (in 
dog-Latin,  and  very  sad  dog-Latin  too);  "sed 
sum  fatigatus  et  aegrotus  de  mca  uxore  plus 
quam  unquam:"  which  means,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  "I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
me;  but  I  am  more  tired  and  sick  of  my  wife 
than  ever." 

This  to  be  sure  was  five-and-twenty  years 
after  Laurey  had  been  overcome  by  her  gen- 
erosity, and  she  by  Laurey's  love.  Then  he 
wrote  to  her  of  the  delights  of  marriage,  saying, 
"We  will  be  as  merry  and  as  innocent  as  our 
first  parents  in  Paradise,  before  the  arch-fiend 
entered  that  indescribable  scene.  The  kindest 
affections  will  have  room  to  expand  in  our 
retirement:  let  the  human  tempest  and  hur- 
ricane rage  at  a  distance,  the  desolation  is 
beyond  the  horizon  of  peace.  My  L.  has 
seen  a  polyanthus  blow  in  December?  —  Some 
friendly  wall  has  sheltered  it  from  the  biting 
wind.  No  planetary  influence  shall  reach  us 
but  that  which  presides  and  cherishes  the 
sweetest  flowers.  The  gloomy  family  of  care 
and  distrust  shall  be  banished  from  our  dwell- 
ing, guarded  by  thy  kind  and  tutelar  deity. 


We  will  sing  our  choral  songs  of  gratitude 
and  rejoice  to  the  end  of  our  pilgrimage. 
Adieu,  my  L.  Return  to  one  who  languishes 
for  thy  society !  —  As  I  take  up  my  pen,  my 
poor  pulse  quickens,  my  pale  face  glows,  and 
tears  are  trickling  down  on  my  paper  as  I 
trace  the  word  L." 

And  it  is  about  this  woman,  with  whom  he 
finds  no  fault  but  that  she  bores  him,  that  our 
philanthropist  writes,  "Sum  fatigatus  et 
aegrotus"  —  Sum  mortaliter  in  anwre  with 
somebody  else !  That  fine  flower  of  love,  that 
polyanthus  over  which  Sterne  snivelled  so 
many  tears,  could  not  last  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century ! 

Or  rather  it  could  not  be  expected  that  a 
gentleman  with  such  a  fountain  at  command 
should  keep  it  to  arroser  one  homely  old  lady, 
when  a  score  of  younger  and  prettier  people 
might  be  refreshed  from  the  same  gushing 
source.  It  was  in  December  1767,  that  the 
Reverend  Laurence  Sterne,  the  famous  Shand- 
ean,  the  charming  Yorick,  the  delight  of  the 
fashionable  world,  the  delicious  divine  for  whose 
sermons  the  whole  polite  world  was  subscribing, 
the  occupier  of  Rabelais's  easy-chair,  only  fresh 
stuffed  and  more  elegant  than  when  in  posses- 
sion of  the  cynical  old  curate  of  Meudon, — 
the  more  than  rival  of  the  Dean  of  Saint 
Patrick's,  wrote  the  above-quoted  respectable 
letter  to  his  friend  in  London:  and  it  was  in 
April  of  the  same  year  that  he  was  pouring  out 
his  fond  heart  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Draper,  wife 
of  "Daniel  Draper,  Esquire,  Councillor  of  Bom- 
bay, and,  in  1775,  chief  of  the  factory  of  Surat 
—  a  gentleman  very  much  respected  in  that 
quarter  of  the  globe." 

"I  got  thy  letter  last  night,  EHza,"  Sterne 
writes,  "on  my  return  from  Lord  Bathurst's, 
where  I  dined"  —  (the  letter  has  this  merit 
in  it,  that  it  contains  a  pleasant  reminiscence  of 
better  men  than  Sterne,  and  introduces  us  to 
a  portrait  of  a  kind  old  gentleman)  —  "I  got 
thy  letter  last  night,  Eliza,  on  my  return  from 
Lord  Bathurst's;  and  where  I  was  heard  —  as 
I  talked  of  thee  an  hour  without  intermission  — 
with  so  much  pleasure  and  attention,  that  the 
good  old  Lord  toasted  your  health  three  differ- 
ent times;  and  now  he  is  in  his  85th  year,  says 
he  hopes  to  live  long  enough  to  be  introduced  as 
a  friend  to  my  fair  Indian  disciple,  and  to  see 
her  eclipse  all  other  Nabobesses  as  much  in 
wealth  as  she  does  already  in  exterior  and,  what 
is  far  better"  (for  Sterne  is  nothing  without  his 
morality),  "in  interior  merit.  This  nobleman 
is  an  old  friend  of  mine.     You  know  he  was 


THE    ENGLISH   HUMOURISTS 


427 


always  the  protector  of  men  of  wit  and  genius, 
and  has  had  those  of  the  last  century,  Addison, 
Steele,  Pope,  Swift,  Prior,  &c.,  always  at  his 
table.  The  manner  in  which  his  notice  began 
of  me  was  as  singular  as  it  was  polite.  He  came 
up  to  me  one  day  as  I  was  at  the  Princess  of 
Wales's  Court,  and  said,  'I  want  to  know  you, 
Mr.  Sterne,  but  it  is  fit  you  also  should  know 
who  it  is  that  wishes  this  pleasure.  You  have 
heard  of  an  old  Lord  Bathurst,  of  whom  your 
Popes  and  Swifts  have  sung  and  spoken  so 
much?  I  have  lived  my  life  with  geniuses  of 
that  cast;  but  have  survived  them;  and, 
despairing  ever  to  find  their  equals,  it  is  some 
years  since  I  have  shut  up  my  books  and  closed 
my  accounts;  but  you  have  kindled  a  desire 
in  me  of  opening  them  once  more  before  I  die: 
which  I  now  do :  so  go  home  and  dine  with  me.' 
This  nobleman,  I  say,  is  a  prodigy,  for  he  has  all 
the  wit  and  promptness  of  a  man  of  thirty; 
a  disposition  to  be  pleased,  and  a  power  to 
please  others,  beyond  whatever  I  knew ;  added 
to  which  a  man  of  learning,  courtesy,  and 
feeling. 

"He  heard  me  talk  of  thee,  Eliza,  with  un- 
common satisfaction  —  for  there  was  only  a 
third  person,  and  of  sensibility,  with  us:  and 
a  most  sentimental  afternoon,  till  nine  o'clock 
have  we  passed!  But  thou,  Eliza,  wert  the 
star  that  conducted  and  enlivened  the  dis- 
course !  And  when  I  talked  not  of  thee,  still 
didst  thou  fill  my  mind,  and  warm  every  thought 
I  uttered,  for  I  am  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
I  greatly  miss  thee.  Best  of  all  good  girls ! 
the  sufferings  I  have  sustained  all  night  in  con- 
sequence of  thine,  Eliza,  are  beyond  the  power 
of  words.  .  .  .  And  so  thou  hast  fi.xed  thy 
Bramin's  portrait  over  thy  writing-desk,  ^and 
wilt  consult  it  in  all  doubts  and  diillculties?  — 
Grateful  and  good  girl  1  Yorick  smiles  con- 
tentedly over  all  thou  dost:  his  picture  does  not 
do  justice  to  his  own  complacency.  I  am  glad 
your  shipmates  are  friendly  beings"  (Eliza  was 
at  Deal,  going  back  to  the  Councillor  at  Bom- 
bay, and  indeed  it  was  high  time  she  should  be 
off).  "You  could  least  dispense  with  what  is 
contrary  to  your  own  nature,  which  ,is  soft  and 
gentle,  Eliza;  it  would  civilise  savages  — 
though  pity  were  it  thou  shouldst  be  tainted 
with  the  office.  Write  to  me,  my  child,  thy 
delicious  letters.  Let  them  speak  the  easy 
carelessness  of  a  heart  that  opens  itself  anyhow, 
everyhow.  Such,  Eliza,  I  write  to  thee!" 
(The  artless  rogue,  of  course  he  did!)  "And 
so  I  should  ever  love  thee,  most  artlessly,  most 
affectionately,  if  Providence  permitted  thy  resi- 


dence in  the  same  section  of  the  globe:  for 
I  am  all  that  honour  and  affection  can  make 
me  'Thy  Bramin.'" 

The  Bramin  continues  addressing  Mrs. 
Draper  until  the  departure  of  the  Earl  of 
Chatham  Indiaman  from  Deal,  on  the  3rd 
of  April  1767.  He  is  amiably  an.xious  about 
the  fresh  paint  for  Eliza's  cabin;  he  is  uncom- 
monly solicitous  about  her  companions  on 
board : — 

"I  fear  the  best  of  your  shipmates  are  only 
genteel  by  comparison  with  the  contrasted 
crew  with  which  thou  beholdest  them.  So 
was  —  you  know  who  —  from  the  same  fallacy 
which  was  put  upon  your  judgment  when  — 
but  I  will  not  mortify  you  !" 

"You  know  who"  was,  of  course,  Daniel 
Draper,  Esquire,  of  Bombay  —  a  gentleman 
very  much  respected  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe, 
and  about  whose  probable  health  our  worthy 
Bramin  writes  with  delightful  candour: 

"I  honour  you,  Eliza,  for  keeping  secret 
some  things  which,  if  explained,  had  been  a 
panegyric  on  yourself.  There  is  a  dignity  in 
venerable  affliction  which  will  not  allow  it  to 
appeal  to  the  world  for  pity  or  redress.  Well 
have  you  supported  that  character,  my  amiable, 
my  philosophic  friend !  And,  indeed,  I  begin 
to  think  you  have  as  many  virtues  as  my 
Uncle  Toby's  widow.  Talking  of  widows  — 
pray,  Eliza,  if  ever  you  are  such,  do  not  think 
of  giving  yourself  to  some  wealthy  Nabob, 
because  I  design  to  marry  you  myself.  My 
wife  cannot  live  long,  and  I  know  not  the 
woman  I  should  like  so  well  for  her  substitute 
as  yourself.  'Tis  true  I  am  ninety-five  in  con- 
stitution, and  you  but  twenty -five;  but  what 
I  want  in  youth,  I  will  make  up  in  wit  and 
good-humour.  Not  Swift  so  loved  his  Stella, 
Scarron  his  Maintenon,  or  Waller  his  Saccha- 
rissa.  Tell  me,  in  answer  to  this,  that  you  ap- 
prove and  honour  the  proposal." 

Api)rove  and  honour  the  proposal !  The 
coward  was  writing  gay  letters  to  his  friends  this 
while,  with  sneering  allusions  to  this  poor 
foolish  Bramine.  Her  shij)  was  not  out  of  the 
Downs  and  the  charming  Sterne  was  at  the 
"Mount  Coffee-house,"  with  a  sheet  of  gilt- 
edged  paper  before  him,  offering  that  precious 

treasure  his  heart  to  Lady  P -,  asking  whether 

it  gave  her  pleasure  to  see  him  unhappy? 
whether  it  added  to  her  triumph  that  her  eyes 
and  lips  had  turned  a  man  into  a  fool?  —  quot- 
ing the  Lord's  Prayer,  with  a  horrible  baseness 
of  blasphemy,  as  a  proof  that  he  had  desired 
not  to  be  led  into  temptation,  and  swearing 


428 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


himself  the  most  tender  and  sincere  fool  in  the 
world.  It  was  from  his  home  at  Coxwold, 
that  he  wrote  the  Latin  Letter,  which,  I  suppose, 
he  was  ashamed  to  put  into  English.  I  find 
in  my  copy  of  the  Letters  that  there  is  a  note  of, 
I  can't  call  it  admiration,  at  Letter  112,  which 
seems  to  announce  that  there  was  a  No.  3  to 
whom  the  wretched  worn-out  old  scamp  was 
paying  his  addresses;  and  the  year  after, 
having  come  back  to  his  lodgings  in  Bond  Street, 
with  his  "Sentimental  Journey"  to  launch  upon 
the  town,  eager  as  ever  for  praise  and  pleasure 
—  as  vain,  as  wicked,  as  witty,  as  false  as  he 
had  ever  been,  death  at  length  seized  the  feeble 
wretch,  and  on  the  i8th  of  March  1768,  that 
"bale  of  cadaverous  goods,"  as  he  calls  his 
body,  was  consigned  to  Pluto.  In  his  last  letter 
there  is  one  sign  of  grace  —  the  real  affection 
with  which  he  entreats  a  friend  to  be  a  guardian 
to  his  daughter  Lydia.  All  his  letters  to  her  are 
artless,  kind,  affectionate,  and  not  sentimental; 
as  a  hundred  pages  in  his  writings  are  beautiful, 
and  full,  not  of  surprising  humour  merely,  but 
of  genuine  love  and  kindness.  A  perilous  trade, 
indeed,  is  that  of  a  man  who  has  to  bring  his 
tears  and  laughter,  his  recollections,  his  per- 
sonal griefs  and  joys,  his  private  thoughts  and 
feelings  to  market,  to  write  them  on  paper,  and 
sell  them  for  money.  Does  he  exaggerate  his 
grief,  so  as  to  get  his  reader's  pity  for  a  false 
sensibility?  feign  indignation,  so  as  to  establish 
a  character  for  virtue?  elaborate  repartees,  so 
that  he  may  pass  for  a  wit?  steal  from  other 
authors,  and  put  down  the  theft  to  the  credit 
side  of  his  own  reputation  for  ingenuity  and 
learning?  feign  originality?  affect  benev- 
olence or  misanthropy?  appeal  to  the  gallery 
gods  with  claptraps  and  vulgar  baits  to  catch 
applause  ? 

How  much  of  the  pain  and  emphasis  is 
necessary  for  the  fair  business  of  the  stage, 
and  how  much  of  the  rant  and  rouge  is  put  on 
for  the  vanity  of  the  actors  ?  His  audience  trusts 
him:  can  he  trust  himself?  How  much  was 
deliberate  calculation  and  imposture  ^  how 
much  was  false  sensibility  —  and  how  much 
true  feeling?  Where  did  the  lie  begin,  and 
did  he  know  where?  and  where  did  the  truth 
end  in  the  art  and  scheme  of  this  man  of  genius, 
this  actor,  this  quack?  Some  time  since,  I 
was  in  the  company  of  a  French  actor  who  began 
after  dinner,  and  at  his  own  request,  to  sing 
French  songs  of  the  sort  called  des  chansons 
grivoises,  and  which  he  performed  admira- 
bly, and  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  most  persons 
present.     Having  finished  these,  he  commenced 


a  sentimental  ballad  —  it  was  so  charmingly 
sung  that  it  touched  all  persons  present,  and 
especially  the  singer  himself,  whose  voice 
trembled,  whose  eyes  filled  with  emotion,  and 
who  was  snivelling  and  weeping  quite  genuine 
tears  by  the  time  his  own  ditty  was  over.  I 
suppose  Sterne  had  this  artistical  sensibility; 
he  used  to  blubber  perpetually  in  his  study, 
and  finding  his  tears  infectious,  and  that  they 
brought  him  a  great  popularity,  he  exercised 
the  lucrative  gift  of  weeping:  he  utilised  it,  and 
cried  on  every  occasion.  I  own  that  I  don't 
value  or  respect  much  the  cheap  dribble  of 
those  fountains.  He  fatigues  me  with  his  per- 
petual disquiet  and  his  uneasy  appeals  to  my 
risible  or  sentimental  faculties.  He  is  always 
looking  in  my  face,  watching  his  effect,  uncer- 
tain whether  I  think  him  an  impostor  or  not; 
posture-making,  coaxing,  and  imploring  me. 
"See  what  sensibility  I  have  —  own  now  that 
I'm  very  clever  —  do  cry  now,  you  can't  resist 
this."  The  humour  of  Swift  and  Rabelais, 
whom  he  pretended  to  succeed,  poured  from 
them  as  naturally  as  song  does  from  a  bird; 
they  lose  no  manly  dignity  with  it,  but  laugh 
their  hearty  great  laugh  out  of  their  broad  chests 
as  nature  bade  them.  But  this  man  —  who 
can  make  you  laugh,  who  can  make  you  cry  too 
—  never  lets  his  reader  alone,  or  will  permit 
his  audience  repose:  when  you  are  quiet,  he 
fancies  he  must  rouse  you,  and  turns  over  head 
and  heels,  or  sidles  up  and  whispers  a  nasty 
story.  The  man  is  a  great  jester,  not  a  great 
homourist.  He  goes  to  work  systematically 
and  of  cold  blood;  paints  his  face,  puts  on  his 
ruff  and  motley  clothes,  and  lays  down  his  car- 
pet and  tumbles  on  it. 

5or  instance,  take  the  "  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney," and  see  in  the  writer  the  deliberate  pro- 
pensity to  make  points  and  seek  applause.  He 
gets  to  "Dessein's  Hotel,"  he  wants  a  carriage 
to  travel  to  Paris,  he  goes  to  the  inn-yard, 
and  begins  what  the  actors  call  "business" 
at  once.  There  is  that  little  carriage  (the 
desobligeante). 

"Four  months  had  elapsed  since  it  had 
finished  its  career  of  Europe  in  the  corner  of 
Monsieur  Dessein's  coach -yard,  and  having 
sallied  out  thence  but  a  vamped-up  business 
at  first,  though  it  had  been  twice  taken  to  pieces 
on  Mont  Cenis,  it  had  not  profited  much  by  its 
adventures,  but  by  none  so  little  as  the  stand- 
ing so  many  months  unpitied  in  the  corner  of 
Monsieur  Dessein's  coach-yard.  Much,  indeed, 
was  not  to  be  said  for  it  —  but  something 
might  —  and  when  a  few  words  will  rescue 


THE    ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS 


429 


misery  out  of  her  distress,   I  hate  the  man 
who  can  be  a  churl  of  them." 

Le  tour  est  faill  Paillasse  has  tumbled! 
Paillasse  has  jumped  over  the  desobligcante, 
cleared  it,  hood  and  all,  and  bows  to  the  noble 
company.  Does  anybody  believe  that  this  is  a 
real  Sentiment?  that  this  luxury  of  generosity, 
this  gallant  rescue  of  Misery  —  out  of  an  old 
cab,  is  genuine  feeling?  It  is  as  genuine  as 
the  virtuous  oratory  of  Joseph  Surface  when  he 
begins,  "The  man  who,"  etc.,  etc.,  and  wishes 
to  pass  off  for  a  saint  with  his  credulous,  good- 
humoured  dupes. 

Our  friend  purchases  the  carriage:  after  turn- 
ing that  notorious  old  monk  to  good  account, 
and  effecting  (like  a  soft  and  good-natured 
Paillasse  as  he  was,  and  very  free  with  his 
money  when  he  had  it)  an  exchange  of  snuff- 
boxes with  the  old  Franciscan,  jogs  out  of 
Calais;  sets  down  in  immense  figures  on  the 
credit  side  of  his  account  the  sous  he  gives 
away  to  the  Montreuil  beggars;  and,  at  Nam- 
pont,  gets  out  of  the  chaise  and  whimpers  over 
that  famous  dead  donkey,  for  which  any  sen- 
timentalist may  cry  who  will.  It  is  agreeably 
and  skilfully  done  —  that  dead  jackass:  like 
Monsieur  de  Soubise's  cook  on  the  campaign, 
Sterne  dresses  it,  and  serves  it  up  quite  tender 
and  with  a  very  piquant  sauce.  But  tears  and 
fine  feelings,  and  a  white  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  funeral  sermon,  and  horses  and  feathers, 
and  a  procession  of  mutes,  and  a  hearse  with 
a  dead  donkey  inside !  Psha,  mountebank ! 
I'll  not  give  thee  one  penny  more  for  that  trick, 
donkey  and  all ! 

This  donkey  had  appeared  once  before  with 
signal  effect.  In  1765,  three  years  before  the 
publication  of  the  "Sentimental  Journey," 
the  seventh  and  eighth  volumes  of  "Tristram 
Shandy"  were  given  to  the  world,  and  the 
famous  Lyons  donkey  makes  his  entry  in  those 
volumes  (pp.  315,  316):  — 

"'Twas  by  a  poor  ass,  with  a  couple  of  large 
panniers  at  his  back,  who  had  just  turned  in 
to  collect  eleemosynary  turnip-tops  and  cab- 
bage-leaves, and  stood  dubious,  with  his  two 
forefeet  at  the  inside  of  the  threshold,  and  with 
his  two  hinder  feet  towards  the  street,  as  not 
knowing  very  well  whether  he  was  to  go  in  or 
no. 

"Now  'tis  an  animal  (be  in  what  hurry  I 
may)  I  cannot  bear  to  strike :  there  is  a  patient 
endurance  of  suffering  wrote  so  unaffectedly 
in  his  looks  and  carriage  which  pleads  so 
mightily  for  him,  that  it  always  disarms  mc, 
and  to  that  degree  that  I  do  not  like  to  speak 


unkindly  to  him:  on  the  contrary,  meet  him 
where  I  will,  whether  in  town  or  country,  in 
cart  or  under  panniers,  whether  in  liberty  or 
bondage,  I  have  ever  something  ci\il  to  say  to 
him  on  my  part;  and,  as  one  word  begets 
another  (if  he  has  as  little  to  do  as  I),  I  gener- 
ally fall  into  conversation  with  him;  and  surely 
never  is  my  imagination  so  busy  as  in  framing 
responses  from  the  etchings  of  his  countenance; 
and  where  those  carry  me  not  deep  enough,  in 
flying  from  my  own  heart  into  his,  and  seeing 
what  is  natural  for  an  ass  to  think  —  as  well 
as  a  man,  upon  the  occasion.  In  truth,  it  is 
the  only  creature  of  all  the  classes  of  beings 
below  me  with  whom  I  can  do  this.  .  .  .  With 
an  ass  I  can  commune  forever. 

"'Come,  Honesty,'  said  I,  seeing  it  was 
impracticable  to  pass  betwixt  him  and  the 
gate,  'art  thou  for  coming  in  or  going  out?' 

"The  ass  twisted  his  head  round  to  look  up 
the  street. 

"'Well!'  replied  I,  'we'll  wait  a  minute  for 
thy  driver.' 

"He  turned  his  head  thoughtfully  about, 
and  looked  wistfully  the  opposite  way. 

"'I  understand  thee  perfectly,'  answered  I: 
'if  thou  takest  a  wrong  step  in  this  affair,  he 
will  cudgel  thee  to  death.  W^ell !  a  minute  is 
but  a  minute;  and  if  it  saves  a  fellow-creature 
a  drubbing,  it  shall  not  be  set  down  as  ill  spent.' 

"He  was  eating  the  stem  of  an  artichoke 
as  this  discourse  went  on,  and,  in  the  little 
peevish  contentions  between  hunger  and  un- 
savouriness,  had  dropped  it  out  of  his  mouth 
half-a-dozen  times,  and  had  picked  it  up  again. 
'God  help  thee.  Jack!'  said  I,  'thou  hast  a 
bitter  breakfast  on't  —  and  many  a  bitter  day's 
labour,  and  many  a  bitter  blow,  I  fear,  for  its 
wages!  'Tis  all,  all  bitterness  to  thee  —  what- 
ever life  is  to  others!  And  now  thy  mouth, 
if  one  knew  the  truth  of  it,  is  as  bitter,  I  dare 
say,  as  soot'  (for  he  had  cast  aside  the  stem), 
'and  thou  hast  not  a  friend  perhaps  in  all  this 
world  that  will  give  thee  a  macaroon.'  In 
saying  this,  I  pulled  out  a  paper  of  'em,  which 
I  had  just  bought,  and  gave  him  one;  and  at 
this  moment  that  I  am  telling  it,  my  heart  smites 
me  that  there  was  more  of  pleasantry  in  the 
conceit  of  seeing  Jiow  an  ass  would  eat  a 
macaroon  than  of  benevolence  in  giving  him 
one,  which  presided  in  the  act. 

"When  the  ass  had  eaten  his  macaroon,  I 
pressed  him  to  come  in.  The  poor  beast  was 
heavy  loaded  —  his  legs  seemed  to  tremble 
under  him  —  he  hung  rather  backwards,  and, 
as  I  pulled  at  his  halter,  it  broke  in  my  hand. 


430 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


He  looked  up  pensive  in  my  face:  'Don't  thrash 
me  with  it;  but  if  you  will  you  may.'  'If  I 
do,' said  I,  'I'll  bed—.'" 

A  critic  who  refuses  to  see  in  this  charming 
description  wit,  humour,  pathos,  a  kind  nature 
speaking,  and  a  real  sentiment,  must  be  hard 
indeed  to  move  and  to  please.  A  page  or  two 
farther  we  come  to  a  description  not  less  beau- 
tiful —  a  landscape  and  figures,  deliciously 
painted  by  one  who  had  the  keenest  enjoyment 
and  the  most  tremulous  sensibility:  — ■ 

"  'Twas  in  the  road  between  Nismes  and 
Lunel,  where  is  the  best  Muscatto  wine  in  all 
France:  the  sun  was  set,  they  had  done  their 
work:  the  nymphs  had  tied  up  their  hair 
afresh,  and  the  swains  were  preparing  for  a 
carousal.  My  mule  made  a  dead  point. 
'  'Tis  the  pipe  and  tambourine,'  said  I  —  'I 
never  will  argue  a  point  with  one  of  your 
family  as  long  as  I  live;'  so  leaping  off  his 
back,  and  kicking  off  one  boot  into  this  ditch 
and  t'other  into  that,  'I'll  take  a  dance,'  said 
I,  'so  stay  you  here.' 

"A  sunburnt  daughter  of  labour  rose  up 
from  the  group  to  meet  me  as  I  advanced 
towards  them;  her  hair,  which  was  of  a  dark 
chestnut  approaching  to  a  black,  was  tied  up  in 
a  knot,  all  but  a  single  tress. 

"'We  want  a  cavalier,'  said  she,  holding  out 
both  her  hands,  as  if  to  offer  them.  'And  a 
cavalier  you  shall  have,'  said  I,  taking  hold 
of  both  of  them.  'We  could  not  have  done 
without  you,'  said  she,  letting  go  one  hand, 
with  self-taught  politeness,  and  leading  me  up 
with  the  other. 

"A  lame  youth,  whom  Apollo  had  recom- 
pensed with  a  pipe,  and  to  which  he  had  added 
a  tambourine  of  his  own  accord,  ran  sweetly 
over  the  prelude,  as  he  sat  upon  the  bank. 
'Tie  me  up  this  tress  instantly,'  said  Nannette, 
putting  a  piece  of  string  into  my  hand.  It 
taught  me  to  forget  I  was  a  stranger.  The 
whole  knot  fell  down  —  we  had  been  seven 
years  acquainted.  The  youth  struck  the  note 
upon  the  tambourine,  his  pipe  followed,  and  off 
we  bounded. 

"The  sister  of  the  youth  —  who  had  stolen 
her  voice  from  heaven  —  sang  alternately  with 
her  brother.  'Twas  a  Gascoigne  roundelay: 
'Viva  la  joia,  Jidon  la  tristessa.'  The  nymphs 
joined  in  unison,  and  their  swains  an  octave 
below  them. 

"Viva  la  joia  was  in  Nannette's  lips,  viva 
la  joia  in  her  eyes.  A  transient  spark  of  amity 
shot  across  the  space  betwixt  us.  She  looked 
amiable.     Why  could  I  not  live  and  end  my 


days  thus?  'Just  Disposer  of  our  joys  and 
sorrows!'  cried  I,  'why  could  not  a  man  sit 
down  in  the  lap  of  content  here,  and  dance, 
and  sing,  and  say  his  prayers,  and  go  to  heaven 
with  this  nut-brown  maid?'  Capriciously  did 
she  bend  her  head  on  one  side,  and  dance  up 
insidious.  'Then  'tis  time  to  dance  off,'  quoth 
L" 

And  with  this  pretty  dance  and  chorus,  the 
volume  artfully  concludes.  Even  here  one 
can't  give  the  whole  description.  There  is  not 
a  page  in  Sterne's  writing  but  has  something 
that  were  better  away,  a  latent  corruption  —  a 
hint,  as  of  an  impure  presence. 

Some  of  that  dreary  double  entendre  may  be 
attributed  to  freer  times  and  manners  than 
ours,  but  not  all.  The  foul  satyr's  eyes  leer 
out  of  the  leaves  constantly:  the  last  words  the 
famous  author  wrote  were  bad  and  wicked  — 
the  last  lines  the  poor  stricken  wretch  penned 
were  for  pity  and  pardon.  I  think  of  these  past 
writers  and  of  one  who  lives  amongst  us  now, 
and  am  grateful  for  the  innocent  laughter  and 
the  sweet  and  unsullied  page  which  the  author 
of  "David  Copperfield"  gives  to  my  children. 

VANITY    FAIR 

CHAPTER   XII 

In  which  Lord  Steyne  shows   himself  in  a 
MOST  Amiable  Light 

When  Lord  Steyne  was  benevolently  disposed, 
he  did  nothing  by  halves,  and  his  kindness 
towards  the  Crawley  family  did  the  greatest 
honour  to  his  benevolent  discrimination.  His 
lordship  extended  his  good-will  to  little  Rawdon : 
he  pointed  out  to  the  boy's  parents  the  neces- 
sity of  sending  him  to  a  public  school:  that  he 
was  of  an  age  now  when  emulation,  the  first 
principles  of  the  Latin  language,  pugilistic 
exercises,  and  the  society  of  his  fellow-boys 
would  be  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  the  boy.  His 
father  objected  that  he  was  not  rich  enough 
to  send  the  child  to  a  good  public  school;  his 
mother,  that  Briggs  was  a  capital  mistress  for 
him,  and  had  brought  him  on  (as  indeed  was  the 
fact)  famously  in  English,  the  Latin  rudiments, 
and  in  general  learning:  but  all  these  objec- 
tions disappeared  before  the  generous  perse- 
verance of  the  Marquis  of  Steyne.  His  lord- 
ship was  one  of  the  governors  of  that  famous 
old  collegiate  institution  called  the  Whitefriars. 
It  had  been  a  Cistercian  Convent  in  old  days, 
when  the  Smithfield,  which  is  contiguous  to  it, 


VANITY    FAIR 


431 


was  a  tournament  ground.  Obstinate  heretics 
used  to  be  brought  thither  convenient  for 
burning  hard  by.  Henry  VIII.,  the  Defender 
of  the  Faith,  seized  upon  the  monastery  and  its 
possessions,  and  hanged  and  tortured  some  of 
the  monks  who  could  not  accommodate  them- 
selves to  the  pace  of  his  reform.  Finally,  a 
great  merchant  bought  the  house  and  land 
adjoining,  in  which,  and  with  the  help  of  other 
wealthy  endowments  of  land  and  money,  he 
established  a  famous  foundation  hospital  for 
old  men  and  children.  An  extern  school  grew 
round  the  old  almost  monastic  foundation, 
which  subsists  still,  with  its  middle-age  costume 
and  usages:  and  all  Cistercians  pray  that  it 
may  long  flourish. 

Of  this  famous  house,  some  of  the  greatest 
noblemen,  prelates,  and  dignitaries  in  England 
are  governors:  and  as  the  boys  are  very  com- 
fortably lodged,  fed,  and  educated,  and  sub- 
sequently inducted  to  good  scholarships  at  the 
University  and  livings  in  the  Church,  many  little 
gentlemen  are  devoted  to  the  ecclesiastical  pro- 
fession from  their  tenderest  years,  and  there  is 
considerable  emulation  to  procure  nominations 
for  the  foundation.  It  was  originally  intended 
for  the  sons  of  poor  and  deserving  clerics  and 
laics;  but  many  of  the  noble  governors  of  the 
Institution,  with  an  enlarged  and  rather 
capricious  benevolence,  selected  all  sorts  of 
objects  for  their  bounty.  To  get  an  education 
for  nothing,  and  a  future  livelihood  and  pro- 
fession assured,  was  so  excellent  a  scheme 
that  some  of  the  richest  people  did  not  disdain 
it ;  and  not  only  great  men's  relations,  but  great 
men  themselves,  sent  their  sons  to  profit  by 
the  chance  —  Right  Reverend  Prelates  sent 
their  own  kinsmen  or  the  sons  of  their  clergy, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  some  great  noblemen 
did  not  disdain  to  patronise  the  children  of  their 
confidential  servants,  —  so  that  a  lad  entering 
this  establishment  had  every  variety  of  youthful 
society  wherewith  to  mingle. 

Rawdon  Crawley,  though  the  only  book 
which  he  studied  was  the  Racing  Calendar,  and 
though  his  chief  recollections  of  polite  learning 
were  connected  with  the  floggings  which  he 
received  at  Eton  in  his  early  youth,  had  that 
decent  and  honest  reverence  for  classical  learning 
which  all  English  gentlemen  feel,  and  was  glad 
to  think  that  his  son  was  to  have  a  provision 
for  life,  perhaps,  and  a  certain  opportunity  of 
becoming  a  scholar.  And  although  his  boy 
was  his  chief  solace  and  companion,  and  en- 
deared to  him  by  a  thousand  small  ties,  about 
which  he  did   not  care  to  speak  to  his  wife, 


who  had  all  along  shown  the  utmost  indifTerence 
to  their  son,  yet  Rawdon  agreed  at  once  to  part 
with  him,  and  to  give  up  his  own  greatest  com- 
fort and  benefit  for  the  sake  of  the  welfare  of 
the  little  lad.  He  did  not  know  how  fond  he 
was  of  the  child  until  it  became  necessary  to  let 
him  go  away.  When  he  was  gone,  he  felt  more 
sad  and  downcast  than  he  cared  to  own  —  far 
sadder  than  the  boy  himself,  who  was  happy 
enough  to  enter  a  new  career,  and  find  com- 
panions of  his  own  age.  Becky  burst  out 
laughing  once  or  twice,  when  the  colonel,  in 
his  clumsy,  incoherent  way,  tried  to  express 
his  sentimental  sorrows  at  the  boy's  departure. 
The  poor  fellow  felt  that  his  dearest  pleasure  and 
closest  friend  was  taken  from  him.  He  looked 
often  and  wistfully  at  the  little  vacant  bed  in 
his  dressing-room,  where  the  child  used  to 
sleep.  He  missed  him  sadly  of  mornings,  and 
tried  in  vain  to  walk  in  the  Park  without  him. 
He  did  not  know  how  solitary  he  was  until  little 
Rawdon  was  gone.  He  liked  the  people  who 
were  fond  of  him;  and  would  go  and  sit  for 
long  hours  with  his  good-natured  sister.  Lady 
Jane,  and  talk  to  her  about  the  virtues,  and 
good  looks,  and  hundred  good  qualities  of 
the  child. 

Young  Rawdon's  aunt,  we  have  said,  was 
very  fond  of  him,  as  was  her  little  girl,  who 
wept  copiously  when  the  time  for  her  cousin's 
departure  came.  The  elder  Rawdon  was  thank- 
ful for  the  fondness  of  mother  and  daughter. 
The  very  best  and  honestest  feelings  of  the  man 
came  out  in  these  artless  out-pourings  of  pater- 
nal feeling  in  which  he  indulged  in  their  pres- 
ence, and  encouraged  by  tlieir  sympathy. 
He  secured  not  only  Lady  Jane's  kindness,  but 
her  sincere  regard,  by  the  feelings  which  he 
manifested,  and  which  he  could  not  show  to 
his  own  wife.  The  two  kinswomen  met  as 
seldom  as  possible.  Becky  laughed  bitterly  at 
Jane's  feelings  and  softness;  the  other's  kindly 
and  gentle  nature  could  not  but  revolt  at  her 
sister's  callous  behaviour. 

It  estranged  Rawdon  from  his  wife  more 
than  he  knew  or  acknowledged  to  himself. 
She  did  not  care  for  the  estrangement.  Indeed, 
she  did  not  miss  him  or  anybody.  She  looked 
upon  him  as  her  errand-man  and  humble  slave. 
He  might  be  ever  so  depressed  or  sulky,  and  she 
did  not  mark  his  demeanour,  or  only  treated  it 
with  a  sneer.  She  was  busy  thinking  about  her 
position,  or  her  pleasures,  or  her  advancement 
in  society;  she  ought  to  have  held  a  great  place 
in  it,  that  is  certain. 
It  was  honest  Briggs  who  made  up  the  little 


432 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


kit  for  the  boy  which  he  was  to  take  to  school. 
Molly,  the  housemaid,  blubbered  in  the  passage 
when  he  went  away  —  Molly,  kind  and  faithful 
in  spite  of  a  long  arrear  of  unpaid  wages.  Mrs. 
Becky  could  not  let  her  husband  have  the 
carriage  to  take  the  boy  to  school.  Take  the 
horses  into  the  city !  —  such  a  thing  was  never 
heard  of.  Let  a  cab  be  brought.  She  did  not 
offer  to  kiss  him  when  he  went:  nor  did  the 
child  propose  to  embrace  her:  but  gave  a  kiss 
to  old  Briggs  (whom,  in  general,  he  was  very 
shy  of  caressing),  and  consoled  her  by  pointing 
out  that  he  was  to  come  home  on  Saturdays, 
when  she  would  have  the  benefit  of  seeing  him. 
As  the  cab  rolled  towards  the  city,  Becky's 
carriage  rattled  off  to  the  Park.  She  was  chat- 
tering and  laughing  with  a  score  of  young 
dandies  by  ^he  Serpentine,  as  the  father  and 
son  entered  at  the  old  gates  of  the  school  — 
where  Rawdon  left  the  child,  and  came  away 
with  a  sadder,  purer  feeling  in  his  heart  than 
perhaps  that  poor  battered  fellow  had  ever 
known  since  he  himself  came  out  of  the  nursery. 

He  walked  all  the  way  home  very  dismally, 
and  dined  alone  with  Briggs.  He  was  very  kind 
to  her,  and  grateful  for  her  love  and  watch- 
fulness over  the  boy.  His  conscience  smote 
him  that  he  had  borrowed  Briggs's  money,  and 
aided  in  deceiving  her.  They  talked  about 
little  Rawdon  a  long  time,  for  Becky  only  came 
home  to  dress  and  go  out  to  dinner  —  and 
then  he  went  off  uneasily  to  drink  tea  with 
Lady  Jane,  and  tell  her  of  what  had  happened, 
and  how  little  Rawdon  went  off  like  a  trump, 
and  how  he  was  to  wear  a  gown  and  little  knee- 
breeches,  and  how  young  Blackball,  Jack 
Blackball's  son,  of  the  old  regiment,  had  taken 
him  in  charge  and  promised  to  be  kind  to  him. 

In  the  course  of  a  week,  young  Blackball  had 
constituted  little  Rawdon  his  fag,  shoe-black, 
and  breakfast  toaster;  initiated  him  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  Latin  grammar,  and  thrashed 
him  three  or  four  times;  but  not  severely. 
The  little  chap's  good-natured  honest  face  won 
his  way  for  him.  He  only  got  that  degree  of 
beating  which  was,  no  doubt,  good  for  him; 
and  as  for  blacking  shoes,  toasting  bread,  and 
fagging  in  general,  were  these  offices  not  deemed 
to  be  necessary  parts  of  every  young  English 
gentleman's   education? 

Our  business  does  not  lie  with  the  second 
generation  and  Master  Rawdon's  life  at  school, 
otherwise  the  present  tale  might  be  carried  to 
any  indefinite  length.  The  colonel  went  to 
see  his  son  a  short  time  afterwards,  and  found 
the  lad  sufficiently  well  and  happy,  grinning  and 


laughing  in  his  little  black  gown  and  little 
breeches. 

His  father  sagaciously  tipped  Blackball, 
his  master,  a  sovereign,  and  secured  that  young 
gentleman's  good-will  towards  his  fag.  As  a 
protege  of  the  great  Lord  Steyne,  the  nephew 
of  a  county  member,  and  son  of  a  colonel  and 
C.B.,  whose  name  appeared  in  some  of  the 
most  fashionable  parties  in  the  Morning  Post, 
perhaps  the  school  authorities  were  disposed 
not  to  look  unkindly  on  the  child.  He  had 
plenty  of  pocket-money,  which  he  spent  in 
treating  his  comrades  royally  to  raspberry  tarts, 
and  he  was  often  allowed  to  come  home  on 
Saturdays  to  his  father,  who  always  made  a 
jubilee  of  that  day.  When  free,  Rawdon  would 
take  him  to  the  play,  or  send  him  thither  with 
the  footman ;  and  on  Sundays  he  went  to  church 
with  Briggs  and  Lady  Jane  and  his  cousins. 
Rawdon  marvelled  over  his  stories  about  school, 
and  fights,  and  fagging.  Before  long,  he  knew 
the  names  of  all  the  masters  and  the  principal 
boys  as  well  as  little  Rawdon  himself.  He 
invited  little  Rawdon's  crony  from  school,  and 
made  both  the  children  sick  with  pastry,  and 
oysters,  and  porter  after  the  play.  He  tried 
to  look  knowing  over  the  Latin  grammar  when 
little  Rawdon  showed  him  what  part  of  that 
work  he  was  "in."  "Stick  to  it,  my  boy," 
he  said  to  him  with  much  gravity,  "there's 
nothing  like  a  good  classical  education! 
nothing !  " 

Becky's  contempt  for  her  husband  grew 
greater  every  day.  "Do  what  you  like, — 
dine  where  you  please,  —  go  and  have  ginger- 
beer  and  sawdust  at  Astley's,  or  psalm-singing 
with  Lady  Jane,  —  only  don't  expect  me  to 
busy  myself  with  the  boy.  I  have  your  in- 
terests to  attend  to,  as  you  can't  attend  to  them 
yourself.  I  should  like  to  know  where  you 
would  have  been  now,  and  in  what  sort  of  a 
position  in  society,  if  I  had  not  looked  after 
you?"  Indeed,  nobody  wanted  poor  old 
Rawdon  at  the  parties  whither  Becky  used  to  go. 
She  was  often  asked  without  him  now.  She 
talked  about  great  people  as  if  she  had  the 
fee-simple  of  May  Fair;  and  when  the  Court 
went  into  mourning,  she  always  wore  black. 

Little  Rawdon  being  disposed  of.  Lord  Steyne, 
who  took  such  a  parental  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  this  amiable  poor  family,  thought  that  their 
expenses  might  be  very  advantageously  cur- 
tailed by  the  departure  of  Miss  Briggs;  and 
that  Becky  was  quite  clever  enough  to  take 
the  management  of  her  own  house.  It  has  been 
narrated,  in  a  former  chapter,  how  the  benevo- 


VANITY    FAIR 


433 


lent  nobleman  had  given  his  protege  money  to 
pay  off  her  little  debt  to  Miss  Briggs,  who  how- 
ever still  remained  behind  with  her  friends; 
whence  my  lord  came  to  the  painful  conclusion 
that  Mrs.  Crawley  had  made  some  other  use  of 
the  money  confided  to  her  than  that  for  which 
her  generous  patron  had  given  the  loan. 
However,  Lord  Steyne  was  not  so  rude  as  to 
impart  his  suspicions  upon  this  head  to  Mrs. 
Becky,  whose  feelings  might  be  hurt  by  any 
controversy  on  the  money-question,  and  who 
might  have  a  thousand  painful  reasons  for  dis- 
posing otherwise  of  his  lordship's  generous 
loan.  But  he  determined  to  satisfy  himself  of 
the  real  state  of  the  case:  and  instituted  the 
necessary  inquiries  in  a  most  cautious  and 
delicate  manner. 

In  the  first  place  he  took  an  early  opportu- 
nity of  pumping  Miss  Briggs.  That  was  not 
a  difficult  operation.  A  very  little  encourage- 
ment would  set  that  worthy  woman  to  talk 
volubly,  and  pour  out  all  within  her.  And  one 
day  when  Mrs.  Rawdon  had  gone  out  to  drive 
(as  Mr.  Fiche,  his  lordship's  confidential  ser- 
vant, easily  learned  at  the  livery  stables  where 
the  Crawleys  kept  their  carriage  and  horses, 
or  rather,  where  the  livery-man  kept  a  car- 
riage and  horses  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley)  — 
my  lord  dropped  in  upon  the  Curzon  Street 
house  —  asked  Briggs  for  a  cup  of  coffee  — 
told  her  that  he  had  good  accounts  of  the  little 
boy  at  school  —  and  in  five  minutes  found  out 
from  her  that  Mrs.  Rawdon  had  given  her 
nothing  except  a  black  silk  gown,  for  which 
Miss  Briggs  was  immensely  grateful. 

He  laughed  within  himself  at  this  artless 
story.  For  the  truth  is,  our  dear  friend  Re- 
becca had  given  him  a  most  circumstantial 
narration  of  Briggs's  delight  at  receiving  her 
money  —  eleven  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds 
—  and  in  what  securities  she  had  invested  it; 
and  what  a  pang  Becky  herself  felt  in  being 
obliged  to  pay  away  such  a  delightful  sum  of 
money.  "Who  knows,"  the  dear  woman  may 
have  thought  within  herself,  "perhaps  he  may 
give  me  a  little  more?"  My  lord,  however, 
made  no  such  proposal  to  the  little  schemer  — 
very  likely  thinking  that  he  had  been  suffi- 
ciently generous  already. 

He  had  the  curiosity,  then,  to  ask  Miss 
Briggs  about  the  state  of  her  private  affairs  — 
and  she  told  his  lordship  candidly  what  her 
position  was  —  how  Miss  Crawley  had  left 
her  a  legacy  —  how  her  relatives  had  had  part 
of  it  —  how  Colonel  Crawley  had  put  out  another 
portion,  for  which  she  had  the  best  security 


and  interest  —  and  how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rawdon 
had  kindly  busied  themselves  with  Sir  Pitt, 
who  was  to  dispose  of  the  remainder  most 
advantageously  for  her,  when  he  had  time. 
My  lord  asked  how  much  the  colonel  had  al- 
ready invested  for  her,  and  Miss  Briggs  at  once 
and  truly  told  him  that  the  sum  was  six  hun- 
dred and  odd  pounds. 

But  as  soon  as  she  had  told  her  story,  the 
voluble  Briggs  repented  of  her  frankness,  and 
besought  my  lord  not  to  tell  Mr.  Crawley  of 
the  confessions  which  she  had  made.  "The 
colonel  was  so  kind  —  Mr.  Crawley  might 
be  offended  and  pay  back  the  money,  for  which 
she  could  get  no  such  good  interest  anywhere 
else."  Lord  Steyne,  laughing,  promised  he 
never  would  divulge  their  conversation,  and 
when  he  and  Miss  Briggs  parted  he  laughed 
still  more. 

"What  an  accomplished  little  devil  it  is!" 
thought  he.  "What  a  splendid  actress  and 
manager !  She  had  almost  got  a  second  supply 
out  of  me  the  other  day,  with  her  coaxing  ways. 
She  beats  all  the  women  I  have  ever  seen  in  the 
course  of  all  my  well  spent  life.  They  are 
babies  compared  to  her.  I  am  a  greenhorn 
myself,  and  a  fool  in  her  hands  —  an  old  fool. 
She  is  insurpassable  in  lies."  His  lordship's 
admiration  for  Becky  rose  immeasurably  at 
this  proof  of  her  cleverness.  Getting  the  money 
was  nothing  —  but  getting  double  the  sum  she 
wanted,  and  paying  nobody  —  it  was  a  magnifi- 
cent stroke.  And  Crawley,  my  lord  thought 
—  Crawley  is  not  such  a  fool  as  he  looks  and 
seems.  He  has  managed  the  matter  cleverly 
enough  on  his  side.  Nobody  would  ever  have 
supposed  from  his  face  and  demeanour  that 
he  knew  anything  about  this  money  business; 
and  yet  he  put  her  up  to  it,  and  has  spent  the 
money,  no  doubt.  In  this  opinion  my  lord,  we 
know,  was  mistaken;  but  it  influenced  a  good 
deal  his  behaviour  towards  Colonel  Crawley, 
whom  he  began  to  treat  with  even  less  than  that 
semblance  of  respect  which  he  had  formerly 
shown  towards  that  gentleman.  It  never  en- 
tered into  the  head  of  Mrs.  Crawley's  patron 
that  the  little  lady  might  be  making  a  purse  for 
herself;  and,  perhaps,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  he  judged  of  Colonel  Crawley  by  his 
experience  of  other  husbands  whom  he  had 
known  in  the  course  of  the  long  and  well  spent 
life  which  had  made  him  acquainted  with  a  great 
deal  of  the  weakness  of  mankind.  My  lord 
had  bought  so  many  men  during  his  life,  that 
he  was  surely  to  be  pardoned  for  supposing  that 
he  had  found  the  price  of  this  one. 


434 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


He  taxed  Becky  upon  the  point  on  the  very 
first  occasion  when  he  met  her  alone,  and  he 
complimented  her,  good-humouredly,  on  her 
cleverness  in  getting  more  than  the  money 
which  she  required.  Becky  was  only  a  little 
taken  aback.  It  was  not  the  habit  of  this  dear 
creature  to  tell  falsehoods,  except  when  necessity 
compelled,  but  in  these  great  emergencies  it 
was  her  practice  to  lie  very  freely;  and  in  an 
instant  she  was  ready  with  another  neat  plau- 
sible circumstantial  story  which  she  adminis- 
tered to  her  patron.  The  previous  statement 
which  she  had  made  to  him  was  a  falsehood  — ■ 
a  wicked  falsehood:  she  owned  it:  but  who 
had  made  her  tell  it?  "Ah,  my  lord,"  she  said, 
"you  don't  know  all  I  have  to  suffer  and  bear 
in  silence:  you  see  me  gay  and  happy  before 
you  —  you  little  know  what  I  have  to  endure 
when  there  is  no  protector  near  me.  It  was  my 
husband,  who,  by  threats  and  the  most  savage 
treatment,  forced  me  to  ask  for  that  sum  about 
which  I  deceived  you.  It  was  he,  who,  fore- 
seeing that  questions  might  be  asked  regarding 
the  disposal  of  the  money,  forced  me  to  account 
for  it  as  I  did.  He  took  the  money.  He  told 
me  he  had  paid  Miss  Briggs;  I  did  not  want, 
I  did  not  dare  to  doubt  him.  Pardon  the  wrong 
which  a  desperate  man  is  forced  to  commit, 
and  pity  a  miserable,  miserable  woman." 
She  burst  into  tears  as  she  spoke.  Persecuted 
virtue  never  looked  more  bewitchingly  wretched. 

They  had  a  long  conversation,  driving  round 
and  round  the  Regent's  Park  in  Mrs.  Crawley's 
carriage  together,  a  conversation  of  which  it 
is  not  necessary  to  repeat  the  details:  but  the 
upshot  of  it  was,  that,  when  Becky  came  home, 
she  flew  to  her  dear  Briggs  with  a  smiling  face, 
and  announced  that  she  had  some  very  good 
news  for  her.  Lord  Steyne  had  acted  in  the 
noblest  and  most  generous  manner.  He  was 
always  thinking  how  and  when  he  could  do 
good.  Now  that  little  Rawdon  was  gone  to 
school,  a  dear  companion  and  friend  was  no 
longer  necessary  to  her.  She  was  grieved 
beyond  measure  to  part  with  Briggs;  but  her 
means  required  that  she  should  practise  every 
retrenchment,  and  her  sorrow  was  mitigated 
by  the  idea  that  her  dear  Briggs  would  be  far 
better  provided  for  by  her  generous  patron  than 
in  her  humble  home.  Mrs.  Pilkington,  the 
housekeeper  at  Gauntly  Hall,  was  growing 
exceedingly  old,  feeble,  and  rheumatic:  she 
was  not  equal  to  the  work  of  superintending 
that  vast  mansion,  and  must  be  on  the  lookout 
for  a  successor.  It  was  a  splendid  position. 
The  family  did  not  go  to  Gauntly  once  in  two 


years.  At  other  times  the  housekeeper  was 
the  mistress  of  the  magnificent  mansion  —  had 
four  covers  daily  for  her  table;  was  visited  by 
the  clergy  and  the  most  respectable  people  of 
the  county  —  was  the  lady  of  Gauntly,  in  fact; 
and  the  two  last  housekeepers  before  Mrs. 
Pilkington  had  married  rectors  of  Gauntly: 
but  Mrs.  P.  could  not,  being  the  aunt  of  the 
present  rector.  The  place  was  not  to  be  hers 
yet ;  but  she  might  go  down  on  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Pilkington,  and  see  whether  she  would  like 
to  succeed  her. 

What  words  can  paint  the  ecstatic  gratitude 
of  Briggs !  All  she  stipulated  for  was  that  little 
Rawdon  should  be  allowed  to  come  down  and 
see  her  at  the  Hall.  Becky  promised  this  — 
anything.  She  ran  up  to  her  husband  when 
he  came  home,  and  told  him  the  joyful  news. 
Rawdon  was  glad,  deuced  glad;  the  weight 
was  off  his  conscience  about  poor  Briggs's 
money.  She  was  provided  for,  at  any  rate, 
but  —  but  his  mind  was  disquiet.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  all  right  somehow.  He  told  little 
Southdown  what  Lord  Steyne  had  done,  and 
the  young  man  eyed  Crawley  with  an  air  which 
surprised  the  latter. 

He  told  Lady  Jane  of  this  second  proof  of 
Steyne's  bounty,  and  she,  too,  looked  odd  and 
alarmed;  so  did  Sir  Pitt.  "She  is  too  clever 
and  —  and  gay,  to  be  allowed  to  go  from  party 
to  party  without  a  companion,"  both  said. 
"You  must  go  with  her,  Rawdon,  wherever  she 
goes,  and  you  mitst  have  somebody  with  her 
—  one  of  the  girls  from  Queen's  Crawley, 
perhaps,  though  they  were  rather  giddy  guar- 
dians for  her." 

Somebody  Becky  should  have.  But,  in  the 
meantime,  it  was  clear  that  honest  Briggs  must 
not  lose  her  chance  of  settlement  for  life;  and 
so  she  and  her  bags  were  packed,  and  she 
set  off  on  her  journey.  And  so  two  of  Raw- 
don's  out-sentinels  were  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy. 

Sir  Pitt  went  and  expostulated  with  his 
sister-in-law  upon  the  subject  of  the  dismissal 
of  Briggs,  and  other  matters  of  delicate  family 
interest.  In  vain  she  pointed  out  to  him  how 
necessary  was  the  protection  of  Lord  Steyne 
for  her  poor  husband;  how  cruel  it  would  be 
on  their  part  to  deprive  Briggs  of  the  position 
offered  to  her.  Cajolements,  coaxings,  smiles, 
tears  could  not  satisfy  Sir  Pitt,  and  he  had 
something  very  like  a  quarrel  with  his  once 
admired  Becky.  He  spoke  of  the  honour  of 
the  family;  the  unsullied  reputation  of  the 
Crawleys:      expressed    himself    in    indignant 


VANITY    FAIR 


435 


tones  about  her  receiving  those  young  French- 
men —  those  wild  young  men  of  fashion,  my 
Lord  Steyne  himself,  whose  carriage  was 
always  at  her  door,  who  passed  hours  daily 
in  her  company,  and  whose  constant  presence 
made  the  world  talk  about  her.  As  the  head  of 
the  house  he  implored  her  to  be  more  prudent. 
Society  was  already  speaking  lightly  of  her. 
Lord  Steyne,  though  a  nobleman  of  the  greatest 
station  and  talents,  was  a  man  whose  attentions 
would  compromise  any  woman;  he  besought, 
he  implored,  he  commanded  his  sister-in-law 
to  be  watchful  in  her  intercourse  with  that 
nobleman. 

Becky  promised  anything  and  everything 
that  Pitt  wanted;  but  Lord  Steyne  came  to 
her  house  as  often  as  ever,  and  Sir  Pitt's  anger 
increased.  I  wonder  was  Lady  Jane  angry  or 
pleased  that  her  husband  at  last  found  fault 
with  his  favourite  Rebecca?  Lord  Steyne's 
visits  continuing,  his  own  ceased;  and  his 
wife  was  for  refusing  all  further  intercourse 
with  that  nobleman,  and  declining  the  invi- 
tation to  the  Charade-night  which  the  mar- 
chioness sent  to  her;  but  Sir  Pitt  thought  it 
was  necessary  to  accept  it,  as  His  Royal  High- 
ness would  be  there. 

Although  he  went  to  the  party  in  question. 
Sir  Pitt  quitted  it  very  early,  and  his  wife,  too, 
was  very  glad  to  come  away.  Becky  hardly 
so  much  as  spoke  to  him  or  noticed  her  sister- 
in-law.  Pitt  Crawley  declared  her  behaviour 
was  monstrously  indecorous,  reprobated  in 
strong  terms  the  habit  of  play-acting  and 
fancy-dressing,  as  highly  unbecoming  a  Brit- 
ish female;  and  after  the  charades  were  over, 
took  his  brother  Rawdon  severely  to  task  for 
appearing  himself,  and  allowing  his  wife  to 
join  in  such  improper  exhibitions. 

Rawdon  said  she  should  not  join  in  any 
more  such  amusements;  but,  indeed,  and  per- 
haps from  hints  from  his  elder  brother  and 
sister,  he  had  already  become  a  very  watchful 
and  exemplary  domestic  character.  He  left 
of?  his  clubs  and  billiards.  He  never  left 
home.  He  took  Becky  out  to  drive:  he  went 
laboriously  with  her  to  all  her  parties.  When- 
ever my  Lord  Steyne  called,  he  was  sure  to  find 
the  colonel.  And  when  Becky  proposed  to  go 
out  without  her  husband,  or  received  invita- 
tions for  herself,  he  peremptorily  ordered  her 
to  refuse  them;  and  there  was  that  in  the 
gentleman's  manner  which  enforced  obedience. 
Little  Becky,  to  do  her  justice,  was  charmed 
with  Rawdon's  gallantry.  If  he  was  surly, 
she  never  was.     Whether  friends  were  present 


or  absent,  she  had  always  a  kind  smile  for 
him,  and  was  attentive  to  his  pleasure  and 
comfort.  It  was  the  early  days  of  their  mar- 
riage over  again:  the  same  good-humour, 
prevenances,  merriment,  and  artless  confidence 
and  regard.  "How  much  pleasantcr  it  is," 
she  would  say,  "to  have  you  by  my  side  in  the 
carriage  than  that  foolish  old  Briggs!  Let  us 
always  go  on  so,  dear  Rawdon.  How  nice  it 
would  be,  and  how  happy  we  should  always 
be,  if  we  had  but  the  money!"  He  fell  asleep 
after  dinner  in  his  chair;  he  did  not  see  the 
face  opposite  to  him,  haggard,  weary,  and  ter- 
rible; it  lighted  up  with  fresh  candid  smiles 
when  he  woke.  It  kissed  him  gailv.  He 
wondered  that  he  had  ever  had  suspicions. 
No,  he  never  had  suspicions;  all  those  dumb 
doubts  and  surly  misgivings  which  had  been 
gathering  on  his  mind  were  mere  idle  jealousies. 
She  was  fond  of  him;  she  always  had  been. 
As  for  her  shining  in  society,  it  was  no  fault 
of  hers;  she  was  formed  to  shine  there.  Was 
there  any  woman  who  could  talk,  or  sing,  or 
do  anything  like  her?  If  she  would  but  like 
the  boy!  Rawdon  thought.  But  the  mother 
and  son  never  could  be  brought  together. 

And  it  was  while  Rawdon's  mind  was  agi- 
tated with  these  doubts  and  perj)lexities  that 
the  incident  occurred  which  was  mentioned  in 
the  last  chapter;  and  the  unfortunate  colonel 
found  himself  a  prisoner  away  from  home. 

CH.A.PTER   XIII 
A  Rescite  and  a  Catastrophe 

Friend  Rawdon  drove  on  then  to  Mr.  Moss's 
mansion  in  Cursitor  Street,  and  was  duly  in- 
ducted into  that  dismal  place  of  hospitality. 
Morning  was  breaking  over  the  cheerful  house- 
tops of  Chancery  Lane  as  the  rattling  cab  woke 
up  the  echoes  there.  A  little  pink-eyed  Jew- 
boy,  witli  a  head  as  ruddy  as  the  rising  morn, 
let  the  party  into  the  house,  and  Rawdon  was 
welcomed  to  the  ground-floor  apartments  by 
Mr.  Moss,  his  travelling  companion  and  host, 
who  cheerfully  asked  him  if  he  would  like  a 
glass  of  something  warm  after  his  drive. 

The  colonel  was  not  so  depressed  as  some 
mortals  would  be,  who,  quitting  a  palace  and 
a  placens  uxor,  find  themselves  l)arred  into  a 
sponging-house,  for,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
he  had  been  a  lodger  at  Mr.  Moss's  estab- 
lishment once  or  twice  before.  We  have  not 
thouglit  it  necessary  in  the  previous  course 
of  this  narrative  to  mention  these  trivial  little 


436 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


domestic  incidents:  but  the  reader  may  be 
assured  that  they  can't  unfrequently  occur  in 
the  life  of  a  man  who  lives  on  nothing  a  year. 

Upon  his  first  visit  to  Mr.  Moss,  the  colonel, 
then  a  bachelor,  had  been  liberated  by  the 
generosity  of  his  aunt:  on  the  second  mishap, 
little  Becky,  with  the  greatest  spirit  and  kind- 
ness, had  borrowed  a  sum  of  money  from  Lord 
Southdown,  and  had  coaxed  her  husband's 
creditor  (who  was  her  shawl,  velvet-gown,  lace 
pocket-handkerchief,  trinket,  and  gimcrack 
purveyor,  indeed)  to  take  a  portion  of  the 
sum  claimed,  and  Rawdon's  promissory  note 
for  the  remainder:  so  on  both  these  occasions 
the  capture  and  release  had  been  conducted 
with  the  utmost  gallantrj'  on  all  sides,  and 
Moss  and  the  colonel  were  therefore  on  the 
verj'  best  of  terms. 

"You'll  find  your  old  bed,  colonel,  and 
ever>'thing  comfortable,"  that  gentleman  said, 
"as  I  may  honestly  say.  You  may  be  pretty 
sure  it's  kep  aired,  and  by  the  best  of  com- 
pany, too.  It  was  slep  in  the  night  afore  last 
by  the  Honourable  Capting  Famish,  of  the 
Fiftieth  Dragoons,  whose  mar  took  him  out, 
after  a  fortnight,  jest  to  punish  him,  she  said. 
But,  Law  bless  you,  I  promise  you,  he  punished 
my  champagne,  and  had  a  party  ere  every  night 
—  reglar  tip-top  swells,  down  from  the  clubs 
and  the  West  End  —  Captain  Ragg,  the  Hon- 
ourable Deuceace,  who  lives  in  the  Temple, 
and  some  fellers  as  knows  a  good  glass  of  wine, 
I  warrant  you.  I've  got  a  Doctor  of  Diwinity 
upstairs,  five  gents  in  the  coffee-room,  and 
Mrs.  Moss  has  a  tably-dy-hoty  at  half-past 
five,  and  a  little  cards  or  music  afterwards, 
when  we  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you." 

"I'll  ring  when  I  want  anjthing,"  said 
Rawdon,  and  went  quietly  to  his  bedroom. 
He  was  an  old  soldier,  we  have  said,  and  not 
to  be  disturbed  by  any  little  shocks  of  fate. 
A  weaker  man  would  have  sent  off  a  letter  to 
his  wife  on  the  instant  of  his  capture.  "But 
what  is  the  use  of  disturbing  her  night's  rest?" 
thought  Rawdon.  "She  won't  know  whether 
I  am  in  my  room  or  not.  It  will  be  time 
enough  to  write  to  her  when  she  has  had  her 
sleep  out,  and  I  have  had  mine.  It's  only  a 
hundred  and  seventy,  and  the  deuce  is  in  it  if 
we  can't  raise  that."  And  so,  thinking  about 
little  Rawdon  (whom  he  would  not  have  know- 
that  he  was  in  such  a  queer  place),  the  colonel 
turned  into  the  bed  lately  occupied  by  Captain 
Famish,  and  fell  asleep.  It  was  ten  o'clock 
when  he  woke  up,  and  the  ruddy-headed 
youth  brought  him,  with  conscious  pride,  a 


fine  silver  dressing-case,  wherewith  he  might 
perform  the  operation  of  shaving.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Moss's  house,  though  somewhat  dirty, 
was  splendid  throughout.  There  were  dirty 
trays,  and  wine-coolers  en  permanence  on  the 
sideboard,  huge  dirty  gilt  cornices,  with  dingy 
yellow  satin  hangings  to  the  barred  windows 
which  looked  into  Cursitor  Street  —  vast  and 
dirty  gilt  picture-frames  surrounding  pieces 
sporting  and  sacred,  all  of  which  works  were 
by  the  greatest  masters;  and  fetched  the 
greatest  prices,  too,  in  the  bill  transactions,  in 
the  course  of  which  they  were  sold  and  bought 
over  and  over  again.  The  colonel's  breakfast 
was  served  to  him  in  the  same  dingy  and 
gorgeous  plated  ware.  Miss  Moss,  a  dark- 
eyed  maid  in  curl-papers,  appeared  with  the 
teapot,  and,  smiling,  asked  the  colonel  how 
he  had  slep?  and  she  brought  him  in  the 
Morning  Post,  with  the  names  of  all  the  great 
people  who  had  figured  at  Lord  Steyne's 
entertainment  the  night  before.  It  contained 
a  brilliant  account  of  the  festivities,  and  of 
the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Mrs.  Rawdon 
Crawley's  admirable  personifications. 

After  a  lively  chat  with  this  lady  (who  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  breakfast-table  in  an  easy 
attitude,  displaying  the  drapery  of  her  stock- 
ing and  an  ex-white  satin  shoe,  which  was 
down  at  heel),  Colonel  Crawley  called  for  pens 
and  ink  and  paper;  and  being  asked  how 
many  sheets,  chose  one,  which  was  brought 
to  him  between  Miss  Moss's  own  finger  and 
thumb.  Many  a  sheet  had  that  dark-eyed 
damsel  brought  in;  many  a  poor  fellow  had 
scrawled  and  blotted  hurried  lines  of  entreaty, 
and  paced  up  and  down  that  awful  room  until 
his  messenger  brought  back  the  reply.  Poor 
men  always  use  messengers  instead  of  the  post. 
Who  has  not  had  their  letters,  with  the  wafers 
wet,  and  the  announcement  that  a  person  is 
waiting  in  the  hall? 

Now,  on  the  score  of  his  application,  Rawdon 
had  not  many  misgivings. 

"Dear  Becky,"  (Rawdon  wrote):  — 

"/  hope  you  slept  well.  Don't  he.  frightened 
if  I  don't  bring  in  your  coffy.  Last  night  as  I 
was  coming  home  smoaking,  I  met  with  an 
accadent.  I  was  nabbed  by  ]Moss  of  Cursitor 
Street  —  from  whose  gilt  and  splendid  parler  I 
write  this  —  the  same  that  had  me  this  time 
two  years.  Miss  Moss  brought  in  my  tea  — 
she  is  grown  very  fat,  and,  as  usual,  had  her 
stockens  down  at  heal. 

"It's  Nathan's  business  —  a  hundred-and- 


VANITY    FAIR 


437 


fifty  —  with  costs,  hundred-and-seventy. 
Please  send  me  my  desk  and  some  cloths  — • 
I'm  in  pumps  and  a  white  tye  (something  Hke 
Miss  M.'s  stockings)  —  I've  seventy  in  it. 
And  as  soon  as  you  get  this,  Drive  to  Nathan's 
—  oiJer  him  seventy-five  down,  and  ask  him 
to  renew  —  say  I'll  take  wine  —  we  may  as 
well  have  some  dinner  sherry;  but  not  picturs, 
they're  too  dear. 

"If  he  won't  stand  it.  Take  my  ticker  and 
such  of  your  things  as  you  can  spare,  and 
send  them  to  Balls  —  we  must,  of  coarse,  have 
the  sum  to-night.  It  won't  do  to  let  it  stand 
over,  as  to-morrow's  Sunday;  the  beds  here 
are  not  very  clean,  and  there  may  be  other 
things  out  against  me  —  I'm  glad  it  ain't 
Rawdon's  Saturday  for  coming  home.  God 
bless  you. 

"  Yours  in  haste, 

"R.  C. 

"P.S.     Make  haste  and  come." 

This  letter,  sealed  with  a  wafer,  was  de- 
spatched by  one  of  the  messengers  who  are 
always  hanging  about  Mr.  Moss's  establish- 
ment; and  Rawdon,  having  seen  him  depart, 
went  out  in  the  court-yard,  and  smoked  his 
cigar  with  a  tolerably  easy  mind  —  in  spite  of 
the  bars  overhead;  for  Air.  Moss's  court-yard 
is  railed  in  like  a  cage,  lest  the  gentlemen  who 
are  boarding  with  him  should  take  a  fancy  to 
escape  from  his  hospitality. 

Three  hours,  he  calculated,  would  be  the 
utmost  time  required,  before  Becky  should 
arrive  and  open  his  prison  doors:  and  he 
passed  these  pretty  cheerfully  in  smoking,  in 
reading  the  paper,  and  in  the  coffee-room  with 
an  acquaintance.  Captain  Walker,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  there,  and  with  whom  he  cut  for 
sixpences  for  some  hours,  with  pretty  equal 
luck  on  either  side. 

But  the  day  passed  away  and  no  messenger 
returned,  —  no  Becky.  Mr.  Moss's  tably-dy- 
hoty  was  served  at  the  appointed  hour  of  half- 
past  five,  when  such  of  the  gentlemen  lodging 
in  the  house  as  could  afford  to  pay  for  the 
banquet,  came  and  partook  of  it  in  the  splendid 
front  parlour  before  described,  and  with  which 
Mr.  Crawley's  temporary  lodging  communi- 
cated, when  Miss  M.  (Miss  Hem,  as  her  papa 
called  her)  appeared  without  the  curl-papers  of 
the  morning,  and  Mrs.  Hem  did  the  honours 
of  a  prime  boiled  leg  of  mutton  and  turnips, 
of  which  the  colonel  ate  with  a  very  faint 
appetite.  Asked  whether  he  would  "stand" 
a  bottle  of  champagne  for  the  company,  he 


consented,  and  the  ladies  drank  to  his  'ealih, 
and  Mr.  Moss,  in  the  most  polite  manner, 
"looked  towards  him." 

In  the  midst  of  this  repast,  however,  the 
door-bell  was  heard,  —  young  Moss  of  the 
ruddy  hair  rose  up  with  the  keys  and  answered 
the  summons,  and,  coming  back,  told  the  colo- 
nel that  the  messenger  had  returned  with  a 
bag,  a  desk,  and  a  letter,  which  he  gave  him. 
"No  ccramony,  colonel,  I  beg,"  said  Mrs. 
Moss  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  and  he  opened 
the  letter  rather  tremulously.  —  It  was  a 
beautiful  letter,  highly  scented,  on  a  pink 
paper,  and  with  a  light-green  seal. 

"Mon    pauvre    cher    petit,"    (Mrs     Crawley 
wrote)  — 

"I  could  not  sleep  one  wink  for  thinking  of 
what  had  become  of  my  odious  old  tnonslre: 
and  only  got  to  rest  in  the  morning  after  send- 
ing for  Mr.  Blench  (for  I  was  in  a  fever),  who 
gave  me  a  composing  draught  and  left  orders 
with  Finette  that  I  should  be  distur])ed  on  no 
account.  So  that  my  poor  old  man's  messenger, 
who  had  bien  mauvaise  mine,  Finette  says,  and 
sentoit  le  Genicvre  remained  in  the  hall  for 
some  hours  waiting  my  bell.  You  may  fancy 
my  state  when  I  read  your  poor  dear  old  ill- 
spelt  letter. 

"Ill  as  I  was,  I  instantly  called  for  the 
carriage,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed  (though 
I  couldn't  drink  a  drop  of  chocolate  —  I  assure 
you  I  couldn't  without  my  monstre  to  bring  it 
to  me),  I  drove  ventre  a  terre  to  Nathan's.  I 
saw  him  —  I  wept  —  I  cried  —  I  fell  at  his 
odious  knees.  Nothing  would  mollify  the 
horrid  man.  He  would  have  all  the  money, 
he  said,  or  keep  my  poor  monstre  in  prison. 
I  drove  home  with  the  intention  of  paying  that 
triste  vlsite  chcz  mon  onclc  (when  every  trinket 
I  have  should  be  at  your  disposal  though  they 
would  not  fetch  a  hundred  pounds,  for  some, 
you  know,  are  with  ce  cher  oncle  already),  and 
found  Milor  there  with  the  Bulgarian  old 
sheep-faced  monster,  who  had  come  to  com- 
pliment me  upon  last  night's  performances. 
Paddington  came  in,  too,  drawling  and  lisping 
and  twiddling  his  hair;  so  did  Champignac, 
and  his  chef  —  everybody  with  foison  of  com- 
pliments and  pretty  speeches  —  plaguing  poor 
me,  who  longed  to  be  rid  of  them,  and  was 
thinking  every  moment  of  the  time  of  mon  pauvre 
prisonnier. 

"When  they  were  gone,  I  went  down  on  my 
knees  to  Milor;  told  him  we  were  going  to 
pawn  everything,  and  begged  and  prayed  him 


438 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


to  give  me  two  hundred  pounds.  He  pish'd 
and  psha'd  in  a  fury  —  told  me  not  to  be  such 
a  fool  as  to  pawn  —  and  said  he  would  see 
whether  he  could  lend  me  the  money.  At  last 
he  went  away,  promising  that  he  would  send 
it  me  in  the  morning:  when  I  will  bring  it  to 
my  poor  old  monster  with  a  kiss  from  his 
affectionate 

"Becky. 
"I  am  writing  in  bed.     Oh,  I  have  such  a 
headache  and  such  a  heartache!" 

When  Rawdon  read  over  this  letter,  he 
turned  so  red  and  looked  so  savage,  that  the 
company  at  the  table-d'hote  easily  perceived 
that  bad  news  had  reached  him.  All  his  sus- 
picions, which  he  had  been  trying  to  banish, 
returned  upon  him.  She  could  not  even  go  out 
and  sell  her  trinkets  to  free  him.  She  could 
laugh  and  talk  about  compliments  paid  to  her, 
whilst  he  was  in  prison.  Who  had  put  him 
there?  Wenham  had  walked  with  him. 
Was  there  ...  He  could  hardly  bear  to 
think  of  what  he  suspected.  Leaving  the  room 
hurriedly,  he  ran  into  his  own  —  opened  his 
desk,  wrote  two  hurried  lines,  which  he  directed 
to  Sir  Pitt  or  Lady  Crawley,  and  bade  the 
messenger  carry  them  at  once  to  Gaunt  Street, 
bidding  him  to  take  a  cab,  and  promising  him 
a  guinea  if  he  was  back  in  an  hour. 

In  the  note  he  besought  his  dear  brother 
and  sister,  for  the  sake  of  God;  for  the  sake 
of  his  dear  child  and  his  honour;  to  come  to 
him  and  relieve  him  from  his  difficulty.  He 
was  in  prison:  he  wanted  a  hundred  pounds 
to  set  him  fr^e  —  he  entreated  them  to  come 
to  him. 

He  went  back  to  the  dining-room  after  de- 
spatching his  messenger,  and  called  for  more 
wine.  He  laughed  and  talked  with  a  strange 
boisterousness,  as  the  people  thought.  Some- 
times he  laughed  madly  at  his  own  fears,  and 
went  on  drinking  for  an  hour;  listening  all 
the  while  for  the  carriage  which  was  to  bring 
his  fate  back. 

At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  wheels  were 
heard  whirling  up  to  the  gate  —  the  young 
janitor  went  out  with  his  gate-keys.  It  was  a 
lady  whom  he  let  in  at  the  bailiff's  door. 

"Colonel  Crawley,"  she  said,  trembling  very 
much.  He,  with  a  knowing  look,  locked  the 
outer  door  upon  her  —  then  unlocked  and 
opened  the  inner  one,  and  calling  out,  "  Colonel, 
you're  wanted,"  led  her  into  the  back  parlour, 
which  he  occupied. 

Rawdon  came  in  from  the  dining-parlour 


where  all  those  people  were  carousing,  into  his 
back  room;  a  flare  of  coarse  light  following 
him  into  the  apartment  where  the  lady  stood, 
still  very  nervous. 

"It  is  I,  Rawdon,"  she  said,  in  a  timid 
voice,  which  she  strove  to  render  cheerful. 
"It  is  Jane."  Rawdon  was  quite  overcome  by 
that  kind  voice  and  presence.  He  ran  up  to 
her  —  caught  her  in  his  arms  —  gasped  out 
some  inarticulate  words  of  thanks,  and  fairly 
sobbed  on  her  shoulder.  She  did  not  know 
the  cause  of  his  emotion. 

The  bills  of  Mr.  Moss  were  quickly  settled, 
perhaps  to  the  disappointment  of  that  gentle- 
man, who  had  counted  on  having  the  colonel 
as  his  guest  over  Sunday  at  least;  and  Jane, 
with  beaming  smiles  and  happiness  in  her 
eyes,  carried  away  Rawdon  from  the  bailiff's 
house,  and  they  went  homewards  in  the  cab 
in  which  she  had  hastened  to  his  release. 
"Pitt  was  gone  to  a  Parliamentary  dinner," 
she  said,  "when  Rawdon's  note  came,  and  so, 
dear  Rawdon,  I  —  I  came  myself;"  and  she 
put  her  kind  hand  in  his.  Perhaps  it  was 
well  for  Rawdon  Crawley  that  Pitt  was  away 
at  that  dinner.  Rawdon  thanked  his  sister  a 
hundred  times,  and  with  an  ardour  of  grati- 
tude which  touched  and  almost  alarmed  that 
soft-hearted  woman.  "Oh,"  said  he  in  his 
rude,  artless  way,  "you  —  you  don't  know  how 
I'm  changed  since  I've  known  you,  and  —  and 
little  Rawdy.  I  —  I'd  like  to  change  some- 
how. You  see  I  want  —  I  want  to  be — " 
He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  she  could 
interpret  it.  And  that  night  after  he  left  her, 
and  as  she  sat  by  her  own  little  boy's  bed,  she 
prayed  humbly  for  that  poor  wayworn  sinner. 

Rawdon  left  her  and  walked  home  rapidly. 
It  was  nine  o'clock  at  night.  He  ran  across 
the  streets,  and  the  great  squares  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  at  length  came  up  breathless  oppo- 
site his  own  house.  He  started  back  and  fell 
against  the  railings,  trembling  as  he  looked 
up.  The  drawing-room  windows  were  blazing 
with  light.  She  had  said  that  she  was  in  bed 
and  ill.  He  stood  there  for  some  time,  the 
light  from  the  rooms  on  his  pale  face.  _ 

He  took  out  his  door-key  and  let  himself  U 
into  the  house.  He  could  hear  laughter  in  the  ■ 
upper  rooms.  He  was  in  the  ball-dress  in 
which  he  had  been  captured  the  night  before. 
He  went  silently  up  the  stairs;  leaning  against 
the  banisters  at  the  stair-head.  —  Nobody  was 
stirring  in  the  house  besides  —  all  the  servants 
had  been  sent  away.     Rawdon  heard  laughter 


VANITY    FAIR 


439 


within  —  laughter  and  singing.  Becky  was 
singing  a  snatch  of  the  song  of  the  night  before ; 
a  hoarse  voice  shouted  "Brava!  Brava!"  — 
it  was  Lord  Steyne's. 

Rawdon  opened  the  door  and  went  In.  A 
little  table  with  a  dinner  was  laid  out  —  and 
wine  and  plate.  Steyne  was  hanging  over  the 
sofa  on  which  Becky  sat.  The  wretched 
woman  was  in  a  brilliant  full  toilet,  her  arms 
and  all  her  fingers  sparkling  with  bracelets  and 
rings:  and  the  brilliants  on  her  breast  which 
Steyne  had  given  her.  He  had  her  hand  in 
his,  and  was  bowing  over  it  to  kiss  it,  when 
Becky  started  up  with  a  faint  scream  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Rawdon's  white  face.  At  the 
ne.xt  instant  she  tried  a  smile,  a  horrid  smile, 
as  if  to  welcome  her  husband:  and  Steyne 
rose  up,  grinding  his  teeth,  pale,  and  with  fury 
in  his  looks. 

He,  too,  attempted  a  laugh  —  and  came 
forward  holding  out  his  hand.  "What,  come 
back!  How  d'ye  do,  Crawley?"  he  said,  the 
nerves  of  his  mouth  twitching  as  he  tried  to 
grin  at  the  intruder. 

There  was  that  in  Rawdon's  face  which 
caused  Becky  to  fling  herself  before  him.  "I 
am  innocent,  Rawdon,"  she  said;  "before 
God,  I  am  innocent."  She  clung  hold  of  his 
coat,  of  his  hands;  her  own  were  all  covered 
with  serpents,  and  rings,  and  bawbles.  "I 
am  innocent.  — ■  Say  I  am  innocent,"  she  said 
to  Lord  Steyne. 

He  thought  a  trap  had  been  laid  for  him, 
and  was  as  furious  with  the  wife  as  with  the 
husband.  "You  innocent!  Damn  you,"  he 
screamed  out.  "You  innocent!  Why,  every 
trinket  you  have  on  your  body  is  paid  for  by 
me.  I  have  given  you  thousands  of  pounds 
which  this  fellow  has  spent,  and  for  which  he 
has  sold  you.  Innocent,  by  — !  You're  as 
innocent  as  your  mother,  the  ballet-girl,  and 
your  husband,  the  bully.  Don't  think  to 
frighten  me  as  you  have  done  others.  Make 
way,  sir,  and  let  me  pass;"  and  Lord  Steyne 
seized  up  his  hat,  and,  with  flame  in  his  eyes, 
and  looking  his  enemy  fiercely  in  the  face, 
marched  upon  him,  never  for  a  moment  doubt- 
ing that  the  other  would  give  way. 

But  Rawdon  Crawley,  springing  out,  seized 
him  by  the  neck-cloth,  until  Steyne,  almost 
strangled,  writhed,  and  bent  under  his  arm. 
"You  lie,  you  dog!"  said  Rawdon.  "You 
lie,  you  coward  and  villain!"  And  he  struck 
the  peer  twice  over  the  face  with  his  open 
hand,  and  flung  him  bleeding  to  the  ground. 
It  was  all  done  before  Rebecca  could  interpose. 


She  stood  there  trembling  before  him.  She 
admired  her  husband,  strong,  brave,  and  vic- 
torious. 

"Come  here,"  he  said.  —  She  came  up  at 
once. 

"Take  off  those  things."  —  She  began, 
trembling,  pulling  the  jewels  from  her  arms, 
and  the  rings  from  her  shaking  fingers,  and 
held  them  all  in  a  heap,  quivering  and  looking 
up  at  him.  "Throw  them  down,"  he  said, 
and  she  dropped  them.  He  tore  the  diamond 
ornament  out  of  her  breast,  and  flung  it  at 
Lord  Steyne.  It  cut  him  on  his  bald  fore- 
head.    Steyne  wore  the  scar  to  his  dying  day. 

"Come  up  stairs,"  Rawdon  said  to  his  wife. 
"Don't  kill  me,  Rawdon,"  she  said.  He 
laughed  savagely.  —  "I  want  to  see  if  that 
man  lies  about  the  money  as  he  has  about  me. 
Has  he  given  you  any?" 

"No,"  said  Rebecca,  "that  is — " 

"Give  me  your  keys,"  Rawdon  answered, 
and  they  went  out  together. 

Rebecca  gave  him  all  the  keys  but  one; 
and  she  was  in  hopes  that  he  would  not  have 
remarked  the  absence  of  that.  It  belonged  to 
the  little  desk  which  Amelia  had  given  her  in 
early  days,  and  which  she  kept  in  a  secret 
place.  But  Rawdon  flung  open  bo.xes  and 
wardrobes,  throwing  the  multifarious  trumpery 
of  their  contents  here  and  there,  and  at  last 
he  found  the  desk.  The  woman  was  forced 
to  open  it.  It  contained  papers,  love-letters 
many  years  old  —  all  sorts  of  small  trinkets 
and  woman's  memoranda.  And  it  contained 
a  pocket-book  with  bank-notes.  Some  of 
these  were  dated  ten  years  back,  too,  and  one 
was  quite  a  fresh  one  —  a  note  for  a  thousand 
pounds  which  Lord  Steyne  had  given  her. 

"Did  he  give  you  this?"   Rawdon  said. 

"Yes,"  Rebecca  answered. 

"I'll  send  it  to  him  to-day,"  Rawdon  said 
(for  day  had  dawned  again,  and  many  hours 
had  passed  in  this  search),  "and  I  will  pay 
Briggs,  who  was  kind  to  the  boy,  and  some 
of  the  debts.  You  will  let  me  know  where  I 
shall  send  the  rest  to  you.  You  might  have 
spared  me  a  hundred  pounds,  Becky,  out  of 
all  this  —  I  have  always  shared  with  you." 

"I  am  innocent,"  said  Becky.  And  he  left 
her  without  another  word. 

What  were  her  thoughts  when  he  left  her? 
She  remained  for  hours  after  he  was  gone,  the 
sunshine  ]x)uring  into  the  room,  and  Rebecca 
sitting  alone  on  the  bed's  edge.  The  drawers 
were  all  opened  and  their  contents  scattered 


440 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


about,  —  dresses  and  feathers,  scarfs  and 
trinkets,  a  heap  of  tumbled  vanities  lying  in  a 
wreck.  Her  hair  was  falling  over  her  shoulders ; 
her  gown  was  torn  where  Rawdon  had  wrenched 
the  brilliants  out  of  it.  She  heard  him  go 
down  stairs  a  few  minutes  after  he  left  her, 
and  the  door  slamming  and  closing  on  him. 
She  knew  he  would  never  come  back.  He 
was  gone  forever.  Would  he  kill  himself?  — 
she  thought  —  not  until  after  he  had  met 
Lord  Steyne.  She  thought  of  her  long  past 
life,  and  all  the  dismal  incidents  of  it.  Ah, 
how  dreary  it  seemed,  how  miserable,  lonely, 
and  profitless!  Should  she  take  laudanum, 
and  end  it,  too  —  have  done  with  all  hopes, 
schemes,  debts,  and  triumphs?  The  French 
maid  found  her  in  this  position  —  sitting  in 
the  midst  of  her  miserable  ruins  with  clasped 
hands  and  dry  eyes.  The  woman  was  her 
accomplice  and  in  Steyne's  pay.  "Mon  Dieu, 
madame,  what  has  happened?"    she  asked. 

What  had  happened?  Was  she  guilty  or 
not?  She  said  not;  but  who  could  tell  what 
was  truth  which  came  from  those  lips;  or  if 
that  corrupt  heart  was  in  this  case  pure?  All 
her  lies  and  her  schemes,  all  her  selfishness  and 
her  wiles,  all  her  wit  and  genius  had  come  to 
this  bankruptcy.  The  woman  closed  the  cur- 
tains, and  with  some  entreaty  and  show  of 
kindness,  persuaded  her  mistress  to  lie  down 
on  the  bed.  Then  she  went  below  and  gathered 
up  the  trinkets  which  had  been  lying  on  the 
floor  since  Rebecca  dropped  them  there  at  her 
husband's  orders,  and  Lord  Steyne  went  away. 


CHARLES   DICKENS   (1812-1870) 
A   CHILD'S   DREAM    OF   A   STAR 

There  was  once  a  child,  and  he  strolled 
about  a  good  deal,  and  thought  of  a  number 
of  things.  He  had  a  sister,  who  was  a  child, 
too,  and  his  constant  companion.  These  two 
used  to  wonder  all  day  long.  They  wondered 
at  the  beauty  of  the  flowers;  they  wondered 
at  the  height  and  blueness  of  the  sky;  they 
wondered  at  the  depth  of  the  bright  water; 
they  wondered  at  the  goodness  and  the  power 
of  God  who  made  the  lovely  world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another  sometimes, 
supposing  all  the  children  upon  earth  were  to 
die,  would  the  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the 
sky  be  sorry?  They  believed  thev  would  be 
sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds  are  the  chil- 
dren   of    the    flowers,    and    the    little    playful 


streams  that  gambol  down  the  hillsides  are  the 
children  of  the  water;  and  the  smallest  bright 
specks  playing  at  hide-and-seek  in  the  sky  all 
night,  must  surely  be  the  children  of  the  stars; 
and  they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see  their 
playmates,  the  children  of  men,  no  more. 

There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that  used 
to  come  out  in  the  sky  before  the  rest,  near 
the  church  spire,  above  the  graves.  It  was 
larger  and  more  beautiful,  they  thought,  than 
all  others,  and  every  night  they  watched  for  it, 
standing  hand  in  hand  at  the  window.  Who- 
ever saw  it  first,  cried  out,  "I  see  the  star!" 
And  often  they  cried  out  both  together,  know- 
ing so  well  when  it  would  rise,  and  where.  So 
they  grew  to  be  such  friends  with  it,  that 
before  lying  down  in  their  beds,  they  always 
looked  out  once  again,  to  bid  it  good  night; 
and  when  they  were  turning  around  to  sleep, 
they  used  to  say,  "God  bless  the  star!" 

But  while  she  was  very  young,  oh,  very, 
very  young,  the  sister  drooped,  and  came  to 
be  so  weak  that  she  could  no  longer  stand 
in  the  window  at  night;  and  then  the  child 
looked  sadly  out  by  himself,  and  when  he  saw 
the  star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient, 
pale  face  on  the  bed,  "I  see  the  star!"  and 
then  a  smile  would  come  upon  the  face,  and  a 
little  weak  voice  used  to  say,  "God  bless  my 
brother  and  the  star!" 

And  so  the  time  came,  all  too  soon !  when 
the  child  looked  out  alone,  and  when  there 
was  no  face  on  the  bed;  and  when  there  was  a 
little  grave  among  the  graves,  not  there  before: 
and  when  the  star  made  long  rays  down  tow- 
ard him,  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears. 

Now,  these  rays  were  so  bright,  and  they 
seemed  to  make  such  a  shining  way  from  earth 
to  heaven,  that  when  the  child  went  to  his 
solitary  bed,  he  dreamed  about  the  star;  and 
dreamed  that,  lying  where  he  was,  he  saw  a 
train  of  people  taken  up  that  sparkling  road 
by  angels.  And  the  star,  opening,  showed 
him  a  great  world  of  light,  where  many  more 
such  angels  waited  to  receive  them. 

All  these  angels  who  were  waiting  turned 
their  beaming  eyes  upon  the  people  who  were 
carried  up  into  the  star;  and  some  came  out 
from  the  long  rows  in  which  they  stood,  and 
fell  upon  the  people's  necks,  and  kissed  them 
tenderly,  and  went  away  with  them  down 
avenues  of  light,  and  were  so  happy  in  their 
company,  that  lying  in  his  bed  he  wept  for  joy. 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go 
with  them,  and  among  them  one  he  knew. 
The  patient  face  that  once  had  lain  upon  the 


OUR    MUTUAL    FRIEND 


441 


bed  was  glorified  and  radiant,  but  his  heart 
found  out  his  sister  among  all  the  host. 

His  sister's  angel  lingered  near  the  entrance 
of  the  star,  and  said  to  the  leader  among  those 
who  had  brought  the  people  thither:  — 

"Is  my  brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "No." 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the 
child  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  cried,  "O 
sister,  I  am  here!  Take  me!"  And  then  she 
turned  her  beaming  eyes  upon  him  and  it  was 
night;  and  the  star  was  shining  into  the  room, 
making  long  rays  down  toward  him  as  he  saw 
it  through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth  the  child  looked  out 
upon  the  star  as  on  the  home  he  was  to  go  to, 
when  his  time  should  come;  and  he  thought 
that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  earth  alone,  but 
to  the  star,  too,  because  of  his  sister's  angel 
gone  before. 

There  was  a  baby  born  to  be  a  brother  to 
the  child;  and  while  he  was  so  little  that  he 
never  yet  had  spoken  word,  he  stretched  his 
tiny  form  out  on  his  bed  and  died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star, 
and  of  the  company  of  angels,  and  the  train 
of  people,  and  the  rows  of  angels  with  their 
beaming  eyes  all  turned  upon  those  people's 
faces. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader:  — 

"Is  my  brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "Not  that  one,  but  another." 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother's  angel  in 
her  arms,  he  cried:  "O  sister,  I  am  here! 
Take  me!"  And  she  turned  and  smiled  upon 
him,  and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  young  man,  and  was  busy 
at  his  books,  when  an  old  servant  came  to 
him  and  said:  — 

"Thy  mother  is  no  more.  I  bring  her 
blessing  on  her  darling  son!" 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that 
former  company.  Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the 
leader:  — 

"Is  my  brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "Thy  mother!" 

A  mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all 
the  star,  because  the  mother  was  reunited  to 
her  two  children.  And  he  stretched  out  his 
arms  and  cried:  "O  mother,  sister,  and 
brother,  I  am  here!  Take  me!"  And  they 
answered  him,  "Not  yet."  And  the  star  was 
shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  man  whose  hair  was  turn- 
ing gray,  and  he  was  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the 
fireside,  heavy  with  grief,  and  with    his   face 


bedewed  with  tears,  when  the  star  opened  once 
again. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "Is  my 
brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter." 

And  the  man  who  had  been  the  child  saw 
his  daughter,  newly  lost  to  him,  a  celestial 
creature  among  those  three,  and  he  said, 
"My  daughter's  head  is  on  my  sister's  bosom, 
and  her  arm  is  round  my  mother's  neck,  and 
at  her  feet  there  is  the  baby  of  old  time,  and  I 
can  bear  the  parting  from  her,  God  be  praised  1 " 

And  the  star  was  shining. 

Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old  man,  and 
his  once  smooth  face  was  wrinkled,  and  his 
steps  were  slow  and  feeble,  and  his  back  was 
bent.  And  one  night  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed, 
his  children  standing  round,  he  cried,  as  he 
had  cried  so  long  ago :  — 

"I  see  the  star!" 

They  whispered  one  another,  "He  is  dying." 

And  he  said:  "I  am.  My  age  is  falling 
from  me  like  a  garment,  and  I  move  toward 
the  star  as  a  child.  And,  O  my  Father,  now  I 
thank  thee  that  it  has  so  often  opened  to  receive 
those  dear  ones  who  await  me!" 

And  the  star  was  shining;  and  it  shines 
upon  his  grave. 

OUR   MUTUAL   FRIEND 

CHAPTER   V 

Boffin's  Bower 

Over  against  a  London  house,  a  corner 
house  not  far  from  Cavendish  Square,  a  man 
with  a  wooden  leg  had  sat  for  some  years, 
with  his  remaining  foot  in  a  basket  in  cold 
weather,  picking  up  a  living  on  this  wise:  — 
Every  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  he  stumped 
to  the  corner,  carrying  a  chair,  a  clothes-horse, 
a  pair  of  trestles,  a  board,  a  basket,  and  an 
umbrella,  all  strapped  together.  Separating 
these,  the  board  and  trestles  became  a  counter, 
the  basket  supplied  the  few  small  lots  of  fruit 
and  sweets  that  he  offered  for  sale  upon  it 
and  became  a  foot-warmer,  the  unfolded 
clothes-horse  displayed  a  choice  collection  of 
half-penny  ballads  and  became  a  screen,  and 
the  stool  planted  within  it  became  his  post 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  All  weathers  saw  the 
man  at  the  post.  This  is  to  be  accepted  in  a 
double  sense,  for  he  contrived  a  back  to  his 
wooden  stool,  by  placing  it  against  the  lamp- 
post. When  the  weather  was  wet,  he  put  his 
umbrella  over  his  stock  in  trade,  not  over  him- 


442 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


self;  when  the  weather  was  dry,  he  furled 
that  faded  article,  tied  it  round  with  a  piece 
of  yarn,  and  laid  it  crosswise  under  the  trestles: 
where  it  looked  like  an  unwholesomely-forced 
lettuce  that  had  lost  in  colour  and  crispness 
what  it  had  gained  in  size. 

He  had  established  his  right  to  the  corner, 
by  imperceptible  prescription.  He  had  never 
varied  his  ground  an  inch,  but  had  in  the 
beginning  diffidently  taken  the  corner  upon 
which  the  side  of  the  house  gave.  A  howling 
corner  in  the  winter  time,  a  dusty  corner  in 
the  summer  time,  an  undesirable  corner  at  the 
best  of  times.  Shelterless  fragments  of  straw 
and  paper  got  up  revolving  storms  there,  when 
the  main  street  was  at  peace;  and  the  water- 
cart,  as  if  it  were  drunk  or  short-sighted,  came 
blundering  and  jolting  round  it,  making  it 
muddy  when  all  else  was  clean. 

On  the  front  of  his  sale-board  hung  a  little 
placard,  like  a  kettle-holder,  bearing  the  in- 
scription in  his  own  small  text :  — 


Errands  gone 

On  with  ti 

Delity  By 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen 

I  remain 

Your  humble  Serv*: 

Silas  Wegg. 


He  had  not  only  settled  it  with  himself  in  course 
of  time,  that  he  was  errand-goer  by  appoint- 
ment to  the  house  at  the  corner  (though  he 
received  such  commissions  not  half  a  dozen 
times  in  a  year,  and  then  only  as  some  servant's 
deputy),  but  also  that  he  was  one  of  the  house's 
retainers  and  owed  vassalage  to  it  and  was 
bound  to  leal  and  loyal  interest  in  it.  For  this 
reason,  he  always  spoke  of  it  as  "Our  House," 
and,  though  his  knowledge  of  its  affairs  was 
mostly  speculative  and  all  wrong,  claimed  to 
be  in  its  confidence.  On  similar  grounds  he 
never  beheld  an  inmate  at  any  one  of  its 
windows  but  he  touched  his  hat.  Yet,  he 
knew  so  little  about  the  inmates  that  he  gave 
them  names  of  his  own  invention;  as  "Miss 
Elizabeth,"  "Master  George,"  "Aunt  Jane," 
"Uncle  Parker"  —  having  no  authority  what- 
ever for  any  such  designations,  but  particularly 
the  last  —  to  which,  as  a  natural  consequence, 
he  stuck  with  great  obstinacy. 
Over  the  house  itself,  he  exercised  the  same 


imaginary  power  as  over  its  inhabitants  and 
their  affairs.  He  had  never  been  in  it,  the 
length  of  a  piece  of  fat  black  water-pipe  which 
trailed  itself  over  the  area-door  into  a  damp 
stone  passage,  and  had  rather  the  air  of  a 
leech  on  the  house  that  had  "taken"  wonder- 
fully; but  this  was  no  impediment  to  his 
arranging  it  according  to  a  plan  of  his  own. 
It  was  a  great  dingy  house  with  a  quantity  of 
dim  side  window  and  blank  back  premises, 
and  it  cost  his  mind  a  world  of  trouble  so  to  , 
lay  it  out  as  to  account  for  everything  in  its 
external  appearance.  But,  this  once  done,  was 
quite  satisfactory,  and  he  rested  persuaded 
that  he  knew  his  way  about  the  house  blind- 
fold: from  the  barred  garrets  in  the  high 
roof,  to  the  two  iron  extinguishers  before  the 
main  door  —  which  seemed  to  request  all 
lively  visitors  to  have  the  kindness  to  put 
themselves  out,  before  entering. 

Assuredly,  this  stall  of  Silas  Wegg's  was 
the  hardest  little  stall  of  all  the  sterile  little 
stalls  in  London.  It  gave  you  the  face-ache  to 
look  at  his  apples,  the  stomach-ache  to  look  at 
his  oranges,  the  tooth-ache  to  look  at  his  nuts. 
Of  the  latter  commodity  he  had  always  a  grim 
little  heap,  on  which  lay  a  little  wooden  meas- 
ure which  had  no  discernible  inside,  and  was 
considered  to  represent  the  penn'orth  appointed 
by  Magna  Charta.  Whether  from  too  much 
east  wind  or  no  —  it  was  an  easterly  corner  — 
the  stall,  the  stock,  and  the  keeper,  were  all 
as  dry  as  the  Desert.  Wegg  was  a  knotty 
man,  and  a  close-grained,  with  a  face  carved 
out  of  very  hard  material,  that  had  just  as 
much  play  of  expression  as  a  watchman's 
rattle.  When  he  laughed,  certain  jerks  oc- 
curred in  it,  and  the  rattle  sprung.  Sooth  to 
say,  he  was  so  wooden  a  man  that  he  seemed 
to  have  taken  his  wooden  leg  naturally,  and 
rather  suggested  to  the  fanciful  observer,  that 
he  might  be  expected  —  if  his  development 
received  no  untimely  check  —  to  be  completely 
set  up  with  a  pair  of  wooden  legs  in  about  six 
months. 

Mr.  Wegg  was  an  observant  person,  or,  as 
he  himself  said,  "took  a  powerful  sight  of 
notice."  He  saluted  all  his  regular  passers-by 
every  day,  as  he  sat  on  his  stool  backed  up 
by  the  lamp-post;  and  on  the  adaptable  char- 
acter of  these  salutes  he  greatly  plumed  him- 
self. Thus,  to  the  rector,  he  addressed  a  bow, 
compounded  of  lay  deference,  and  a  slight 
touch  of  the  shady  preliminary  meditation  at 
church;  to  the  doctor,  a  coniidential  bow,  as 
to  a  gentleman  whose  acquaintance  with  his 


OUR    MUTUAL    FRIEND 


443 


inside  he  begged  respectfully  to  acknowledge; 
before  the  Quality  he  delighted  to  abase  him- 
self; and  for  Uncle  Parker,  who  was  in  the 
army  (at  least,  so  he  had  settled  it),  he  put  his 
open  hand  to  the  side  of  his  hat,  in  a  military 
manner  which  that  angry-eyed,  buttoned-up, 
inflammatory-faced  old  gentleman  appeared 
but  imperfectly  to  appreciate. 

The  only  article  in  which  Silas  dealt  that 
was  not  hard  was  gingerbread.  On  a  certain 
day,  some  wretched  infant  having  purchased 
the  damp  gingerbread-horse  (fearfully  out  of 
condition),  and  the  adhesive  bird-cage,  which 
had  been  exposed  for  the  day's  sale,  he  had 
taken  a  tin  box  from  under  his  stool  to  pro- 
duce a  relay  of  those  dreadful  specimens,  and 
was  going  to  look  in  at  the  lid,  when  he  said 
to  himself,  pausing:  "Oh!  Here  you  are 
again !" 

The  words  referred  to  a  broad,  round- 
shouldered,  one-sided  old  fellow  in  mourning, 
coming  comically  ambling  toward  the  corner, 
dressed  in  a  pea  overcoat,  and  carrying  a  large 
stick.  He  wore  thick  shoes,  and  thick  leather 
gaiters,  and  thick  gloves  like  a  hedger's.  Both 
as  to  his  dress  and  to  himself,  he  was  of 
an  overlapping,  rhinoceros  build,  with  folds  in 
his  cheeks,  and  his  forehead,  and  his  eyelids, 
and  his  lips,  and  his  ears;  but  with  bright, 
eager,  childishly-inquiring,  gray  eyes,  under  his 
ragged  eyebrows  and  broad-brimmed  hat.  A 
very  odd-looking  old  fellow  altogether. 

"Here  you  are  again,"  repeated  Mr.  Wegg, 
musing.  "And  what  are  you  now?  Are  you 
in  the  Funns,  or  where  are  you?  Have  you 
lately  come  to  settle  in  this  neighbourhood,  or 
do  you  own  to  another  neighbourhood?  Are 
you  in  independent  circumstances,  or  is  it 
wasting  the  motions  of  a  bow  on  you  ?  Come  ! 
I'll  speculate!     I'll  invest  a  bow  in  you." 

Which  Mr.  Wegg,  having  replaced  his  tin 
box,  accordingly  did,  as  he  rose  to  bait  his 
gingerbread-trap  for  some  other  devoted  in- 
fant.    The  salute  was  acknowledged  with: 

"Morning,  sir!     Morning!     Morning!" 

("Calls  me  Sir!"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  to  himself. 
'^He  won't  answer.     A  bow  gone!") 

"Morning,  morning,  morning!" 

"Appears  to  be  rather  a  'arty  old  cock, 
too,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  as  before.  "Good 
morning  to  you,  sir." 

"Do  you  remember  me,  then?"  asked  his 
new  acquaintance,  stopping  in  his  amble,  one- 
sided, before  the  stall,  and  speaking  in  a 
pouncing  way,  though  with  great  good-humour. 

"I  have  noticed  you  go  past  our  house,  sir, 


several  times  in  the  course  of  the  last  week 
or  so." 

"Our  house,"  repeated  the  other.  "Mean- 
ing—?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  nodding,  as  the 
other  pointed  the  clumsy  forefinger  of  his  right 
glove  at  the  corner  house. 

"Oh!  Now,  what,"  pursued  the  old  fellow, 
in  an  inquisitive  manner,  carrying  his  knotted 
stick  in  his  left  arm  as  if  it  were  a  baby,  "what 
do  they  allow  you  now?" 

"It's  job  work  that  I  do  for  our  house," 
returned  Silas,  dryly,  and  with  reticence;  "it's 
not  yet  brought  to  an  exact  allowance." 

"Oh!  It's  not  yet  brought  to  an  exact 
allowance?  No!  It's  not  yet  brought  to  an 
exact  allowance.  Oh  !  —  Morning,  morning, 
morning!" 

"Appears  to  be  rather  a  cracked  old  cock," 
thought  Silas,  qualifying  his  former  good 
opinion,  as  the  other  ambled  off.  But  in  a 
moment  he  was  back  again  with  the  question: 

"How  did  you  get  your  wooden  leg?" 

Mr.  Wegg  replied  (tartly  to  this  personal 
inquiry),  "In  an  accident." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Well!  I  haven't  got  to  keep  it  warm," 
Mr.  Wegg  made  answer,  in  a  sort  of  despera- 
tion occasioned  by  the  singularity  of  the 
question. 

"He  hasn't,"  repeated  the  other  to  his 
knotted  stick,  as  he  gave  it  a  hug;  "he  hasn't 
got  —  ha !  —  ha !  —  to  keep  it  warm  !  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  name  of  Boffin?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  who  was  growing 
restive  under  this  examination.  "I  never  did 
hear  of  the  name  of  Boffin." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Why,  no,"  retorted  Mr.  Wegg,  again  ap- 
proaching desperation;    "I  can't  say  I  do." 

"Why  don't  you  like  it?" 

"I  don't  know  why  I  don't,"  retorted  Mr. 
Wegg,  approaching  frenzy,  "but  I  don't  at 
all." 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  something  that'll  make 
you  sorry  for  that,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling. 
"My  name's  Boffin." 

"I  can't  help  it!"  returned  Mr.  \yegg, 
implying  in  his  manner  the  offensive  addition, 
"and  if  I  could,  I  wouldn't." 

"But  there's  another  chance  for  you,"  said 
Mr.  Boffin,  smiling  still.  "Do  you  like  the 
name  of  Nicodemus?     Tliink  it  over.     Nick  or 

Noddy." 

"It  is  not,  sir,"  Mr.  Wegg  rejoined,  as  he 
sat  down  on  his  stool,  with  an  air  of  gentle 


444 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


resignation,  combined  with  melancholy  can- 
dour; "it  is  not  a  name  as  I  could  wish  any 
one  that  I  had  a  respect  for  to  call  me  by; 
but  there  may  be  persons  that  would  not  view 
it  with  the  same  objections.  I  don't  know 
why,"  Mr.  Wegg  added,  anticipating  another 
question. 

"Noddy  Boffin,"  said  that  gentleman. 
"Noddy.  That's  my  name.  Noddy  —  or 
Nick  —  Boffin.     What's  your  name?" 

"Silas  Wegg.  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Wegg, 
bestirring  himself  to  take  the  same  precaution 
as  before;  "I  don't  know  why  Silas,  and  I 
don't  know  why  Wegg." 

"Now,  Wegg,"  said  Mr.  Boffin,  hugging  his 
stick  closer,  "I  want  to  make  a  sort  of  offer 
to  you.  Do  you  remember  when  you  first  see 
me?" 

The  wooden  Wegg  looked  at  him  with  a 
meditative  eye,  and  also  with  a  softened  air, 
as  descrying  possibility  of  profit.  "Let  me 
think.  I  ain't  quite  sure,  and  yet  I  generally 
take  a  powerful  sight  of  notice,  too.  Was  it 
on  a  Monday  morning,  when  the  butcher-boy 
had  been  to  our  house  for  orders,  and  bought 
a  ballad  of  me,  which,  being  unacquainted 
with  the  tune,  I  run  it  over  to  him?" 

"Right,  Wegg,  right!  But  he  bought  more 
than  one." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  sir;  he  bought  several; 
and  wishing  to  lay  out  his  money  to  the  best, 
he  took  my  opinion  to  guide  his  choice,  and 
we  went  over  the  collection  together.  To  be 
sure  we  did.  Here  was  him  as  it  might  be, 
and  here  was  myself  as  it  might  be,  and  there 
was  you,  Mr.  Boffin,  as  you  identically  are, 
with  your  self-same  stick  under  your  very 
same  arm,  and  your  very  same  back  toward 
us.  To  —  be  —  sure!"  added  Mr.  Wegg, 
looking  a  little  round  Mr.  Boffin,  to  take  him 
in  the  rear,  and  identify  this  last  extraordinary 
coincidence,  "your  wery,  self-same  back!" 

"What  do  you  think  I  was  doing,  Wegg?" 

"I  should  judge,  sir,  that  you  might  be 
glancing  your  eye  down  the  street." 

"No,  Wegg.     I  was  a  listening." 

"Was  you,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Wegg, 
dubiously. 

"Not  in  a  dishonourable  way,  Wegg,  because 
you  was  singing  to  the  butcher;  and  you 
wouldn't  sing  secrets  to  a  butcher  in  the  street, 
you  know." 

"It  never  happened  that  I  did  so  yet,  to  the 
best  of  my  remembrance,"  said  Mr.  Wegg, 
cautiously.  "But  I  might  do  it.  A  man  can't 
say  what  he  might  wish  to  do  some  day  or 


another."  (This,  not  to  release  any  little 
advantage  he  might  derive  from  Mr.  Boffin's 
avowal.) 

"Well,"  repeated  Boffin,  "I  was  a  Hstening 
to  you  and  to  him.  And  what  do  you  —  you 
haven't  got  another  stool,  have  you?  I'm 
rather  thick  in  my  breath." 

"I  haven't  got  another,  but  you're  welcome 
to  this,"  said  Wegg,  resigning  it.  "It's  a  treat 
to  me  to  stand." 

"Lard!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Boffin,  in  a  tone  of 
great  enjoyment,  as  he  settled  himself  down, 
still  nursing  his  stick  like  a  baby,  "it's  a 
pleasant  place,  this !  And  then  to  be  shut  in ' 
on  each  side,  with  these  ballads,  like  so  many 
book-leaf  blinkers !     Why,  it's  delightful ! " 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  sir,"  Mr.  Wegg 
delicately  hinted,  resting  a  hand  on  his  stall, 
and  bending  over  the  discursive  Boffin,  "you 
alluded  to  some  offer  or  another  that  was  in 
your  mind?" 

"I'm  coming  to  it!  All  right.  I'm  coming 
to  it !  I  was  going  to  say  that  when  I  listened 
that  morning,  I  listened  with  hadmiration 
amounting  to  hawe.  I  thought  to  myself, 
'Here's  a  man  with  a  wooden  leg  —  a  literary 
man  with  — '" 

"N — not  exactly  so,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wegg. 

"Why,  you  know  every  one  of  these  songs 
by  name  and  by  tune,  and  if  you  want  to  read 
or  to  sing  any  one  on  'em  off  straight,  you've 
only  to  whip  on  your  spectacles  and  do  it!" 
cried  Mr.  Boffin.     "I  see  you  at  it!" 

"Well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Wegg,  with  a 
conscious  inclination  of  the  head;  "we'll  say 
literary,  then." 

"'A  literary  man  —  with  a  wooden  leg  — 
and  all  Print  is  open  to  him!'  That's  what  I 
thought  to  myself,  that  morning,"  pursued  Mr. 
Boffin,  leaning  forward  to  describe,  uncramped 
by  the  clothes-horse,  as  large  an  arc  as  his 
right  arm  could  make;  "'all  Print  is  open  to 
him!'     And  it  is,  ain't  it?" 

"Why,  truly,  sir,"  Mr.  Wegg  admitted,  with 
modesty;  "I  believe  you  couldn't  show  me 
the  piece  of  English  print,  that  I  wouldn't  be 
equal  to  collaring  and  throwing." 

"On  the  spot?"   said  Mr.  Boffin. 

"On  the  spot." 

"I  know'd  it!  Then  consider  this.  Here 
am  I,  a  man  without  a  wooden  leg,  and  yet 
all  print  is  shut  to  me." 

"Indeed,  sir?"  Mr.  Wegg  returned  with  in- 
creasing self-complacency.  "Education  neg- 
lected?" 

"Neg — lected!"      repeated      Boffin,      with 


OUR    MUTUAL   FRIEND 


445 


emphasis.  "That  ain't  no  word  for  it.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  but  what  if  you  showed  me 
a  B,  I  could  so  far  give  you  change  for  it,  as 
to  answer  '  Boffin.'  " 

"Come,  come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  throw- 
ing in  a  little  encouragement,  "that's  some- 
thing, too." 

"It's  something,"  answered  Mr.  Boffin,  "but 
I'll  take  my  oath  it  ain't  much." 

"Perhaps  it's  not  as  much  as  could  be 
wished  by  an  inquiring  mind,  sir,"  Mr.  Wegg, 
admitted. 

"Now,  look  here.  I'm  retired  from  busi- 
ness. Me  and  Mrs.  Boffin  —  Henerietty  Boffin 
—  which  her  father's  name  was  Henery,  and 
her  mother's  name  was  Hetty,  and  so  you  get 
it  —  we  live  on  a  compittance,  under  the  will 
of  a  deceased  governor." 

"Gentleman  dead,  sir?" 

"Man  alive,  don't  I  tell  you?  A  deceased 
governor?  Now,  it's  too  late  for  me  to  begin 
shovelling  and  sifting  at  alphabeds  and  gram- 
mar-books. I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  bird, 
and  I  want  to  take  it  easy.  But  I  want  some 
reading  —  some  fine  bold  reading,  some 
splendid  book  in  a  gorging  Lord-Mayor's- 
Show  of  wollumes"  (probably  meaning  gor- 
geous, but  misled  by  association  of  ideas) ; 
"as'll  reach  right  down  your  pint  of  view,  and 
take  time  to  go  by  you.  How  can  I  get  that 
reading,  Wegg?  By,"  tapping  him  on  the 
breast  with  the  head  of  his  thick  stick,  "pay- 
ing a  man  truly  qualified  to  do  it,  so  much  an 
hour  (say  twopence)  to  come  and  do  it." 

"Hem!  Flattered,  sir,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Wegg,  beginning  to  regard  himself  in  quite 
a  new  light.  "Hem!  This  is  the  offer  you 
mentioned,  sir?" 

"Yes.     Do  you  like  it?" 

"I  am  considering  of  it,  Mr.  Boffm." 

"I  don't,"  said  Boffin,  in  a  free-handed 
manner,  "want  to  tie  a  literary  man  —  ivith 
a  wooden  leg  —  down  too  tight.  A  half- 
penny an  hour  shan't  part  us.  The  hours  are 
your  own  to  choose,  after  you've  done  for  the 
day  with  your  house  here.  I  live  over  Maiden- 
Lane  way  —  out  Holloway  direction  —  and 
you've  only  got  to  go  East-and-by-North  when 
you've  finished  here,  and  you're  there.  Two- 
pence halfpenny  an  hour,"  said  Boffin,  taking 
a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket  and  getting  off 
the  stool  to  work  the  sum  on  the  top  of  it  in 
his  own  way;  "two  long'uns  and  a  short'un  — 
twopence  halfpenny;  two  short'uns  is  a  long'un' 
and  two  two  long'uns  is  four  long'uns  —  making 
five  long'uns;  six  nights  a  week  at  five  long'uns 


a  night,"  scoring  them  all  down  separately, 
"and  you  mount  up  to  thirty  long'uns.  A 
round' un  !     Half  a  crown  !" 

Pointing  to  this  result  as  a  large  and  satis- 
factory one,  Mr.  Boffin  smeared  it  out  with  his 
moistened  glove,  and  sat  down  on  the  remains. 

"Half  a  crown,"  said  Wegg,  meditating, 
"Yes.     (It  ain't  much,  sir.)     Half  a  crown." 

"Per  week,  you  know." 

"Per  week.  Yes.  As  to  the  amount  of 
strain  upon  the  intellect  now.  Was  you  think- 
ing at  all  of  poetry?"  Mr.  Wegg  inquired, 
musing. 

"Would  it  come  dearer?"  Mr.  Boffin  asked. 

"It  would  come  dearer,"  Mr.  Wegg  returned. 
"For  when  a  person  comes  to  grind  off  poetr\' 
night  after  night,  it  is  but  right  he  should  e.xpect 
to  be  paid  for  its  weakening  effect  on  his  mind." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Wegg,"  said  Bofl'in, 
"I  wasn't  thinking  of  poetry,  e.xcept  in  so  fur 
as  this:  —  If  you  was  to  happen  now  and 
then  to  feel  yourself  in  the  mind  to  tip  me  and 
Mrs.  Boffin  one  of  your  ballads,  why  then  we 
should  drop  into  poetry." 

"I  follow  you,  sir,"  said  Wegg.  "But  not 
being  a  regular  musical  professional,  I  should  be 
loath  to  engage  myself  for  that;  and  therefore 
when  I  dropped  into  poetry,  I  should  ask  to  be 
considered  so  fur,  in  the  light  of  a  friend." 

At  this,  Mr.  Boffin's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he 
shook  Silas  earnestly  by  the  hand;  protesting 
that  it  was  more  than  he  could  have  asked,  and 
that  he  took  it  very  kindly  indeed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  terms,  Wegg?" 
Mr.  Boffin  then  demanded,  with  unconcealed 
anxiety. 

Silas,  who  had  stimulated  this  anxiety  by  his 
hard  reserve  of  manner,  and  who  had  begun 
to  understand  his  man  very  well,  replied  with 
an  air;  as  if  he  were  saying  something  extraor- 
dinarily generous  and  great: 

"Mr.  Boffin,  I  never  bargain." 

"So  I  should  have  thought  of  you  !"  said  Mr. 
Boffm,  admiringly. 

"No,  sir.  I  never  did  'aggie  and  I  never  will 
'aggie.  Consequently  I  meet  you  at  once,  free 
and  fair,  with  —  Done,  for  double  the  money  I" 

Mr.  Boffin  seemed  a  little  unprepared  for 
this  conclusion,  but  assented  with  the  remark, 
"You  know  better  what  it  ought  to  be  than  I 
do,  Wegg,"  and  again  shook  hands  with  him 
upon  it. 

"Could  you  begin  to-night,  Wegg?"  he  then 
demanded. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  careful  to  leave 
all  the  eagerness  to  him.     "I  see  no  difliculty 


446 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


if  you  wish  it.  You  are  provided  with  the 
needful  implement  —  a  book,  sir?" 

"Bought  him  at  a  sale,"  said  Mr.  Boffin. 
"  Eight  wollumes.  Red  and  gold.  Purple  rib- 
bon in  every  wollume,  to  keep  the  place  where 
you  leave  off.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"The  book's  name,  sir?"  inquired  Silas. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  know'd  him  with- 
out it,"  said  Mr.  Boffin,  slightly  disappointed. 
"His  name  is  Decline-And-Fall-Off  The- 
Rooshan-Empire."  (Mr.  Boffin  went  over 
these  stones  slowly  and  with  much  caution.) 

"Ay,  indeed!"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  nodding  his 
head  with  an  air  of  friendly  recognition. 

"You  know  him,  Wegg?  " 

"I  haven't  been  not  to  say  right  slap  through 
him,  very  lately,"  Mr.  Wegg  made  answer, 
"having  been  otherways  employed,  Mr.  Boffin. 
But  know  him?  Old  familiar  declining  and 
falling  off  the  Rooshan?  Rather,  sir!  Ever 
since  I  was  not  so  high  as  your  stick.  Ever 
since  my  eldest  brother  left  our  cottage  to  enlist 
into  the  army.  On  which  occasion,  as  the 
ballad  that  was  made  about  it  describes: 

"  Beside  that  cottage  door,  Mr.  Boffin, 
A  girl  was  on  her  knees ; 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf,  Sir, 

Which  (my  eldest  brother  noticed)  fluttered  in 
the  breeze. 
She  breathed  a  prajer  for  him,  Mr.  Boffin; 

A  prayer  he  could  not  hear. 
And  my  eldest  brother   lean'd  upon  his  sword, 
Mr.  Boffin, 
And'wiped  away  a  tear." 

Much  impressed  by  this  family  circumstance, 
and  also  by  the  friendly  disposition  of  Mr. 
Wegg,  as  exemplified  in  his  so  soon  dropping 
into  poetry,  Mr.  Boffin  again  shook  hands  with 
that  ligneous  sharper,  and  besought  him  to 
name  his  hour.     Mr.  Wegg  named  eight. 

"Where  I  live,"  said  Mr.  Boffin,  "is  called 
The  Bower.  Boffin's  Bower  is  the  name  Mrs. 
Boffin  christened  it  when  we  come  into  it  as  a 
property.  If  you  should  meet  with  anybody 
that  don't  know  it  by  that  name  (which  hardly 
anybody  does),  when  you've  got  nigh  upon 
about  a  odd  mile,  or  say  and  a  quarter  if  you 
like,  up  Maiden  Lane,  Battle  Bridge,  ask  for 
Harmony  Jail,  and  you'll  be  put  right.  I  shall 
expect  you,  Wegg,"  said  Mr.  Boffin,  clapping 
him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  greatest  en- 
thusiasm, "most  joyfully.  I  shall  have  no 
peace  or  patience  till  you  come.  Print  is  now 
opening  ahead  of  me.  This  night,  a  literary 
man  —  with  a  wooden  leg  — "  he  bestowed  an 
admiring    look    upon    that    decoration,    as    if 


it  greatly  enhanced  the  relish  of  Mr.  Wegg's 
attainments  —  "will  begin  to  lead  me  a  new 
life !  My  fist  again,  Wegg.  Morning,  morn- 
ing, morning!"  ■ 

Left  alone  at  his  stall  as  the  other  ambled  m 
off,  Mr.  Wegg  subsided  into  his  screen,  pro-  * 
duced  a  small  pocket-handkerchief  of  a  peni- 
tentially-scrubbing  character,  and  took  him- 
self by  the  nose  with  a  thoughtful  aspect.  Also, 
while  he  still  grasped  that  feature,  he  directed 
several  thoughtful  looks  down  the  street,  after 
the  retiring  figure  of  Mr.  Boffin.  But,  pro- 
found gravity  sat  enthroned  on  Wegg's  counte- 
nance. For,  while  he  considered  within  him- 
self that  this  was  an  old  fellow  of  rare  simplicity, 
that  this  was  an  opportunity  to  be  improved, 
and  that  here  might  be  money  to  be  got  beyond 
present  calculation,  still  he  compromised  him- 
self by  no  admission  that  his  new  engagement 
was  at  all  out  of  his  way,  or  involved  the  least 
element  of  the  ridiculous.  Mr.  Wegg  would 
even  have  picked  a  handsome  quarrel  with  any 
one  who  should  have  challenged  his  deep  ac- 
cjuaintance  with  those  aforesaid  eight  volumes 
of  Decline  and  Fall.  His  gravity  was  unusual, 
portentous,  and  immeasurable,  not  because  he 
admitted  any  doui)t  of  himself,  but  because  he 
perceived  it  necessary  to  forestall  any  doubt  of 
himself  in  others.  And  herein  he  ranged  with 
that  very  numerous  class  of  impostors,  who  are 
quite  as  determined  to  keep  up  appearances  to 
themselves,  as  to  their  neighbours. 

A  certain  loftiness,  likewise,  took  possession 
of  Mr.  Wegg;  a  condescending  sense  of  being 
in  request  as  an  official  expounder  of  mysteries. 
It  did  not  move  him  to  commercial  greatness, 
but  rather  to  littleness,  insomuch  that  if  it  had 
been  within  the  possibilities  of  things  for  the 
wooden  measure  to  hold  fewer  nuts  than  usual, 
it  would  have  done  so  that  day.  But,  when 
night  came,  and  with  her  veiled  eyes  beheld 
him  stumping  toward  Boffin's  Bower,  he  was 
elated  too. 

The  Bower  was  as  difficult  to  find  as  Fair 
Rosamond's  without  the  clew.  Mr.  Wegg, 
having  reached  the  quarter  indicated,  inquired 
for  the  Bower  half  a  dozen  times,  without  the 
least  success,  until  he  remembered  to  ask  for 
Harmony  Jail.  This  occasioned  a  quick  change 
in  the  spirit  of  a  hoarse  gentleman  and  a  donkey, 
whom  he  had  much  perplexed. 

"Why,  yer  mean  Old  Harmon's,  do  yer?" 
said  the  hoarse  gentleman,  who  was  driving  his 
donkey  in  a  truck,  with  a  carrot  for  a  whip. 
"Why  didn't  yer  niver  say  so?  Eddard  and 
me  is  a  goin'  by  himl     Jump  in." 


OUR    AIUTUAL    FRIEND 


447 


Mr.  Wegg  complied,  and  the  hoarse  gentle- 
man invited  his  attention  to  the  third  person 
in  company,  thus: 

"Now,  you  look  at  Eddard's  cars.  What  was 
it  as  you  named,  agin  ?     Whisper." 

Mr.  Wegg  whispered,  "Boffin's  Bower." 

"Eddard !  (keep  yer  hi  on  his  ears)  cut  away 
to  Boffin's  Bower!" 

Edward,  with  his  ears  lying  back,  remained 
immovable. 

"Eddard!  (keep  yer  hi  on  his  ears)  cut 
away  to  Old  Harmon's." 

Edward  instantly  pricked  up  his  ears  to  their 
utmost,  and  rattled  off  at  such  a  pace  that  Mr. 
Wegg's  conversation  was  jolted  out  of  him  in 
a  most  dislocated  state. 

"Was-it-Ev-vcrajail?"  asked  Mr.  Wegg, 
holding  on. 

"Not  a  proper  jail,  wot  you  and  me  would 
get  committed  to,"  returned  his  escort;  "they 
giv'  it  the  name  on  accounts  of  Old  Harmon 
living  solitar}'  there." 

"And-why-did-they-callitharm-Ony?"  asked 
Wegg. 

"On  accounts  of  his  never  agreeing  with 
nobody.  Like  a  speeches  of  chaff.  Harmon's 
Jail;   Harmony  Jail.     Working  it  round  like." 

"Do3'ouknow-Mist-Erboff-in?"  asked  Wegg. 

"I  should  think  sol  Everj'body  do  about 
here.  Eddard  knows  him.  (Keep  yer  hi  on 
his  ears.)     Noddy  Boffm,  Eddard!" 

The  effect  of  the  name  was  so  very  alarming, 
in  respect  of  causing  a  temporary  disappearance 
of  Edward's  head,  casting  his  hind  hoofs  in  the 
air,  greatly  accelerating  the  pace  and  increasing 
the  jolting,  that  Mr.  Wegg  was  fain  to  devote 
his  attention  exclusively  to  holding  on,  and  to 
relinquish  his  desire  of  ascertaining  whether 
this  homage  to  Boffin  was  to  be  considered  com- 
plimentary or  the  reverse. 

Presently,  Edward  stopped  at  a  gateway, 
and  Wegg  discreetly  lost  no  time  in  slipping  out 
at  the  back  of  the  truck.  The  moment  he  was 
landed,  his  late  driver  with  a  wave  of  the  carrot, 
said  "  Supper,  Eddard  ! "  and  he,  the  hind  hoofs, 
the  truck,  and  Edward,  all  seemed  to  fly  into 
the  air  together,  in  a  kind  of  apotheosis. 

Pushing  the  gate,  which  stood  ajar,  Wegg 
looked  into  an  enclosed  space  where  certain 
tall  dark  mounds  rose  high  against  the  sky, 
and  where  the  pathway  to  the  Bower  was  in- 
dicated, as  the  moonlight  showed,  Vjetween 
two  lines  of  broken  crockery  set  in  ashes.  A 
white  figure  advancing  along  this  path,  proved 
to  be  nothing  more  ghostly  than  Mr.  Boffin, 
easily  attired  for  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  in 


an  undress  garment  of  short  white  smock- 
frock.  Having  received  his  literary  friend 
with  great  cordiality,  he  conducted  him  to  the 
interior  of  the  Bower,  and  there  presented  him 
to  Mrs.  Boffin,  a  stout  lady,  of  a  rubicund  and 
cheerful  aspect,  dressed  (to  Mr.  \\'cgg's  con- 
sternation) in  a  low  evening-dress  of  sable 
satin,  and  a  large  black  velvet  hat  and  feathers. 

"Mrs.  Boflln,  Wegg,"  said  Boffm,  "is  a 
highflyer  at  Fashion.  And  her  make  is  such, 
that  she  does  it  credit.  As  to  myself,  I  ain't 
yet  as  Fash'nable  as  I  may  come  to  be.  Hen- 
erietty,  old  lady,  this  is  the  gentleman  that's 
a  going  to  decline  and  fall  off  the  Rooshan 
Empire." 

"And  I  am  sure  I  hope  it'll  do  you  both 
good,"  said  Mrs.  Boffm. 

It  was  the  queerest  of  rooms,  fitted  and 
furnished  more  like  a  luxurious  amateur  tap- 
room than  anything  else  within  the  ken  of 
Silas  Wegg.  There  were  two  wooden  settles 
by  the  fire,  one  on  either  side  of  it,  with  a 
corresponding  table  before  each.  On  one  of 
these  tables,  the  eight  volumes  were  ranged  flat, 
in  a  row,  like  a  galvanic  battery;  on  the  other, 
certain  squat  case-bottles,  of  inviting  appear- 
ance, seemed  to  stand  on  tiptoe  to  exchange 
glances  with  IMr.  Wegg  over  a  front  row  of 
tumblers  and  a  basin  of  white  sugar.  On  the 
hob,  a  kettle  steamed;  on  the  hearth,  a  cat 
reposed.  Facing  the  fire  between  the  settles, 
a  sofa,  a  footstool,  and  a  little  table,  formed 
a  centrepiece,  devoted  to  Mrs.  Boffin.  They 
were  garish  in  taste  and  colour,  l)ut  were  ex- 
pensive articles  of  drawing-room  furniture,  that 
had  a  very  odd  look  beside  the  settles  and 
the  flaring  gaslight  pendent  from  the  ceiling. 
There  was  a  flowery  carpet  on  the  floor;  but, 
instead  of  reaching  to  the  fireside,  its  glowing 
vegetation  stopped  short  at  Mrs.  Boffin's  foot- 
stool, and  gave  place  to  a  region  of  sand  and 
sawdust.  Mr.  Wegg  also  noticed  with  admir- 
ing eves,  that,  while  the  flowery  land  displayed 
such  hollow  ornamentation  as  stuffed  birds  and 
waxen  fruits  under  glass-shades,  there  were, 
in  the  territor)'  where  vegetation  ceased,  com- 
pensatory shelves  on  which  the  best  part  of  a 
large  pie,  and  likewise  of  a  cold  joint,  were 
plainly  discernible  among  other  solids.  The 
room  itself  was  large,  though  low,  and  the 
heavy  frames  of  its  old-fashioned  windows, 
and  "the  heavy  beams  in  its  crooked  ceiling, 
seemed  to  indicate  that  it  had  once  been  a  house 
of  .some  mark,  standing  alone  in  the  countr}'. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Wegg?"  asked  Mr.  Boffin, 
in  his  pouncing  manner. 


448 


CHARLES    DICKENS 


"I  admire  it  greatly,  sir,"  said  Wegg.  "Pe- 
culiar comfort  at  this  fireside,  sir." 

"Do  you  understand  it,  Wegg?" 

"Why,  in  a  general  way,  sir,"  Mr.  Wegg 
was  beginning  slowly  and  knowingly,  with  his 
head  stuck  on  one  side,  as  evasive  people  do 
begin,  when  the  other  cut  him  short : 

"You  don't  understand  it,  Wegg,  and  I'll 
explain  it.  These  arrangements  is  made  by 
mutual  consent  between  Mrs.  Boffin  and  me. 
Mrs.  Boffin,  as  I've  mentioned,  is  a  high- 
flyer at  Fashion;  at  present  I'm  not.  I  don't 
go  higher  than  comfort,  and  comfort  of  the  sort 
that  I'm  equal  to  the  enjoyment  of.  Well  then. 
Where  would  be  the  good  of  Mrs.  Boffin  and  me 
quarrelling  over  it?  We  never  did  quarrel 
before  we  come  into  Boffin's  Bower  as  a  prop- 
erty; why  quarrel  when  we  have  come  into 
Boffin's  Bower  as  a  property?  So  Mrs. 
Boffin,  she  keeps  up  her  part  of  the  room 
in  her  way;  I  keep  up  my  part  of  the  room  in 
mine.  In  consequence  of  which  we  have  at 
once.  Sociability  (I  should  go  melancholy  mad 
without  Mrs.  Boflin),  Fashion,  and  Comfort.  If 
I  get  by  degrees  to  be  a  highflyer  at  Fashion, 
then  Mrs.  Boffin  will  by  degrees  come  for'arder. 
If  Mrs.  Boffin  should  ever  be  less  of  a  dab  at 
Fashion  than  she  is  at  the  present  time,  then 
Mrs.  Boffin's  carpet  would  go  back'arder.  If 
we  should  both  continny  as  we  are,  why  then 
here  we  are,  and  give  us  a  kiss,  old  lady." 

Mrs.  Boffin,  who,  perpetually  smiling,  had  ap- 
proached and  drawn  her  plump  arm  through 
her  lord's,  most  willingly  complied.  Fashion, 
in  the  form  of  her  black  velvet  hat  and  feathers, 
tried  to  prevent  it ;  but  got  deservedly  crushed 
in  the  endeavour. 

"So  now,  Wegg,"  said  Mr.  Boffin,  wiping  his 
mouth  with  an  air  of  much  refreshment,  "you 
begin  to  know  us  as  we  are.  This  is  a  charming 
spot,  is  the  Bower,  but  you  must  get  to  appre- 
chiate  it  by  degrees.  It's  a  spot  to  find  out 
the  merits  of,  little  by  little,  and  a  new  'un  every 
day.  There's  a  serpentining  walk  up  each  of 
the  mounds,  that  gives  you  the  yard  and  neigh- 
bourhood changing  every  moment.  When  you 
get  to  the  top,  there's  a  view  of  the  neighbouring 
premises,  not  to  be  surpassed.  The  premises 
of  Mrs.  Boffin's  late  father  (Canine  Provision 
Trade),  you  look  down  into,  as  if  they  was  your 
own.  And  the  top  of  the  High  Mound  is 
crowned  with  a  lattice-work  Arbor,  in  which, 
if  you  don't  read  out  loud  many  a  book  in  the 
summer,  ay,  and  as  a  friend,  drop  many  a  time 
into  poetry  too,  it  shan't  be  my  fault.  Now 
what'll  you  read  on?" 


"Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Wegg,  as  if 
there  were  nothing  new  in  his  reading  at  all. 
"I  generally  do  it  on  gin  and  water." 

"Keeps  the  organ  moist,  does  it,  Wegg?" 
asked  Mr.  Boffin,  with  innocent  eagerness. 

"N — no,  sir,"  replied  Wegg,  coolly,  "I 
should  hardly  describe  it  so,  sir.  I  should  say, 
mellers  it.  Mellers  it,  is  the  word  I  should 
employ,  Mr.  Boffin." 

His  wooden  conceit  and  craft  kept  exact  pace 
with  the  delighted  expectations  of  his  victim. 
The  visions  rising  before  his  mercenary  mind, 
of  the  many  ways  in  which  this  connection  was 
to  be  turned  to  account,  never  obscured  the 
foremost  idea  natural  to  a  dull,  over-reachmg, 
man,  that  he  must  not  make  himself  too 
cheap. 

Mrs.  Boffin's  Fashion,  as  a  less  inexorable 
deity  than  the  idol  usually  worshipped  under 
that  name,  did  not  forbid  her  mixing  for  her 
literary  guest,  or  asking  if  he  found  the  result 
to  his  liking.  On  his  returning  a  gracious 
answer  and  taking  his  place  at  the  literary 
settle,  Mr.  Boffin  began  to  compose  himself  as 
a  listener  at  the  opposite  settle,  with  exultant 
eyes. 

"Sorry  to  deprive  you  of  a  pipe,  Wegg,"  he 
said,  filling  his  own,  "but  you  can't  do  both 
together.  Oh !  and  another  thing  I  forgot  to 
name !  When  you  come  here  of  an  evening, 
and  look  round  you,  and  notice  anything  on  a 
shelf  that  happens  to  catch  your  fancy,  mention 
it." 

Wegg,  who  had  been  going  to  put  on  his 
spectacles,  immediately  laid  them  down,  with 
the  sprightly  observation : 

"You  read  my  thoughts,  sir.  Do  my  eyes 
deceive  me,  or  is  that  object  up  there  —  a  pie? 
It  can't  be  a  pie." 

"Yes,  it's  a  pie,  Wegg,"  replied  Mr.  Boffin, 
with  a  glance  of  some  little  discomfiture  at  the 
Decline  and  Fall. 

''Have  I  lost  my  smell  for  fruits,  or  is  it  a 
apple  pie,  sir?"  asked  Wegg. 

"It's  a  veal  and  ham  pie,"  said  Mr.  Boffin. 

"Is  it  indeed,  sir?  And  it  would  be  hard, 
sir,  to  name  the  pie  that  is  a  better  pie  than  a 
weal  and  hammer,"  said  Mr.  Wegg,  nodding  his 
head  emotionally. 

"Have  some,  Wegg?" 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Boffin,  I  think  I  will, 
at  your  invitation.  I  wouldn't  at  any  other 
party's,  at  the  present  juncture;  but  at  yours, 
sir !  —  And  meaty  jelly  too,  especially  when  a 
little  salt,  which  is  the  case  where  there's  ham, 
is  mellering  to  the  organ,  is  very  mellering  to 


OUR    MUTUAL    FRIEND 


449 


the  organ."     Mr.  Wegg  did  not  say  what  organ, 
but  spoke  with  a  cheerful  generahty. 

So  the  pie  was  brought  down,  and  the  worthy 
Mr.  Boffin  exercised  his  patience  until  Wegg,  in 
the  exercise  of  his  knife  and  fork,  had  finished 
the  dish:  only  profiting  by  the  opportunity  to 
inform  Wegg  that  "although  it  was  not  strictly 
Fashionable  to  keep  the  contents  of  a  larder 
thus  exposed  to  view,  he  (Mr.  Bofiin)  considered 
it  hospitable;  for  the  reason,  that  instead  of 
saying,  in  a  comparatively  unmeaning  manner, 
to  a  visitor,  '  There  are  such  and  such  edibles 
down  stairs;  will  you  have  anything  up?' 
you  took  the  bold  practical  course  of  say- 
ing, 'Cast  your  eye  along  the  shelves,  and,  if 
you  see  anything  you  like  there,  have  it 
down.'" 

And  now,  Mr.  Wegg  at  length  pushed  away 
his  plate  and  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  Mr. 
Boffin  lighted  his  pipe  and  looked  with  beaming 
eyes  into  the  opening  world  before  him,  and 
Mrs.  Boffin  reclined  in  a  fashionable  manner 
on  her  sofa:  as  one  who  would  be  part  of  the 
audience  if  she  found  she  could,  and  would  go 
to  sleep  if  she  found  she  couldn't. 

"Hem!"  began  Wegg.     "This,  Mr.  Boffin 
and  Lady,  is  the  first  chapter  of  the  first  wollume 
of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of — "  here  he  looked 
hard  at  the  book,  and  stopped. 
"What's  the  matter,  Wegg?" 
"Why,  it  comes  into  my  mind,  do  you  know, 
sir,"    said   Wegg  with   an   air  of   insinuating 
frankness  (having  first  again  looked  hard  at  the 
book),   "that  you  made  a  little  mistake  this 
morning,  which  I  had  meant  to  set  you  right  in, 
only  something  put  it  out  of  my  head.     I  think 
you  said  Rooshan  Empire,  sir?" 
"It  is  Rooshan;   ain't  it,  Wegg?" 
"No,  sir.     Roman.     Roman." 
"What's  the  difference,  Wegg?" 
"The  difference,  sir?"     Mr.  Wegg  was  fal- 
tering and  in  danger  of  breaking  down,  when 
a   bright    thought    flashed    upon    him.     "The 
dil^'erence,  sir?     There  you  place  me  in  a  diffi- 
culty, Mr.  Boffin.     Suffice  it  to  observe,  that 
the  difference  is  best  postponed  to  some  other 
occasion  when    Mrs.  Boffin   does   not   honour 
us  with  her  company.     In  Mrs.  Boffin's  pres- 
ence, sir,  we  had  better  drop  it." 

Mr.  Wegg  thus  came  out  of  his  disadvantage 
with  quite  a  chivalrous  air,  and  not  only  that, 
but  by  dint  of  repeating  with  a  manly  delicacy, 
"In  Mrs.  Boffin's  presence,  sir,  we  had  better 
drop  it!"  turned  the  disadvantage  on  Bofiin, 
who  felt  that  he  had  committed  himself  in  a  very 
painful  manner. 


Then,  Mr.  Wegg,  in  a  dry,  unflinching  way, 
entered  on  his  task;  going  straight  across 
country  at  everything  that  came  before  him; 
taking  all  the  hard  words,  biographical  and 
geographical;  getting  rather  shaken  by  Ha- 
drian, Trajan,  and  the  Antonines;  stumbling  at 
Polybius  (pronounced  Polly  Beeious,  and  sup- 
posed by  Mr.  Boffin  to  be  a  Roman  virgin,  and 
by  Mrs.  Boffin  to  be  responsible  for  that  neces- 
sity of  dropping  it);  heavily  unseated  by  Titus 
Antoninus  Pius;  up  again  and  galloping 
smoothly  with  Augustus;  finally,  getting  over 
the  ground  well  with  Commodus:  who,  under 
the  appellation  of  Commodious,  was  held  by 
Mr.  Boffin  to  have  been  quite  unworthy  of  his 
English  origin,  and  "not  to  have  acted  up  to  his 
name"  in  his  government  of  the  Roman  people. 
With  the  death  of  this  personage,  Mr.  \\'egg 
terminated  his  first  reading;  long  before  which 
consummation  several  total  eclipses  of  Mrs. 
Boffin's  candle  behind  her  black  velvet  disc, 
would  have  been  very  alarming,  but  for  being 
regularly  accompanied  by  a  potent  smell  of 
burnt  pens  when  her  feathers  took  fire, 
which  acted  as  a  restorative  and  woke 
her.  Mr.  Wegg,  having  read  on  by  rote 
and  attached  as  few  ideas  as  possible  to  the 
text,  came  out  of  the  encounter  fresh;  but 
Mr.  Boffin,  who  had  soon  laid  down  his 
unfinished  pipe,  and  had  ever  since  sat 
intently  staring  with  his  eyes  and  mind  at 
the  confounding  enormities  of  the  Romans, 
was  so  severely  punished  tlial  he  could  hardly 
wish  his  literary  friend  good-night,  and  articu- 
late "To-morrow." 

"Commodious,"  gasped  Mr.  Boffin,  staring 
at  the  moon,  after  letting  Wegg  out  at  the  gate 
and  fastening  it:  "Commodious  fights  in  that 
wild-beast-show,  seven  hundred  and  thirty-five 
times,  in  one  character  only !  As  if  that  wasn't 
stunning  enough,  a  hundred  lions  is  turned  into 
the  same  wil(l-l>east-show  all  at  once !  As  if 
that  wasn't  stunning  enough,  Commodious,  in 
another  character,  kills  'em  all  off  in  a  hun- 
dred goes !  As  if  that  wasn't  stunning  enough, 
Vittlcus  (and  well  named  too)  eats  six  millions' 
worth,  English  money,  in  seven  months! 
Wegg  takes  it  easy,  but  upon-my-soul  to  a  old 
bird  like  myself  these  are  scarers.  And  even 
now  that  Commodious  is  strangled,  I  don't 
see  a  way  to  our  bettering  ourselves."  Mr. 
Bofiin  added  as  he  turned  his  pensive  steps 
toward  the  Bower  and  shook  his  head,  "I 
didn't  think  this  morning  there  was  half  so 
many  Scarers  in  Print.  But  I'm  in  for  it 
now!" 


450 


JAMES    ANTHONY    FROUDE 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE 

(1818-1894) 

C^SAR:   A   SKETCH 

CHAPTER  XIII 

The  consulship  of  Caesar  was  the  last  chance 
for  the  Roman  aristocracy.  He  was  not  a 
revolutionist.  Revolutions  are  the  last  des- 
perate remedy  when  all  else  has  failed.  They 
may  create  as  many  evils  as  they  cure,  and  wise 
men  always  hate  them.  But  if  revolution  was  to 
be  escaped,  reform  was  inevitable,  and  it  was 
for  the  Senate  to  choose  between  the  alternatives. 
Could  the  noble  lords  have  known,  then,  in 
that  their  day,  the  things  that  belonged  to  their 
peace  —  could  they  have  forgotten  their  fish- 
ponds and  their  game  preserves,  and  have 
remembered  that,  as  the  rulers  of  the  civilised 
world,  they  had  duties  which  the  eternal  order 
of  nature  would  exact  at  their  hands,  the 
shaken  constitution  might  have  regained  its 
stability,  and  the  forms  and  even  the  reality 
of  the  Republic  might  have  continued  for 
another  century.  It  was  not  to  be.  Had  the 
Senate  been  capable  of  using  the  opportunity, 
they  would  long  before  have  undertaken  a 
reformation  for  themselves.  Even  had  their 
eyes  been  opened,  there  were  disintegrating 
forces  at  work  which  the  highest  political  wis- 
dom could  do  no  more  than  arrest;  and  little 
good  is  really  effected  by  prolonging  artificially 
the  lives  of  either  constitutions  or  individuals 
beyond  their  natural  period.  From  the  time 
when  Rome  became  an  Empire,  mistress  of 
provinces  to  which  she  was  unable  to  extend  her 
own  liberties,  the  days  of  her  self-government 
were  numbered.  A  homogeneous  and  vigorous 
people  may  manage  their  own  affairs  under  a 
popular  constitution  so  long  as  their  personal 
characters  remain  undegenerate.  Parliaments 
and  Senates  may  represent  the  general  will  of 
the  community,  and  may  pass  laws  and  ad- 
minister them  as  public  sentiment  approves. 
But  such  bodies  can  preside  successfully  only 
among  subjects  who  are  directly  represented  in 
them.  They  are  too  ignorant,  too  selfish,  too 
divided,  to  govern  others;  and  Imperial  as- 
pirations draw  after  them,  by  obvious  neces- 
sity, an  Imperial  rule.  Caesar  may  have  known 
this  in  his  heart,  yet  the  most  far-seeing  states- 
man will  not  so  trust  his  own  misgivings  as 
to  refuse  to  hope  for  the  regeneration  of  the 
institutions  into  which  he  is  born.  He  will 
determine  that  justice  shall  be  done.     Justice 


is  the  essence  of  government,  and  without  jus- 
tice all  forms,  democratic  or  monarchic,  are 
tyrannies  alike.  But  he  will  work  with  the  ex- 
isting methods  till  the  inadequacy  of  them  has 
been  proved  beyond  dispute.  Constitutions 
are  never  overthrown  till  they  have  pronounced 
sentence  on  themselves. 

Caesar  accordingly  commenced  ofiice  by  an 
endeavour  to  conciliate.  The  army  and  the 
moneyed  interests,  represented  by  Pompey 
and  Crassus,  were  already  with  him;  and  he 
used  his  endeavours,  as  has  been  seen,  to  gain 
Cicero,  who  might  bring  with  him  such  part  of 
the  landed  aristocracy  as  were  not  hopelessly 
incorrigible.  With  Cicero  he  but  partially  suc- 
ceeded. The  great  orator  solved  the  problem 
of  the  situation  by  going  away  into  the  country 
and  remaining  there  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
year,  and  Caesar  had  to  do  without  an  assistance 
which,  in  the  speaking  department,  would  have 
been  invaluable  to  him.  His  first  step  was  to 
order  the  publication  of  the  "Acta  Diurna," 
a  daily  journal  of  the  doings  of  the  Senate. 
The  light  of  day  being  thrown  in  upon  that 
august  body  might  prevent  honourable  mem- 
bers from  laying  hands  on  each  other  as  they 
had  lately  done,  and  might  enable  the  people 
to  know  what  was  going  on  among  them  — 
on  a  better  authority  than  rumour.  He  then 
introduced  his  Agrarian  law,  the  rough  draft 
of  which  had  been  already  discussed,  and  had 
been  supported  by  Cicero  in  the  preceding  year. 
Had  he  meant  to  be  defiant,  like  the  Gracchi, 
he  might  have  offered  it  at  once  to  the  people. 
Instead  of  doing  so,  he  laid  it  before  the  Senate, 
inviting  them  to  amend  his  suggestions,  and 
promising  any  reasonable  concessions  if  they 
would  cooperate.  No  wrong  was  to  be  done 
to  any  existing  occupiers.  No  right  of  property 
was  to  be  violated  which  was  any  real  right  at 
all.  Large  tracts  in  Campania  which  belonged 
to  the  State  were  now  held  on  the  usual  easy 
terms  by  great  landed  patricians.  These 
Caesar  proposed  to  buy  out,  and  to  settle  on 
the  ground  twenty  thousand  of  Pompey's 
veterans.  There  was  money  enough  and  to 
spare  in  the  treasury,  which  they  had  themselves 
brought  home.  Out  of  the  large  funds  which 
would  still  remain,  land  might  be  purchased 
in  other  parts  of  Italy  for  the  rest,  and  for  a  few 
thousand  of  the  unemployed  population  which 
was  crowded  into  Rome.  The  measure  in  it- 
self was  admitted  to  be  a  moderate  one. 
Every  pains  had  been  taken  to  spare  the  in- 
terests and  to  avoid  hurting  the  susceptibili- 
ties of  the  aristocrats.     But,  as  Cicero  said,  the 


C^SAR:     A    SKETCH 


451 


very  name  of  an  Agrarian  law  was  intolerable 
to  them.  It  meant  in  the  end  spoliation  and 
division  of  property,  and  the  first  step  would 
bring  others  after  it.  The  public  lands  they  had 
shared  conveniently  among  themselves  from 
immemorial  time.  The  public  treasure  was 
their  treasure,  to  be  laid  out  as  they  might  think 
proper.  Cato  headed  the  opposition.  He 
stormed  for  an  entire  day,  and  was  so  violent 
that  Caesar  threatened  him  with  arrest.  The 
Senate  groaned  and  foamed;  no  progress  was 
made  or  was  likely  to  be  made ;  and  Cfesar,  as 
much  in  earnest  as  they  were,  had  to  tell  them 
that  if  they  would  not  help  him,  he  must  appeal 
to  the  assembly.  "I  invited  you  to  revise  the 
law,"  he  said;  "I  was  willing  that  if  any  clause 
displeased  you  it  should  be  expunged.  You 
will  not  touch  it.  Well,  then,  the  people  must 
decide." 

The  Senate  had  made  up  their  minds  to 
fight  the  battle.  If  Caesar  went  to  the  assembly, 
Bibulus,  their  second  consul,  might  stop  the 
proceedings.  If  this  seemed  too  extreme  a 
step,  custom  provided  other  impediments,  to 
which  recourse  might  be  had.  Bibulus  might 
survey  the  heavens,  watch  the  birds,  or  the 
clouds,  or  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and 
declare  the  aspects  unfavourable;  or  he  might 
proclaim  day  after  day  to  be  holy,  and  on  holy 
days  no  legislation  was  permitted.  Should 
these  religious  cobwebs  be  brushed  away,  the 
Senate  had  provided  a  further  resource  in 
three  of  the  tribunes  whom  they  had  bribed. 
Thus  they  held  themselves  secure,  and  dared 
Caesar  to  do  his  worst,  Caesar  on  his  side 
was  equally  determined.  The  assembly  was 
convoked.  The  Forum  was  choked  to  over- 
flowing. Caesar  and  Pompey  stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  Temple  of  Castor,  and  Bibulus 
and  his  tribunes  were  at  hand  ready  with  their 
interpellations.  Such  passions  had  not  been 
roused  in  Rome  since  the  days  of  Cinna  and 
Octavius,  and  many  a  young  lord  was  doubt- 
less hoping  that  the  day  would  not  close  with- 
out another  lesson  to  ambitious  demagogues 
and  howling  mobs.  In  their  eyes  the  one  re- 
form which  Rome  needed  was  another  Sylla. 

Caesar  read  his  law  from  the  tablet  on  which 
it  was  inscribed;  and,  still  courteous  to  his 
antagonist,  he  turned  to  Bibulus  and  asked 
him  if  he  had  any  fault  to  find.  Bibulus  said 
sullenly  that  he  wanted  no  revolutions,  and  that 
while  he  was  consul  there  should  be  none. 
The  people  hissed;  and  he  then  added  in  a 
rage,  "You  shall  not  have  your  law  this  year 
though  every  man  of  you  demand  it."     Caesar 


answered  nothing,  but  Pompey  and  Crassus 
stood  forward.  They  were  not  oflicials,  but 
they  were  real  forces.  Pompey  was  the  idol 
of  every  soldier  in  the  State,  and  at  Caesar's 
invitation  he  addressed  the  assembly.  He 
spoke  for  his  veterans.  He  spoke  for  the  poor 
citizens.  He  said  that  he  approved  the  law  to 
the  last  letter  of  it. 

"Will  you,  then,"  asked  Caesar,  "support 
the  law  if  it  be  illegally  ojjposed?"  "Since," 
replied  Pompey,  "you,  consul,  and  you,  my 
fellow  citizens,  ask  aid  of  me,  a  poor  individual 
without  oflice  and  without  authority,  who  nev- 
ertheless has  done  some  service  to  the  Slate, 
I  say  that  I  will  bear  the  shield,  if  others  draw 
the  sword."  Applause  rang  out  from  a  hun- 
dred thousand  throats.  Crassus  followed  to  the 
same  purpose,  and  was  received  with  the  same 
wild  delight.  A  few  senators,  who  retained 
their  senses,  saw  the  uselessness  of  opposition, 
and  retired.  Bibulus  was  of  duller  and  tougher 
metal.  As  the  vote  was  about  to  be  taken  he 
and  his  tribunes  rushed  to  the  rostra.  The 
tribunes  pronounced  their  veto.  Bibulus  said 
that  he  had  consulted  the  sky ;  the  gods  forbade 
further  action  being  taken  that  day,  and  he 
declared  the  assembly  dissolved.  Nay,  as  if  a 
man  like  Caesar  could  be  stopped  by  a  shadow, 
he  proposed  to  sanctify  the  whole  remainder 
of  the  year,  that  no  further  business  might 
be  transacted  in  it.  Yells  drowned  his  voice. 
The  mob  rushed  upon  the  steps;  Bibulus  was 
thrown  down,  and  the  rods  of  the  lictors  were 
broken;  the  tribunes  who  had  betrayed  their 
order  were  beaten ;  Cato  held  his  ground,  and 
stormed  at  Caesar,  till  he  was  led  off  by  the 
police,  raving  and  gesticulating.  The  law  was 
then  passed,  and  a  resolution  besides,  that  every 
senator  should  take  an  oath  to  obey  it. 

So  in  ignominy  the  Senate's  resistance  col- 
lapsed :  the  Cs-sar  whom  they  had  thought  to 
put  off  with  their  "woods  and  forests"  had 
proved  stronger  than  the  whole  of  them;  and, 
prostrate  at  the  first  round  of  the  battle,  they 
did  not  attempt  another.  They  met  the  follow- 
ing morning.  Bii)ulus  told  his  story,  and  ap- 
pealed for  support.  Had  the  Senate  complied, 
they  would  probably  have  ceased  to  exist. 
The  oath  was  un])alatai:)le,  but  they  made  the 
best  of  it.  Aletellus  Celer,  Cato,  and  Favonius, 
a  senator  whom  men  called  Cato's  ape,  strug- 
gled against  their  fate,  but,  "  swearing  they  would 
ne'er  consent,  consented."  The  unwelcome 
formula  was  swallowed  by  the  whole  of  them ; 
and  Bibulus,  who  had  done  his  part,  and  had 
been  beaten  and  kicked  and  trampled  upon, 


452 


JAMES    ANTHONY    FROUDE 


and  now  found  his  employers  afraid  to  stand 
by  him,  went  off  sulkily  to  his  house,  shut  him- 
self up  there,  and  refused  to  act  as  consul 
further  during  the  remainder  of  the  year. 

There  was  no  further  active  opposition.  A 
commission  was  appointed  by  Cssar  to  carry 
out  the  Land  Act,  composed  of  twenty  of  the 
best  men  that  could  be  found,  one  of  them 
being  Atius  Balbus,  the  husband  of  Caesar's 
only  sister,  and  grandfather  of  a  little  child 
now  three  years  old,  who  was  known  after- 
wards to  the  world  as  Augustus.  Cicero  was 
offered  a  place,  but  declined.  The  land  ques- 
tion having  been  disposed  of,  Caesar  then  pro- 
ceeded with  the  remaining  measures  by  which 
his  consulship  was  immortalised.  He  had  re- 
deemed his  promise  to  Pompey  by  providing 
for  his  soldiers.  He  gratified  Crassus  by  giving 
the  desired  relief  to  the  farmers  of  the  taxes. 
He  confirmed  Pompey's  arrangements  for  the 
government  of  Asia,  which  the  Senate  had  left 
in  suspense.  The  Senate  was  now  itself  sus- 
pended. The  consul  acted  directly  with  the 
assembly,  without  obstruction,  and  without 
remonstrance,  Bibulus  only  from  time  to  time 
sending  out  monotonous  admonitions  from 
within  doors  that  the  season  was  consecrated, 
and  that  Caesar's  acts  had  no  validity.  Still 
more  remarkably,  and  as  the  distinguishing 
feature  of  his  term  of  office,  Caesar  carried, 
with  the  help  of  the  people,  the  body  of  ad- 
mirable laws  which  are  known  to  jurists  as  the 
"Leges  Juliae,"  and  mark  an  epoch  in  Roman 
history.  They  were  laws  as  unwelcome  to  the 
aristocracy  as  they  were  essential  to  the  con- 
tinued e.xistence  of  the  Roman  State,  laws  which 
had  been  talked  of  in  the  Senate,  but  which 
could  never  pass  through  the  preliminary  stage 
of  resolutions,  and  were  now  enacted  over  the 
Senate's  head  by  the  will  of  Cassar  and  the 
sovereign  power  of  the  nation.  A  mere  out- 
line can  alone  be  attempted  here.  There  was 
a  law  declaring  the  inviolability  of  the  persons 
of  magistrates  during  their  term  of  authority, 
reflecting  back  on  the  murder  of  Saturninus, 
and  touching  by  impHcation  the  kiUing  of 
Lentulus  and  his  companions.  There  was  a 
law  for  the  punishment  of  adultery,  most  dis- 
interestedly singular  if  the  popular  accounts  of 
Caesar's  habits  had  any  grain  of  truth  in  them. 
There  were  laws  for  the  protection  of  the  sub- 
ject from  violence,  public  or  private ;  and  laws 
disabling  persons  who  had  laid  hands  illegally 
on  Roman  citizens  from  holding  office  in  the 
Commonwealth.  There  was  a  law,  intended 
at  last  to  be  effective,  to  deal  with  judges  who 


allowed  themselves  to  be  bribed.  There  were 
laws  against  defrauders  of  the  revenue;  laws 
against  debasing  the  coin;  laws  against  sacri- 
lege; laws  against  corrupt  State  contracts; 
laws  against  bribery  at  elections.  Finally, 
there  was  a  law,  carefully  framed,  De  repetundis, 
to  exact  retribution  from  pro-consuls  or  pro- 
praetors of  the  type  of  Verres,  who  had  plun- 
dered the  provinces.  All  governors  were  re- 
quired, on  relinquishing  office,  to  make  a  double 
return  of  their  accounts,  one  to  remain  for  in- 
spection among  the  archives  of  the  province, 
and  one  to  be  sent  to  Rome;  and  where  pecu- 
lation or  injustice  could  be  proved,  the  offender's 
estate  was  made  answerable  to  the  last  sesterce. 

Such  laws  were  words  only,  without  the  will 
to  execute  them;  but  they  affirmed  the  prin- 
ciples on  which  Roman  or  any  other  society 
could  alone  continue.  It  was  for  the  officials 
of  the  constitution  to  adopt  them,  and  save 
themselves  and  the  Republic,  or  to  ignore 
them  as  they  had  ignored  the  laws  which  already 
existed,  and  see  it  perish  as  it  deserved.  All 
that  man  could  do  for  the  preservation  of  his 
country  from  revolution  Caesar  had  accom- 
plished. Sylla  had  reestablished  the  rule  of 
the  aristocracy,  and  it  had  failed  grossly  and 
disgracefully.  Cinna  and  Marius  had  tried 
democracy,  and  that  had  failed.  Caesar  was 
trying  what  law  would  do,  and  the  result  re- 
mained to  be  seen.  Bibulus,  as  each  measure 
was  passed,  croaked  that  it  was  null  and  void. 
The  leaders  of  the  Senate  threatened  between 
their  teeth  that  all  should  be  undone  when 
Caesar's  term  was  over.  Cato,  when  he  men- 
tioned the  "Leges  Juliae,"  spoke  of  them  as 
enactments,  but  refused  them  their  author's 
name.  But  the  excellence  of  these  laws  was 
so  clearly  recognised  that  they  survived  the 
irregularity  of  their  introduction ;  and  the  "Lex 
de  Repetundis"  especially  remained  a  terror 
to  evildoers,  with  a  promise  of  better  days 
to  the  miserable  and  pillaged  subjects  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

So  the  year  of  Caesar's  consulship  passed 
away.  What  was  to  happen  when  it  had  ex- 
pired? The  Senate  had  provided  "the  woods 
and  forests"  for  him.  But  the  Senate's  pro- 
vision in  such  a  matter  could  not  be  expected 
to  hold.  He  asked  for  nothing,  but  he  was 
known  to  desire  an  opportunity  of  distinguished 
service.  Caesar  was  now  forty-three.  His 
life  was  ebbing  away,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  his  two  years  in  Spain,  it  had  been  spent  in 
struggling  with  the  base  elements  of  Roman 
faction.     Great  men  will  bear  such  sordid  work 


CESAR:     A    SKETCH 


453 


when  it  is  laid  on  them,  but  they  loathe  it  not- 
withstanding, and  for  the  present  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  A  new  point  of 
departure  had  been  taken.  Principles  had 
been  laid  down  for  the  Senate  and  people  to 
act  on,  if  they  could  and  would.  Ciesar  could 
only  wish  for  a  long  absence  in  some  new  sphere 
of  usefulness,  where  he  could  achieve  some- 
thing really  great  which  his  country  would 
remember. 

And  on  one  side  only  was  such  a  sphere  open 
to  him.  The  East  was  Roman  to  the  Eu- 
phrates. No  second  Mithridates  could  loosen 
the  grasp  with  which  the  legions  now  held  the 
civilised  parts  of  Asia.  Parthians  might  dis- 
turb the  frontier,  but  could  not  seriously 
threaten  the  Eastern  dominions;  and  no  ad- 
vantage was  promised  by  following  on  the  steps 
of  Ale.xander,  and  annexing  countries  too  poor 
to  bear  the  cost  of  their  maintenance.  To 
the  west  it  was  different.  Beyond  the  Alps 
there  was  still  a  territory  of  unknown  extent, 
stretching  away  to  the  undefined  ocean,  a 
territory  peopled  with  warlike  races,  some  of 
whom  in  ages  long  past  had  swept  over  Italy 
and  taken  Rome,  and  had  left  their  descendants 
and  their  name  in  the  northern  province,  which 
was  now  called  Cisalpine  Gaul.  With  these 
races  the  Romans  had  as  yet  no  clear  rela- 
tions, and  from  them  alone  could  any  serious 
danger  threaten  the  State.  The  Gauls  had 
for  some  centuries  ceased  their  wanderings, 
had  settled  down  in  fixed  localities.  They  had 
built  towns  and  bridges;  they  had  cultivated 
the  soil,  and  had  become  wealthy  and  partly 
civilised.  With  the  tribes  adjoining  Provence 
the  Romans  had  alliances  more  or  less  precari- 
ous, and  had  established  a  kind  of  protectorate 
over  them.  But  even  here  the  inhabitants  were 
uneasy  for  their  independence,  and  troui)les 
were  continually  arising  with  them ;  while  into 
these  districts  and  into  the  rest  of  Gaul  a  fresh 
and  stormy  element  was  now  being  introduced. 
In  earlier  times  the  Gauls  had  been  stronger 
than  the  Germans,  and  not  only  could  they  pro- 
tect their  own  frontier,  but  they  had  formed 
settlements  beyond  the  Rhine.  These  rela- 
tions were  being  changed.  The  Gauls,  as 
they  grew  in  wealth,  declined  in  vigour.  The 
Germans,  still  roving  and  migratory,  were 
throwing  covetous  eyes  out  of  their  forests 
on  the  fields  and  vineyards  of  their  neighbours, 
and  enormous  numbers  of  them  were  crossing 
the  Rhine  and  Danube,  looking  for  new  homes. 
How  feeble  a  barrier  either  the  Alps  or  the 
Gauls   themselves   might   prove   against   such 


invaders  had  been  but  too  recently  experienced. 
Men  who  were  of  middle  age  at  the  time  of 
Caesar's  consulship  could  still  remember  the 
terrors  which  had  been  caused  by  the  in\asion 
of  the  Cimbri  and  Teutons.  Marius  had  saved 
Italy  then  from  destruction,  as  it  were,  by  the 
hair  of  its  head.  The  annihilation  of  those 
hordes  had  given  Rome  a  passing  respite.  But 
fresh  generations  had  grown  up.  Fresh  multi- 
tudes were  streaming  out  of  the  North.  Ger- 
mans in  hundreds  of  thousands  were  again 
passing  the  Upper  Rhine,  rooting  themselves 
in  Burgundy,  and  coming  in  collision  with 
tril)es  which  Rome  protected.  There  were 
uneasy  movements  among  the  Gauls  themselves, 
whole  nations  of  them  breaking  up  from  their 
homes  and  again  adrift  upon  the  world.  Gaul 
and  Germany  were  like  a  volcano  giving  signs 
of  approaching  eruption ;  and,  at  any  moment 
and  hardly  with  warning,  another  lava  stream 
might  be  pouring  down  into  Venetia  and  Lom- 
bardy. 

To  deal  with  this  danger  was  the  work 
marked  out  for  Csesar.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
say  that  he  sought  a  military  command  that  he 
might  have  an  army  behind  him  to  overthrow 
the  constitution.  If  this  was  his  object,  am- 
bition never  chose  a  more  dangerous  or  less 
promising  route  for  itself.  IVIcn  of  genius  who 
accomplish  great  things  in  this  world  do  not 
trouble  themselves  with  remote  and  visionary 
aims.  They  encounter  emergencies  as  they 
rise,  and  leave  the  future  to  shape  itself  as  it 
may.  It  would  seem  that  at  first  the  defence 
of  Italy  was  all  that  was  thought  of.  "The 
woods  and  forests"  were  set  aside,  and  Ca?sar, 
by  a  vote  of  the  people,  was  given  the  command 
of  Cisalpine  Gaul  and  Illyria  for  five  years; 
but  either  he  himself  desired,  or  especial  cir- 
cumstances which  were  taking  place  beyond 
the  mountains  recommended,  that  a  wider 
scope  should  be  allowed  him.  The  Senate, 
finding  that  the  people  would  act  without  them 
if  they  hesitated,  gave  him  in  addition  Gallia 
Comata,  the  land  of  the  Gauls  with  the  long 
hair,  the  governorship  of  the  Roman  province 
beyond  the  Alps,  with  untrammelled  liberty 
to  act  as  he  might  think  good  throughout  the 
country  which  is  now  known  as  France  and 
Switzerland  and  the  Rhine  provinces  of  Ger- 
many. 

He  was  to  start  early  in  the  approaching  year. 
It  was  necessary  before  he  went  to  make  some 
provision  for  the  quiet  government  of  the 
capital.  The  alliance  with  Pompey  and 
Crassus    gave    temj)orary    security.      Pompey 


454 


JAMES    ANTHONY    FROUDE 


had  loss  stability  of  character  tlian  could  have 
been  wished,  but  he  became  attached  to  C;vsar's 
daughter  Julia;  and  a  fresh  link  of  marriage 
was  formed  to  hold  them  together.  Civsar 
himself  married  Calpurnia.  the  daughter  of 
Calpurnius  Piso.  The  Senate  having  tem- 
porarily abdicated,  he  was  able  to  guide  the 
elections;  and  Piso  and  Pompey's  friend 
Gabinius,  who  had  obtained  the  command  of 
the  pirate  war  for  him,  were  chosen  consuls 
for  the  year  58.  Neither  of  them,  if  we  can 
believe  a  tithe  of  Cicero's  invective,  was  good 
for  much;  but  they  were  staunch  partisans, 
and  were  to  be  relied  on  to  resist  any  etTorts 
which  might  be  made  to  repeal  the  ''Leges 
Tuli;e."  These  matters  being  arranged,  and 
his  own  term  having  expired.  Caesar  withdrew, 
according  to  custom,  to  the  suburbs  beyond 
the  walls  to  collect  troops  and  prepare  for  his 
departure.  Strange  things,  however,  had  yet 
to  happen  before  he  was  gone. 

It  is  easv  to  conceive  how  the  Senate  felt 
at  these  transactions,  how  ill  they  bore  to  find 
themselves  superseded,  and  the  State  managed 
over  their  heads.  Fashionable  society  was 
equally  furious,  and  the  three  allies  went  by 
the  name  of  Dynasts,  or  "Reges  Superbi.'' 
After  resistance  had  been  abandoned,  Cicero 
came  back  to  Rome  to  make  cynical  remarks 
from  which  all  parties  sulYered  equally.  His 
special  grievance  was  the  want  of  considera- 
tion which  he  conceived  to  have  been  shown 
for  himself.  He  mocked  at  the  Senate;  he 
mocked  at  Bibulus.  whom  he  particularly 
abominated;  he  mocked  at  Pompey  and  the 
Agrarian  law.  Mockery  turned  to  indignation 
when  he  thought  of  the  ingratitude  of  the 
Senate,  and  his  chief  consolation  in  their  dis- 
comfiture was  that  it  had  fallen  on  them  through 
the  neglect  of  their  most  distinguished  member. 
'T  could  have  saved  them,  if  they  would  have 
let  me.'"  he  said.  'T  could  save  them  still, 
if  I  were  to  try;  but  I  will  go  study  philosophy 
in  my  own  family."  ■"  Freedom  is  gone,''  he 
wrote  to  Atticus;  "and  if  we  are  to  be  worse 
enslaved,  we  shall  bear  it.  Our  lives  and 
properties  are  more  to  us  than  libert}'.  We 
sigh,  and  we  do  not  even  remonstrate." 

Cato.  in  the  desperation  of  passion,  called 
Pompey  a  Dictator  in  the  assembly,  and  nearly 
escaped  being  killed  for  his  pains.  The  pa- 
tricians revenged  themselves  in  private  by 
savage  speeches  and  plots  and  purposes. 
Fashionable  society  gathered  in  the  theatres 
and  hissed  the  popular  leaders.  Lines  were 
introduced  into  the  plays  reflecting  on  Pompey, 


and  were  encored  a  thousand  times.  Bibulus 
from  his  closet  continued  to  issue  venomous 
placards,  reporting  scandals  about  Ctesar's 
life,  and  now  for  the  first  time  bringing  up  the 
story  of  Nicomedes.  The  streets  were  impas- 
sable where  these  papers  were  pasted  up,  from 
the  crowds  of  loungers  which  were  gathered  to 
read  them,  and  Bibulus  for  the  moment  was 
the  hero  of  patrician  saloons.  Some  malicious 
comfort  Cicero  gathered  out  of  these  mani- 
festations of  feeling.  He  had  no  belief  in  the 
noble  lords,  and  small  expectations  from  them. 
Bibulus  was,  on  the  whole,  a  fit  representa- 
tive for  the  gentry  of  the  fishponds.  But  the 
Dynasts  were  at  least  heartily  detested  in 
quarters  which  had  once  been  powerful,  and 
might  be  powerful  again ;  and  he  flattered  him- 
self, though  he  aft'ected  to  regret  it,  that  the 
animositv  against  them  was  spreading.  To  all 
parties  there  is  attached  a  draggled  trail  of 
disreputables,  who  hold  themselves  entitled 
to  benefits  when  their  side  is  in  power,  and  are 
angry  when  they  are  passed  over. 

"The  State,"  Cicero  wrote  in  the  autumn 
of  59  to  Atticus,  "is  in  a  worse  condition  than 
%\hcn  you  left  us;  then  we  thought  that  we  had 
fallen  under  a  power  which  pleased  the  people, 
and  which,  though  abhorrent  to  the  good,  yet 
was  not  totally  destructive  to  them.  Now 
all  hate  it  equally,  and  we  are  in  terror  as  to 
where  the  exasperation  may  break  out.  We 
had  experienced  the  ill-temper  and  irritation 
of  those  who  in  their  anger  with  Cato  had 
brought  ruin  on  us;  but  the  poison  worked  so 
slowly  that  it  seemed  we  might  die  without 
pain.  —  I  hoped,  as  I  often  told  you,  that  the 
wheel  of  the  constitution  was  so  turning  that 
we  should  scarcely  hear  a  sound  or  see  any 
visible  track;  and  so  it  would  have  been  could 
men  have  waited  for  the  tempest  to  pass  over 
them.  But  the  secret  sighs  turned  to  groans, 
and  the  groans  to  universal  clamour;  and  thus 
our  friend  Pompey,  who  so  lately  swam  in 
glor}',  and  never  heard  an  evil  word  of  himself, 
is  broken-hearted,  and  knows  not  whither  to 
turn.  A  precipice  is  before  him,  and  to  retreat 
is  dangerous.  The  good  are  against  him  — 
the  bad  are  not  his  friends.  I  could  scarce 
help  weeping  the  other  day  when  I  heard  him 
complaining  in  the  Forum  of  the  pubHcations 
of  Bibulus.  He  who  but  a  short  time  since 
bore  himself  so  proudly  there,  with  the  people 
in  raptures  with  him,  and  with  the  world  on 
his  side,  was  now  so  humble  and  abject  as  to 
disgust  even  himself,  not  to  say  his  hearers. 
Crassus  enjoyed  the  scene,  but  no  one  else. 


C^SAR:     A    SKETCH 


455 


Pompey  had  fallen  down  out  of  the  stars  — 
not  by  a  gradual  descent,  but  in  a  single  plunge; 
and  as  Apelles  if  he  had  seen  his  Venus,  or 
Protogenes  his  lalysus,  all  daubed  with  mud, 
would  have  been  vexed  and  annoyed,  so  was  I 
grieved  to  the  very  heart  to  see  one  whom  I  had 
painted  out  in  the  choicest  colours  of  art  thus 
suddenly  defaced.  —  Pompey  is  sick  with  irri- 
tation at  the  placards  of  Bibulus.  I  am  sorry 
about  them;  they  give  such  excessive  annoy- 
ance to  a  man  whom  I  have  always  liked. 
And  Pompey  is  so  prompt  with  his  sword,  and 
so  unaccustomed  to  insult,  that  I  fear  what  he 
may  do.  What  the  future  may  have  in  store 
for  Bibulus  I  know  not.  At  present  he  is  the 
admired  of  all." 

"Sampsiceramus,"  Cicero  wrote  a  few  days 
later,  "is  greatly  penitent.  He  would  gladly 
be  restored  to  the  eminence  from  which  he 
has  fallen.  Sometimes  he  imparts  his  griefs  to 
me,  and  asks  me  what  he  should  do,  which  I 
cannot  tell  him." 

Unfortunate  Cicero,  who  knew  what  was 
right,  but  was  too  proud  to  do  it !  Unfortunate 
Pompey,  who  still  did  what  was  right,  but  was 
too  sensitive  to  l)ear  the  reproach  of  it,  who 
would  so  gladly  not  leave  his  duty  unperformed, 
and  yet  keep  the  "sweet  voices"  whose  ap- 
plause had  grown  so  delicious  to  him  !  BiV)ulus 
was  in  no  danger.  Pompey  was  too  good-na- 
tured to  hurt  him;  and  Ciesar  let  fools  say 
what  they  pleased,  as  long  as  they  were  fools 
without  teeth,  who  would  bark  but  could  not 
bite.  The  risk  was  to  Cicero  himself,  little  as 
he  seemed  to  be  aware  of  it.  Caesar  was  to 
be  long  absent  from  Rome,  and  he  knew  that 
as  soon  as  he  was  engaged  in  Gaul  the  extreme 
oligarchic  faction  would  make  an  effort  to  set 
aside  his  Land  Commission  and  undo  his 
legislation.  When  he  had  a  clear  purpose  in 
view,  and  was  satisfied  that  it  was  a  good 
purpose,  he  was  never  scrupulous  about  his  in- 
struments. It  was  said  of  him,  that  when  he 
wanted  any  work  done,  he  chose  the  persons 
best  able  to  do  it,  let  their  general  character  be 
what  it  might.  The  rank  and  file  of  the  pa- 
tricians, proud,  idle,  vicious,  and  self-indulgent, 
might  be  left  to  their  mistresses  and  their 
gaming-tables.  They  could  do  no  mischief, 
unless  they  had  leaders  at  their  head,  who 
could  use  their  resources  more  effectively  than 
they  could  do  themselves.  There  were  two 
men  only  in  Rome  with  whose  help  they  could 
be  really  dangerous  —  Cato,  because  he  was  a 
fanatic,  impregnable  to  argument,  and  not  to 
be  influenced  by  temptation  of  advantage  to 


hiniself;  Cicero,  on  account  of  his  extreme 
aliility,  his  personal  ambition,  and  his  want 
of  yjolitical  principle.  Cato  he  knew  to  U-  im- 
I)racticable.  Cicero  he  had  tried  to  gain ;  but 
Cicero,  who  had  played  a  first  part  as  consul, 
could  not  bring  him.self  to  play  a  second,  and, 
if  the  chance  ofi"ered,  had  both  power  and  will 
to  be  troublesome.  Some  means  had  to  be 
found  to  get  rid  of  these  two,  or  at  least  to  tie 
their  hands  and  to  keep  them  in  order.  There 
would  be  Pompey  and  Crassus  still  at  hand. 
But  Pomi)ey  was  weak,  and  Crassus  under- 
stood nothing  beyond  the  art  of  manipulating 
money.  Gabinius  and  Piso,  the  next  consuls, 
had  an  indifferent  reputation  and  narrow 
aljilities,  and  at  best  they  would  have  but 
their  one  year  of  authority.  Politics,  like  love, 
makes  strange  bedfellows.  In  this  difl'iculty 
accident  threw  in  Caesar's  way  a  convenient 
but  most  unexpected  ally. 

Young  Clodius,  after  his  escape  from  pro- 
secution by  the  mar\'ellous  methods  which 
Crassus  had  provided  for  him,  was  more  popu- 
lar than  ever.  He  had  been  the  occasion  of  a 
scandal  which  had  brought  infamy  on  the  de- 
tested Senate.  His  offence  in  itself  seemed 
venial  in  so  loose  an  age,  and  was  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  enormity  of  his  judges.  He 
had  come  out  of  his  trial  with  a  determination 
to  be  revenged  on  the  persons  from  whose 
tongues  he  had  suffered  most  severely  in  the 
senatorial  debates.  Of  these  Cato  had  been 
the  most  savage ;  but  Cicero  had  been  the  most 
exasperating,  from  his  sarcasms,  his  airs  of 
patronage,  and  perhaps  his  intimacy  with  his 
sister.  The  noble  youth  had  exhausted  the 
common  forms  of  pleasure.  He  wanted  a  new 
excitement,  and  politics  and  vengeance  might 
be  combined.  He  was  as  clever  as  he  was 
dissolute,  and,  as  clever  men  are  fortunately 
rare  in  the  licentious  part  of  society,  they  are 
always  idolised,  because  they  make  vice  respect- 
able by  connecting  it  with  intellect.  Clodius 
was  a  second,  an  abler  Catiline,  equally  un- 
principled, and  far  more  dexterous  and  prudent. 
In  times  of  revolution  there  is  always  a  disrepu- 
table wing  to  the  radical  party,  composed  of  men 
who  are  the  natural  enemies  of  established 
authority,  and  these  all  rallied  about  their  new 
leader  with  devout  enthusiasm.  Clodius  was 
not  without  political  experience.  His  first 
public  appearance  had  been  as  leader  of  a 
mutiny.  He  was  already  quicstor,  and  so  a 
senator;  but  he  was  too  young  to  aspire  to  the 
higher  magistracies  which  were  o]")en  to  him 
as  a  patrician.     He  declared  his  intention  of 


456 


JAMES    ANTHONY    FROUDE 


renouncing  his  order,  becoming  a  plebeian,  and 
standing  for  the  tribuneship  of  the  people. 
There  were  precedents  for  such  a  step,  but  they 
were  rare.  The  abdicating  noble  had  to  be 
adopted  into  a  plebeian  family,  and  the  consent 
was  required  of  the  consuls  and  of  the  Pon- 
tifical College.  With  the  growth  of  political 
equality  the  aristocracy  had  become  more 
insistent  upon  the  privilege  of  birth,  which 
could  not  be  taken  from  them;  and  for  a 
Claudius  to  descend  among  the  commoners  was 
as  if  a  Howard  were  to  seek  adoption  from  a 
shopkeeper  in  the  Strand. 

At  first  there  was  universal  amazement. 
Cicero  had  used  the  intrigue  with  Pompeia 
as  a  text  for  a  sermon  on  the  immoralities  of  the 
age.  The  aspirations  of  Clodius  to  be  a  trib- 
une he  ridiculed  as  an  illustration  of  its  follies, 
and  after  scourging  him  in  the  Senate,  he 
laughed  at  him  and  jested  with  him  in  private. 
Cicero  did  not  understand  with  how  venomous 
a  snake  he  was  playing.  He  even  thought 
Claudius  likely  to  turn  against  the  Dynasts, 
and  to  become  a  serviceable  member  of  the 
conservative  party.  Gradually  he  was  forced 
to  open  his  eyes.  Speeches  were  reported  to 
him  as  coming  from  Clodius  or  his  allies 
threatening  an  inquiry  into  the  death  of  the 
Catilinarians.  At  first  he  pushed  his  alarms 
aside,  as  unworthy  of  him.  What  had  so  great 
a  man  as  he  to  fear  from  a  young  reprobate 
like  "the  pretty  boy"?  The  "pretty  boy," 
however,  found  favour  where  it  was  least  looked 
for.  Pompey  supported  his  adventure  for  the 
tribuneship.  Caesar,  though  it  was  Caesar's 
house  which  he  had  violated,  did  not  oppose. 
Bibulus  refused  consent,  but  Bibulus  had 
virtually  abdicated,  and  went  for  nothing. 
The  legal  forms  were  complied  with.  Clodius 
found  a  commoner  younger  than  himself  who 
was  willing  to  adopt  him,  and  who,  the  day 
after  the  ceremony,  released  him  from  the  new 
paternal  authority.  He  was  now  a  plebeian, 
and  free.  He  remained  a  senator  in  virtue 
of  his  quaestorship,  and  he  was  chosen  tribune 
of  the  people  for  the  year  58. 

Cicero  was  at  last  startled  out  of  his  security. 
So  long  as  the  consuls,  or  one  of  them,  could  be 
depended  on,  a  tribune's  power  was  insignifi- 
cant. When  the  consuls  were  of  his  own  way 
of  thinking,  a  tribune  was  a  very  important 
personage  indeed.  Atticus  was  alarmed  for 
his  friend,  and  cautioned  him  to  look  to  him- 
self. Warnings  came  from  all  quarters  that 
mischief  was  in  the  wind.  Still  it  was  impos- 
sible to  believe  the   peril  to  be  a  real  one. 


Cicero,  to  whom  Rome  owed  its  existence,  to 
be  struck  at  by  a  Clodius !  It  could  not  be. 
As  little  could  a  wasp  hurt  an  elephant. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Caesar  knew 
what  Clodius  had  in  his  mind;  or  that,  if  the 
design  was  not  his  own,  he  had  purposely 
allowed  it  to  go  forward.  Caesar  did  not  wish 
to  hurt  Cicero.  He  wished  well  to  him,  and 
admired  him;  but  he  did  not  mean  to  leave 
him  free  in  Rome  to  lead  a  senatorial  reaction. 
A  prosecution  for  the  execution  of  the  prison- 
ers was  now  distinctly  announced.  Cicero  as 
consul  had  put  to  death  Roman  citizens  with- 
out a  trial.  Cicero  was  to  be  called  to  answer 
for  the  illegality  before  the  sovereign  people. 
The  danger  was  unmistakable;  and  Caesar, 
who  was  still  in  the  suburbs  making  his 
preparations,  invited  Cicero  to  avoid  it,  by  ac- 
companying him  as  second  in  command  into 
Gaul.  The  offer  was  made  in  unquestionable 
sincerity.  Cassar  may  himself  have  created  the 
situation  to  lay  Cicero  under  a  pressure,  but 
he  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to  take  him  as 
his  companion,  and  to  attach  him  to  himself. 
Cicero  felt  the  compliment  and  hesitated  to 
refuse,  but  his  pride  again  came  in  his  way. 
Pompey  assured  him  that  not  a  hair  of  his 
head  should  be  touched.  Why  Pompey  gave 
him  this  encouragement  Cicero  could  never 
afterwards  understand.  The  scenes  in  the 
theatres  had  also  combined  to  mislead  him,  and 
he  misread  the  disposition  of  the  great  body 
of  citizens.  He  imagined  that  they  would  ■ 
all  start  up  in  his  defence.  Senate,  aristocracy, 
knights,  commoners,  and  tradesmen.  The 
world,  he  thought,  looked  back  upon  his  con- 
sulship with  as  much  admiration  as  he  did 
himself,  and  was  always  contrasting  him  with 
his  successors.  Never  was  mistake  more 
profound.  The  Senate,  who  had  envied  his 
talents  and  resented  his  assumption,  now  de- 
spised him  as  a  trimmer.  His  sarcasms  had 
made  him  enemies  among  those  who  acted  with 
him  politically.  He  had  held  aloof  at  the  crisis 
of  Caesar's  election  and  in  the  debates  which 
followed,  and  therefore  all  sides  distrusted  him ; 
while  throughout  the  body  of  the  people  there 
was,  as  Caesar  had  foretold,  a  real  and  sustained 
resentment  at  the  conduct  of  the  Catiline 
affair.  The  final  opinion  of  Rome  was  that 
the  prisoners  ought  to  have  been  tried;  and 
that  they  were  not  tried  was  attributed  not 
unnaturally  to  a  desire,  on  the  part  of  the 
Senate,  to  silence  an  inquiry  which  might  have 
proved  inconvenient. 

Thus  suddenly  out  of  a  clear  sky  the  thunder- 


C^SAR:    A    SKETCH 


457 


clouds   gathered  over  Cicero's   head.      "Clo- 
dius,"  says  Dion  Cassius,  "had  discovered  that 
among  the  senators  Cicero  was  more  feared 
than  loved.     There  were  few  of  them  who  had 
not  been  hit  by  his  irony,  or  irritated  by  his 
presumption."     Those    who    most    agreed    in 
what  he  had  done  were  not  ashamed  to  shuffle 
off  upon  him  their  responsibilities.     Clodius, 
now  omnipotent  with  the  assembly  at  his  back, 
cleared  the  way  by  a  really  useful  step;    he 
carried  a  law  abolishing  the  impious  form  of 
declaring  the  heavens  unfavourable  when  an 
inconvenient  measure   was  to  be  stopped  or 
delayed.     Probably   it   formed  a   part   of  his 
engagement  with  Caesar.     The  law  may  have 
been  meant  to  act  retrospectively,  to  prevent 
a  question  being  raised  on  the  interpellations 
of  Bibulus.     This  done,  and  without  paying 
the  Senate  the  respect  of  first  consulting  it,  he 
gave  notice  that  he  would  propose  a  vote  to  the 
assembly,  to  the  effect  that  any  person  who  had 
put  to  death  a  Roman  citizen  without  trial, 
and  without  allowing  him    an    appeal  to  the 
people,  had  violated  the    constitution    of    the 
State.     Cicero  was  not  named  directly;    every 
senator  who  had  voted  for  the  execution  of 
Cethegus  and  Lentulus  and  their  companions 
was  as  guilty  as  he;    but  it  was  known  imme- 
diately that  Cicero  was  the  mark  that  was  being 
aimed  at,  and  Caesar  at  once  renewed  the  offer, 
which  he  made  before,  to  take  Cicero  with  him. 
Cicero,  now  frightened  in  earnest,  still  could 
not  bring  himself  to  owe  his  escape  to  Cccsar. 
The  Senate,  ungrateful  as  they  had  been,  put 
on  mourning  with  an  affectation  of  dismay. 
The  knights  petitioned  the  consuls  to  interfere 
for  Cicero's  protection.     The  consuls  declined 
to   receive   their  request.     Caesar  outside   the 
city  gave  no  further  sign.     A  meeting  of  the 
citizens  was  held  in  the  camp.     Caesar's  opinion 
was  invited.     He  said  that  he  had  not  changed 
his  sentiments.     He  had  remonstrated  at  the 
time  against  the  execution.     He  disapproved 
of  it  still,  but  he  did  not  directly  advise  legisla- 
tion upon  acts  that  were  past.     Yet,  though  he 
did  not  encourage  Clodius,  he  did  not  interfere. 
He  left  the  matter  to  the  consuls,  and  one  of 
them  was  his  own  father-in-law,  and  the  other 
was  Gabinius,  once  Pompey's  favourite  officer. 
Gabinius,  Cicero  thought,  would  respect  Pom- 
pey's   promise  to  him.     To  Piso    he    made    a 
personal  appeal.     He  found  him,  he  said  after- 
wards, at  eleven  in  the  morning,  in  his  slippers, 
at  a  low  tavern.     Piso  came  out,  reeking  with 
wine,  and  excused  himself  by  saying  that  his 
health   required   a  morning   draught.     Cicero 


affected  to  believe  his  apology;  and  he  stood  at 
the  tavern  door  as  long  as  he  could  bear  the 
smell  and  the  foul  language  and  the  expectora- 
tions of  the  consul.  Hope  in  that  quarter  there 
was  none.  Two  days  later  the  assembly  was 
called  to  consider  Clodius's  proposal.  Piso 
was  asked  to  say  what  he  thought  of  the  treat- 
ment of  the  conspirators;  he  answered  gravely, 
and,  as  Cicero  described  him,  with  one  eye  in 
his  forehead,  that  he  disapproved  of  cruelty. 
Neither  Pompey  nor  his  friends  came  to  help. 
What  was  Cicero  to  do?  Resist  by  force? 
The  young  knights  rallied  about  him  eager  for 
a  fight,  if  he  would  but  give  the  word.  Some- 
times, as  he  looked  back  in  after  years,  he 
blamed  himself  for  declining  their  ser\'ices, 
sometimes  he  took  credit  to  himself  for  refus- 
ing to  be  the  occasion  of  bloodshed. 

" I  was  too  timid,"  he  said  once;   "I  had  the 
country  with  me,  and  I  should  have  stood  firm. 
I  had  to  do  with  a  band  of  villains  only,  with 
two  monsters  of  consuls,  and  with  the  male 
harlot   of  rich   buffoons,   the   seducer  of  his 
sister,  the  high  priest  of  adultery,  a  poisoner,  a 
forger,  an  assassin,  a  thief.    The  best  and  brav- 
est citizens  implored  me  to  stand  up  to  him. 
But  I  reflected  that  this  Fury  asserted  that  he 
was  supported  by  Pompey  and  Crassus  and 
Caisar.     Csesar   had    an    army   at    the   gates. 
The  other  two  could  raise  another  army  when 
they  pleased;    and  when  they  knew  that  their 
names  were  thus  made  use  of,  they  remained 
silent.     They  were  alarmed,  perhaps,  because 
the  laws  which  they  had  carried  in  the  preceding 
year  were  challenged  by  the  new  praetors,  and 
were  held  by  the  Senate  to  be  invalid ;  and  they 
were  unwilling  to  alienate  a  popular  tribune." 
And  again  elsewhere:   "When  I  saw  that  the 
faction  of  Catiline  was  in  power,  that  the  party 
which  I  had  led,  some  from  envy  of  myself, 
some  from  fear  for  their  own  lives,  had  betrayed 
and  deserted  me;    when  the  two  consuls  had 
been  purchased  by  promises  of  provinces,  and 
had  gone  over  to  my  enemies,  and  the  condition 
of  the  bargain  was,  that  I  was  to  be  delivered 
over,  tied  and  bound,  to  my  enemies;  when  the 
Senate  and  knights  were  in  mourning,  but  were 
not  allowed  to  bring  my  cause  before  the  people ; 
when  my  blood  had  been  made  the  seal  of  the 
arrangement  under  which  the  State  had  been 
disposed  of;  when  I  saw  all  this,  although  'the 
good'  were  ready  to  fight  for  me,  and  were 
willing  to  die  for  me,  I  would  not  consent,  be- 
cause I  saw  that  victory  or  defeat  would  alike 
bring  ruin  to  the  Commonwealth.     The  Senate 
was   powerless.     The    Forum    was    ruled    by 


458 


GEORGE    ELIOT" 


violence.     In  such  a  city  there  was  no  place 
for  me." 

So  Cicero,  as  he  looked  back  afterwards, 
described  the  struggle  in  his  own  mind.  His 
friends  had  then  rallied;  Caesar  was  far  away; 
and  he  could  tell  his  own  story,  and  could  pile 
his  invectives  on  those  who  had  injured  him. 
His  matchless  literary  power  has  given  him 
exclusive  command  over  the  history  of  his  time. 
His  enemies'  characters  have  been  accepted 
from  his  pen  as  correct  portraits.  If  we  allow 
his  description  of  Clodius  and  the  two  consuls 
to  be  true  to  the  facts,  what  harder  condemna- 
tion can  be  pronounced  against  a  political  con- 
dition in  which  such  men  as  these  could  be 
raised  to  the  first  position  in  the  State?  Dion 
says  that  Cicero's  resolution  to  yield  did  not 
wholly  proceed  from  his  own  prudence,  but  was 
assisted  by  advice  from  Cato  and  Hortensius 
the  orator.  Anyway,  the  blow  fell,  and  he 
went  down  before  it.  His  immortal  consulship, 
in  praise  of  which  he  had  written  a  poem, 
brought  after  it  the  swift  retribution  which 
Caesar  had  foretold.  When  the  vote  proposed 
by  Clodius  was  carried  he  fled  to  Sicily,  with  a 
tacit  confession  that  he  dared  not  abide  his 
trial,  which  would  immediately  have  followed. 
Sentence  was  pronounced  upon  him  in  his 
absence.  His  property  was  confiscated.  His 
houses  in  town  and  country  were  razed.  The 
site  of  his  palace  in  Rome  was  dedicated  to  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  he  himself  was  exiled. 
He  was  forbidden  to  reside  within  four  hundred 
miles  of  Rome,  with  a  threat  of  death  if  he 
returned;  and  he  retired  to  Macedonia,  to  pour 
out  his  sorrows  and  his  resentments  in  lamenta- 
tions unworthy  of  a  woman. 

"GEORGE     ELIOT,"     MARY     ANN 
EVANS    (CROSS)    (1819-1880) 

THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS 

BOOK  VII.     CHAPTER  V 

The  Last  Conflict 

In  the  second  week  of  September,  Maggie 
was  again  sitting  in  her  lonely  room,  battling 
with  the  old  shadowy  enemies  that  were  for- 
ever slain  and  rising  again.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, and  the  rain  was  beating  heavily  against 
the  window,  driven  with  fitful  force  by  the 
rushing,  loud-moaning  wind.  For,  the  day 
after  Lucy's  visit,  there  had  been  a  sudden 
change  in  the  weather:  the  heat  and  drought 
had  given  way  to  cold  variable  winds,  and  heavy 


falls  of  rain  at  intervals;  and  she  had  been 
forbidden  to  risk  the  contemplated  journey 
until  the  weather  should  become  more  settled. 
In  the  counties  higher  up  the  Floss,  the  rains 
had  been  continuous,  and  the  completion  of 
the  harvest  had  been  arrested.  And  now, 
for  the  last  two  days,  the  rains  on  this  lower 
course  of  the  river  had  been  incessant,  so  that 
the  old  men  had  shaken  their  heads  and  talked 
of  sixty  years  ago,  when  the  same  sort  of 
weather,  happening  about  the  equinox,  brought 
on  the  great  floods,  which  swept  the  bridge 
away,  and  reduced  the  town  to  great  misery. 
But  the  younger  generation,  who  had  seen 
several  small  floods,  thought  lightly  of  these 
sombre  recollections  and  forebodings;  and 
Bob  Jakin,  naturally  prone  to  take  a  hopeful 
view  of  his  own  luck,  laughed  at  his  mother 
when  she  regretted  their  having  taken  a  house 
by  the  riverside;  observing  that  but  for  that 
they  would  have  had  no  boats,  which  were  the 
most  lucky  of  possessions  in  case  of  a  flood  that 
obliged  them  to  go  to  a  distance  for  food. 

But  the  careless  and  the  fearful  were  alike 
sleeping  in  their  beds  now.  There  was  hope 
that  the  rain  would  abate  by  the  morrow; 
threaten ings  of  a  worse  kind,  from  sudden 
thaws  after  falls  of  snow,  had  often  passed 
off  in  the  experience  of  the  younger  ones;  and 
at  the  very  worst,  the  banks  would  be  sure  to 
break  lower  down  the  river  when  the  tide  came 
in  with  violence,  and  so  the  waters  would  be 
carried  ofi",  without  causing  more  than  tem- 
porary inconvenience,  and  losses  that  would 
be  felt  only  by  the  poorer  sort,  whom  charity 
would  relieve. 

All  were  in  their  beds  now,  for  it  was  past 
midnight:  all  except  some  solitary  watchers 
such  as  Maggie.  She  was  seated  in  her  little 
parlour  towards  the  river  with  one  candle,  that 
left  everything  dim  in  the  room,  except  a  letter 
which  lay  before  her  on  the  table.  That  letter 
which  had  come  to  her  to-day,  was  one  of  the 
causes  that  had  kept  her  up  far  on  into  the 
night  —  unconscious  how  the  hours  were  going 
—  careless  of  seeking  rest  —  with  no  image 
of  rest  coming  across  her  mind,  except  of  that 
far,  far  off  rest,  from  which  there  v/ould  be  no 
more  waking  for  her  into  this  struggling  earthly 
life. 

Two  days  before  Maggie  received  that  letter, 
she  had  been  to  the  Rectory  for  the  last  time. 
The  heavy  rain  would  have  prevented  her  from 
going  since;  but  there  was  another  reason. 
Dr.  Kenn,  at  first  enlightened  only  by  a  few 
hints  as  to  the  new  turn  which  gossip  and 


THE    MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS 


459 


slander  had  taken  in  relation  to  Maggie,  had 
recently  been  made  more  fully  aware  of  it  by 
an  earnest  remonstrance  from  one  of  his  male 
parishioners  against  the  indiscretion  of  per- 
sisting in  the  attempt  to  overcome  the  prevalent 
feeling  in  the  parish  by  a  course  of  resistance. 
Dr.  Kenn,  having  a  conscience  void  of  offence 
in  the  matter,  was  still  inclined  to  persevere  — ■ 
was  still  averse  to  give  way  before  a  public 
sentiment  that  was  odious  and  contemptible; 
but  he  was  finally  wrought  upon  by  the  con- 
sideration of  the  peculiar  responsibi'ity  attached 
to  his  office,  of  avoiding  the  appearance  of 
evil  —  an  "appearance"  that  is  always  de- 
pendent on  the  average  quality  of  surrounding 
minds.  Where  these  minds  are  low  and  gross, 
the  area  of  that  "appearance"  is  proportion- 
ately widened.  Perhaps  he  was  in  danger  of 
acting  from  obstinacy ;  perhaps  it  was  his  duty 
to  succumb:  conscientious  people  are  apt  to 
see  their  duty  in  that  which  is  the  most  pain- 
ful course;  and  to  recede  was  always  painful 
to  Dr.  Kenn.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  advise  Maggie  to  go  away  from  St.  Ogg's 
for  a  time;  and  he  performed  that  difficult 
task  with  as  much  delicacy  as  he  could,  only 
stating  in  vague  terms  that  he  found  his  attempt 
to  countenance  her  stay  was  a  source  of  discord 
between  himself  and  his  parishioners,  that  was 
likely  to  obstruct  his  usefulness  as  a  clergyman. 
He  begged  her  to  allow  him  to  write  to  a  clerical 
friend  of  his,  who  might  possibly  take  her  into 
his  own  family  as  governess;  and,  if  not,  would 
probably  know  of  some  other  available  position 
for  a  young  woman  in  whose  welfare  Dr.  Kenn 
felt  a  strong  interest. 

Poor  Maggie  listened  with  a  trembling  lip: 
she  could  say  nothing  but  a  faint  "thank  you 
—  I  shall  be  grateful";  and  she  walked  back 
to  her  lodgings,  through  the  driving  rain,  with 
a  new  sense  of  desolation.  She  must  be  a 
lonely  wanderer;  she  must  go  out  among  fresh 
faces,  that  would  look  at  her  wonderingly, 
because  the  days  did  not  seem  joyful  to  her; 
she  must  begin  a  new  life,  in  which  she  would 
have  to  rouse  herself  to  receive  new  impres- 
sions —  and  she  was  so  unspeakably,  sicken- 
ingly  weary!  There  was  no  home,  no  help 
for  the  erring:  even  those  who  pitied  were 
constrained  to  hardness.  But  ought  she  to 
complain?  Ought  she  to  shrink  in  this  way 
from  the  long  penance  of  life,  which  was  all 
the  possibility  she  had  of  lightening  the  load 
to  some  other  sufferers,  and  so  changing  that 
passionate  error  into  a  new  force  of  unselfish 
human  love?     All  the  next  day  she  sat  in  her 


lonely  room,  with  a  window  darkened  by  the 
cloud  and  the  driving  rain,  thinking  of  that 
future,  and  wrestling  for  patience:  —  for  what 
repose  could  poor  Maggie  ever  win  except  by 
wrestling? 

And  on  the  third  day  —  this  day  of  which 
she  had  just  sat  out  the  close  —  the  letter  had 
come  which  was  lying  on  the  table  before  her. 

The  letter  was  from  Stephen.  He  was  come 
back  from  Holland:  he  was  at  Mudport  again, 
unknown  to  any  of  his  friends;  and  had  written 
to  her  from  that  place,  enclosing  the  letter  to  a 
person  whom  he  trusted  in  St.  Ogg's.  From 
beginning  to  end  it  was  a  passionate  cry  of 
reproach :  an  appeal  against  her  useless  sacri- 
fice of  him  —  of  herself:  against  that  {perverted 
notion  of  right  which  led  her  to  crush  all  his 
hopes,  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  idea,  and  not  any 
substantial  good  —  his  hopes,  whom  she  loved, 
and  who  loved  her  with  that  single  overpower- 
ing passion,  that  worshij),  which  a  man  never 
gives  to  a  woman  more  than  once  in  his  life. 

"They  have  written  to  me  that  you  are  to 
marry  Kenn.  As  if  I  should  believe  that! 
Perhaps  they  have  told  you  some  such  fables 
about  me.  Perhaps  they  tell  you  I've  been 
'travelling.'  My  body  has  been  dragged  about 
somewhere;  but  /  have  never  travelled  from 
the  hideous  place  where  you  left  me  —  where 
I  started  up  from  a  stupor  of  helpless  rage  to 
find  you  gone. 

"Maggie!  whose  pain  can  have  been  like 
mine?  Whose  injury  is  like  mine?  Who  be- 
sides me  has  met  that  long  look  of  love  that 
has  burnt  itself  into  my  soul,  so  that  no  other 
image  can  come  there  ?  Maggie,  call  me  back 
to  you !  —  call  me  back  to  life  and  goodness ! 
I  am  banished  from  both  now.  I  have  no 
motives:  I  am  indifferent  to  everything.  Two 
months  have  only  deepened  the  certainty  that 
I  can  never  care  for  life  without  you.  Write 
me  one  word  —  say  'Come!'  In  two  days 
I  should  be  with  you.  Maggie  —  have  you 
forgotten  what  it  was  to  be  together?  —  to  be 
within  reach  of  a  look  —  to  be  within  hearing 
of  each  other's  voice?" 

\Mien  Maggie  first  read  this  letter  she  felt 
as  if  her  real  temptation  had  only  just  begun. 
At  the  entrance  of  the  chill  dark  cavern,  we 
turn  with  unworn  courage  from  the  warm 
light;  but  how,  when  we  have  trodden  far  in 
tlie  damp  darkness,  and  have  begun  to  be  faint 
and  wear}^  —  how,  if  there  is  a  sudden  opening 
above  us,  and  we  are  invited  back  again  to  the 
life-nourishing  day?  The  leap  of  natural 
longing  from  under  the  pressure  of  pain  is 


460 


"GEORGE    ELIOT" 


so  strong,  that  all  less  immediate  motives  are 
likely  to  be  forgotten  —  till  the  pain  has  been 
escaped  from. 

For  hours  Maggie  felt  as  if  her  struggle  had 
been  in  vain.  For  hours  every  other  thought 
that  she  strove  to  summon  was  thrust  aside 
bv  the  image  of  Stephen  waiting  for  the  single 
word  that  would  bring  him  to  her.  She  did 
not  read  the  letter:  she  heard  him  uttering  it, 
and  the  voice  shook  her  with  its  old  strange 
jKiwer.  All  the  day  before  she  had  been  filled 
with  the  vision  of  a  lonely  future  through  which 
she  must  carry  the  burden  of  regret,  upheld 
only  by  clinging  faith.  And  here  —  close 
within  her  reach  —  urging  itself  upon  her 
even  as  a  claim  —  was  another  future,  in  which 
hard  endurance  and  effort  were  to  be  exchanged 
for  easy  delicious  leaning  on  another's  loving 
strength !  And  yet  that  promise  of  joy  in  the 
place  of  sadness'did  not  make  the  dire  force 
of  the  temptation  to  Maggie.  It  was  Stephen's 
tone  of  miser)',  it  was  the  doubt  in  the  justice 
of  her  own  resolve,  that  made  the  balance 
tremble,  and  made  her  once  start  from  her 
seat  to  reach  the  pen  and  paper,  and  write 
"Come!" 

But  close  upon  that  decisive  act,  her  mind 
recoiled;  and  the  sense  of  contradiction  with 
her  past  self  in  her  moments  of  strength  and 
clearness,  came  upon  her  like  a  pang  of  con- 
scious degradation.  No  —  she  must  wait;  she 
must  pray;  the  light  that  had  forsaken  her 
would  come  again:  she  should  feel  again  what 
she  had  felt,  when  she  had  fled  away,  under 
an  inspiration  strong  enough  to  conquer  agony 
—  to  conquer  love:  she  should  feel  again  what 
she  had  felt  when  Lucy  stood  by  her,  when 
Philip's  letter  had  stirred  all  the  fibres  that 
bound  her  to  the  calmer  past. 

She  sat  quite  still,  far  on  into  the  night: 
with  no  impulse  to  change  her  attitude,  with- 
out active  force  enough  even  for  the  mental 
act  of  prayer:  only  waiting  for  the  light  that 
would  surely  come  again.  It  came  with  the 
memories  that  no  passion  could  long  quench: 
the  long  past  came  back  to  her,  and  with  it  the 
fountains  of  self-renouncing  pity  and  affection, 
of  faithfulness  and  resolve.  The  words  that 
were  marked  by  the  quiet  hand  in  the  little  old 
book  that  she  had  long  ago  learned  by  heart, 
rushed  even  to  her  lips,  and  found  a  vent  for 
themselves  in  a  low  murmur  that  was  quite 
lost  in  the  loud  driving  of  the  rain  against  the 
window  and  the  loud  moan  and  roar  of  the 
wind:  "I  have  received  the  Cross,  I  have 
received  it  from  Thy  hand;  I  will  bear  it,  and 


bear  it  till  death,  as  Thou  hast  laid  it  upon 
me." 

But  soon  other  words  rose  that  could  find 
no  utterance  but  in  a  sob:  "Forgive  me, 
Stephen  1  It  will  pass  away.  You  will  come 
back  to  her."  • 

She  took  up  the  letter,  held  it  to  the  candle, 
and  let  it  burn  slowly  on  the  hearth.  To- 
morrow she  would  write  to  him  the  last  word 
of  parting. 

"I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it  till  death.  .  .  . 
But  how  long  it  will  be  before  death  comes! 
I  am  so  young,  so  healthy.  How  shall  I  have 
patience  and  strength  ?  Am  I  to  struggle  and 
fall  and  repent  again  ?  —  has  life  other  trials 
as  hard  for  me  still?" 

With  that  cry  of  self-despair,  Maggie  fell 
on  her  knees  against  the  table,  and  buried  her 
sorrow-stricken  face.  Her  soul  went  out  to  the 
Unseer  Pity  that  would  be  with  her  to  the  end. 
Surely  there  was  something  being  taught  her 
by  this  experience  of  great  need;  and  she  must 
be  learning  a  secret  of  human  tenderness  and 
long-suffering,  that  the  less  erring  could  hardly 
know?  "O  God,  if  my  life  is  to  be  long,  let 
me  live  to  bless  and  comfort — " 

At  that  moment  Maggie  felt  a  startling  sen- 
sation of  sudden  cold  about  her  knees  and  feet : 
it  was  water  flowing  under  her.  She  started 
up:  the  stream  was  flowing  under  the  door 
that  led  into  the  passage.  She  was  not  be- 
wildered for  an  instant  —  she  knew  it  was  the 
flood! 

The  tumult  of  emotion  she  had  been  enduring 
for  the  last  twelve  hours  seemed  to  have  left 
a  great  calm  in  her:  without  screaming,  she 
hurried  with  the  candle  up-stairs  to  Bob  Jakin's 
bedroom.  The  door  was  ajar;  she  went  in 
and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Bob,  the  flood  is  come!  it  is  in  the  house! 
let  us  see  if  we  can  make  the  boats  safe." 

She  lighted  his  candle,  while  the  poor  wife, 
snatching  up  her  baby,  burst  into  screams; 
and  then  she  hurried  down  again  to  see  if  the 
waters  were  rising  fast.  There  was  a  step 
down  into  the  room  at  the  door  leading  from 
the  staircase;  she  saw  that  the  water  was 
already  on  a  level  with  the  step.  While  she 
was  looking,  something  came  with  a  tremendous 
crash  against  the  window,  and  sent  the  leaded 
panes  and  the  old  wooden  framework  inwards 
in  shivers,  —  the  water  pouring  in  after  it. 

"It  is  the  boat!"  cried  Maggie.  "Bob, 
come  down  to  get  the  boats!" 

And  without  a  moment's  shudder  of  fear, 
she   plunged   through   the   water,    which   was 


THE    MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS 


461 


rising  fast  to  her  knees,  and  by  the  gUmmering 
light  of  the  candle  she  had  left  on  the  stairs, 
she  mounted  on  to  the  window-sill,  and  crept 
into  the  boat,  which  was  left  with  the  prow 
lodging  and  protruding  through  the  window. 
Bob  was  not  long  after  her,  hurrying  without 
shoes  or  stockings,  but  with  the  lanthorn  in  his 
hand. 

"Why,  they're  both  here  —  both  the  boats," 
said  Bob,  as  he  got  into  the  one  where  Mag- 
gie was.  "It's  wonderful  this  fastening  isn't 
broke  too,  as  well  as  the  mooring." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  into  the  other 
boat,  unfastening  it,  and  mastering  an  oar. 
Bob  was  not  struck  with  the  danger  Maggie 
incurred.  We  are  not  apt  to  fear  for  the  fear- 
less, when  we  are  companions  in  their  danger, 
and  Bob's  mind  was  absorbed  in  possible  ex- 
pedients for  the  safety  of  the  helpless  indoors. 
The  fact  that  Maggie  had  been  up,  had  waked 
him,  and  had  taken  the  lead  in  activity,  gave 
Bob  a  vague  impression  of  her  as  one  who 
would  help  to  protect,  not  need  to  be  protected. 
She  too  had  got  possession  of  an  oar,  and  had 
pushed  off,  so  as  to  release  the  boat  from  the 
overhanging  window-frame. 

"The  water's  rising  so  fast,"  said  Bob,  "I 
doubt  it'll  be  in  at  the  chambers  before  long 
—  th'  house  is  so  low.  I've  more  mind  to  get 
Prissy  and  the  child  and  the  mother  into  the 
boat,  if  I  could,  and  trusten  to  the  water  — 
for  th'  old  house  is  none  so  safe.  And  if  I 
let  go  the  boat  .  .  .  but  you^^  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly  lifting  the  light  of  his  lanthorn  on 
Maggie,  as  she  stood  in  the  rain  with  the  oar 
in  her  hand  and  her  black  hair  streaming. 

Maggie  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  a  new 
tidal  current  swept  along  the  line  of  the  houses, 
and  drove  both  the  boats  out  on  to  the  wide 
water,  with  a  force  that  carried  them  far  past 
the  meeting  current  of  the  river. 

In  the  first  moments  Maggie  felt  nothing, 
thought  of  nothing,  but  that  she  had  suddenly 
passed  away  from  that  life  which  she  had  been 
dreading:  it  was  the  transition  of  death,  with- 
out its  agony  —  and  she  was  alone  in  the 
darkness  with  God. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  rapid  —  so 
dream-like  —  that  the  threads  of  ordinary 
association  were  broken:  she  sank  down  on 
the  seat  clutching  the  oar  mechanically,  and 
for  a  long  while  had  no  distinct  conception  of 
her  position.  The  first  thing  that  waked  her 
to  fuller  consciousness  was  the  cessation  of  the 
rain,  and  a  perception  that  the  darkness  was 
divided  by  the  faintest  light,  which  parted  the 


overhanging  gloom  from  the  immeasurable 
watery  level  below.  She  was  driven  out  upon 
the  flood:  —  that  awful  visitation  of  God 
which  her  father  used  to  talk  of  —  which  had 
made  the  nightmare  of  her  childish  dreams. 
And  with  that  thought  there  rushed  in  the  vision 
of  the  old  home  —  and  Tom  —  and  her  mother 

—  they  had  all  listened  together. 

"O  God,  where  am  I?  Which  is  the  way 
home?"  she  cried  out,  in  the  dim  loneliness. 

What  was  happening  to  them  at  the  Mill? 
The  flood  had  once  nearly  destroyed  it.  They 
might  be  in  danger  —  in  distress:  her  mother 
and  her  brother,  alone  there,  beyond  reach  of 
help !  Her  whole  soul  was  strained  now  on 
that  thought ;  and  she  saw  the  long-loved  faces 
looking  for  help  into  the  darkness,  and  finding 
none. 

She  was  floating  in  smooth  water  now  — 
perhaps  far  on  the  overflooded  fields.  There 
was  no  sense  of  present  danger  to  check  the 
outgoing  of  her  mind  to  the  old  home;  and  she 
strained  her  eyes  against  the  curtain  of  gloom 
that  she  might  seize  the  first  sight  of  her  where- 
about —  that  she  might  catch  some  faint  sug- 
gestion of  the  spot  towards  which  all  her  anxi- 
eties tended. 

Oh  how  welcome,  the  widening  of  that  dis- 
mal watery  level  —  the  gradual  uplifting  of  the 
cloudy  firmament  —  the  slowly  defining  black- 
ness of  objects  above  the  glassy  dark !     Yes 

—  she  must  be  out  on  the  fields  —  those  were 
the  tops  of  hedgerow  trees.  Which  way  did 
the  river  lie?  Looking  behind  her,  she  saw 
the  lines  of  black  trees:  looking  before  her, 
there  were  none :  then,  the  river  lay  before  her. 
She  seized  an  oar  and  began  to  paddle  the  boat 
forward  with  the  energy  of  wakening  hope: 
the  dawning  seemed  to  advance  more  swiftly, 
now  she  was  in  action ;  and  she  could  soon  see 
the  poor  dumb  beasts  crowding  piteously  on 
a  mound  where  they  had  taken  refuge.  On- 
ward she  paddled  and  rowed  by  turns  in  the 
growing  twilight:  her  wet  clothes  clung  round 
her,  and  her  streaming  hair  was  dashed  about 
by  the  wind,  but  she  was  hardly  conscious  of 
any  bodily  sensations  —  except  a  sensation  of 
strength,  inspired  by  mighty  emotion.  Along 
with  the  sense  of  danger  and  possible  rescue 
for  those  long-remembered  beings  at  the  old 
home,  there  was  an  undefined  sense  of  recon- 
cilement with  her  brother:  what  quarrel,  what 
harshness,  what  unbelief  in  each  other  can 
subsist  in  the  presence  of  a  great  calamity, 
when  all  the  artificial  vesture  of  our  life  is  gone, 
and  we  are  all  one  with  each  other  in  primitive 


462 


"GEORGE    ELIOT" 


mortal    needs?      Vaguely,    Maggie    felt   this; 

—  in  tiie  strong  resurgent  love  towards  her 
brother  that  swept  away  all  the  later  inni)res- 
sions  of  hard,  cruel  offence  and  misunderstand- 
ing, and  left  only  the  deep,  underlying,  un- 
shakable memories  of  early  union. 

But  now  there  was  a  large  dark  mass  in  the 
distance,  and  near  to  her  Maggie  could  discern 
tiie  current  of  the  river.  The  dark  mass  must 
i)e  —  yes,  it  was  —  St.  Ogg's.  Ah,  now  she 
knew  which  way  to  look  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  well-known  trees  —  the  gray  willows,  the 
now  yellowing  chestnuts  —  and  above  them 
the  old  roof!  But  there  was  no  colour,  no 
shajx;  yet:  all  was  faint  and  dim.  More  and 
more  strongly  the  energies  seemed  to  come  and 
put  themselves  forth,  as  if  her  life  were  a  stored- 
up  force  that  was  being  spent  in  this  hour, 
unneeded  for  any  future. 

She  must  get  her  boat  into  the  current  of  the 
Floss,  else  she  would  never  be  able  to  pass  the 
Ripple  and  approach  the  house:  this  was  the 
thought  that  occurred  to  her,  as  she  imagined 
with  more  and  more  vividness  the  state  of 
things  round  the  old  home.  But  then  she 
might  be  carried  very  far  down,  and  be  unable 
to  guide  her  boat  out  of  the  current  again. 
For  the  first  time  distinct  ideas  of  danger  began 
to  press  upon  her;  but  there  was  no  choice 
of  courses,  no  room  for  hesitation,  and  she 
floated  into  the  current.  Swiftly  she  went  now, 
without  effort;  more  and  more  clearly  in  the 
lessening  distance  and  the  growing  light  she 
began  to  discern  the  objects  that  she  knew  must 
be  the  well-known  trees  and  roofs;  nay,  she 
saw  not  far  off  a  rushing  muddy  current  that 
must  be  the  strangely  altered  Ripple. 

Great  God !  there  were  floating  masses  in 
it,  that  might  dash  against  her  boat  as  she 
pas.sed,  and  cause  her  to  perish  too  soon. 
What  were  those  masses? 

For  the  first  time  Maggie's  heart  began  to 
beat  in  an  agony  of  dread.     She  sat  helpless 

—  dimly  conscious  that  she  was  being  floated 
along  —  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  antici- 
pated clash.  But  the  horror  was  transient: 
it  passed  away  before  the  oncoming  warehouses 
of  St.  Ogg's:  she  had  passed  the  mouth  of  the 
Ripple,  then:  now,  she  must  use  all  her  skill 
and  power  to  manage  the  boat  and  get  it  if 
jxjssible  out  of  the  current.  She  could  see  now 
that  the  bridge  was  broken  down:  she  could 
see  the  masts  of  a  stranded  vessel  far  out  over 
the  watery  field.  But  no  boats  were  to  be  seen 
moving  on  the  river  —  such  as  had  been  laid 
hands  on  were  employed  in  the  flooded  streets. 


With  new  resolution,  Maggie  seized  her  oar, 
and  stood  up  again  to  paddle;  but  the  now 
ebbing  tide  added  to  the  swiftness  of  the  river, 
and  she  was  carried  along  beyond  the  bridge. 
She  could  hear  shouts  from  the  windows  over- 
looking the  river,  as  if  the  people  there  were 
calling  to  her.  It  was  not  till  she  had  passed 
on  nearly  to  Tofton  that  she  could  get  the  boat 
clear  of  the  current.  Then  with  one  yearning 
look  towards  her  uncle  Deane's  house  that  lay 
farther  down  the  river,  she  took  to  both  her 
oars,  and  rowed  with  all  her  might  across  the 
watery  fields,  back  towards  the  Mill.  Colour 
was  beginning  to  awake  now,  and  as  she 
approached  the  Dorlcote  fields,  she  could  dis- 
cern the  tints  of  the  trees  —  could  see  the  old 
Scotch  firs  far  to  the  right,  and  the  home  chest- 
nuts—  oh,  how  deep  they  lay  in  the  water! 
deeper  than  the  trees  on  this  side  the  hill. 
And  the  roof  of  the  Mill  —  where  was  it  ? 
Those  heavy  fragments  hurrying  down  the 
Ripple  —  what  had  they  meant?  But  it  was 
not  the  house  —  the  house  stood  firm :  drowned 
up  to  the  first  storey,  but  still  firm  —  or  was  it 
broken  in  at  the  end  towards  the  Mill  ? 

With  panting  joy  that  she  was  there  at  last 
—  joy  that  overcame  all  distress  —  Maggie 
neared  the  front  of  the  house.  At  first  she 
heard  no  sound:  she  saw  no  object  moving. 
Her  boat  was  on  a  level  with  the  up-stairs 
window.  She  called  out  in  a  loud  piercing 
voice : 

"Tom,  where  are  you?  Mother,  where  are 
you?     Here  is  Maggie!" 

Soon,  from  the  window  of  the  attic  in  the 
central  gable,  she  heard  Tom's  voice: 

"Who  is  it?     Have  you  brought  a  boat?" 

"It  is  I,  Tom  —  Maggie.    Wliere  is  mother?  " 

"She  is  not  here:  she  went  to  Garum,  the 
day  before  yesterday.  I'll  come  down  to  the 
lower  window." 

"Alone,  Maggie?"  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  of 
deep  astonishment,  as  he  opened  the  middle 
window  on  a  level  with  the  boat. 

"Yes,  Tom:  God  has  taken  care  of  me,  to 
bring  me  to  you.  Get  in  quickly.  Is  there 
no  one  else?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  stepping  into  the  boat, 
"I  fear  the  man  is  drowned:  he  was  carried 
down  the  Ripple,  I  think,  when  part  of  the 
Mill  fell  with  the  crash  of  trees  and  stones 
against  it:  I've  shouted  again  and  again,  and 
there  has  been  no  answer.  Give  me  the  oars, 
Maggie." 

It  was  not  till  Tom  had  pushed  off  and 
they  were  on  the  wide  water  —  he  face  to  face 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


463 


with  Maggie  —  that  the  full  meaning  of  wliat 
had  happened  rushed  upon  his  mind.  It 
came  with  so  overpowering  a  force  —  it  was 
such  a  new  revelation  to  his  spirit,  of  the 
depths  in  life,  that  had  Iain  beyond  his  vision 
which  he  had  fancied  so  keen  and  clear  — - 
that  he  was  unable  to  ask  a  question.  They 
sat  mutely  gazing  at  each  other:  Maggie  with 
eyes  of  intense  life  looking  out  from  a  weary, 
beaten  face  —  Tom  pale  with  a  certain  awe 
and  humiliation.  Thought  was  busy  though 
the  lips  were  silent:  and  though  he  could  ask 
no  question,  he  guessed  a  story  of  almost 
miraculous  divinely-protected  effort.  But  at 
last  a  mist  gathered  over  the  blue-gray  eyes, 
and  the  lips  found  a  word  they  could  utter: 
the  old  childish  —  "Magsie  !" 

Maggie  could  make  no  answer  but  a  long 
deep  sob  of  that  mysterious  wondrous  happi- 
ness that  is  one  with  pain. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  said,  "We 
will  go  to  Lucy,  Tom:  we'll  go  and  see  if  she 
is  safe,  and  then  we  can  help  the  rest." 

Tom  rowed  with  untired  vigour,  and  with 
a  different  speed  from  poor  Maggie's.  The 
boat  was  soon  in  the  current  of  the  river  again, 
and  soon  they  would  be  at  Tofton. 

"Park  House  stands  high  up  out  of  the 
flood,"  said  Maggie.  "Perhaps  they  have  got 
Lucy  there." 

Nothing  else  was  said;  a  new  danger  was 
being  carried  tovi^ards  them  by  the  river. 
Some  wooden  machinery  had  just  given  way 
on  one  of  the  wharves,  and  huge  fragments 
were  being  floated  along.  The  sun  was  rising 
now,  and  the  wide  area  of  watery  desolation 
was  spread  out  in  dreadful  clearness  around 
them  —  in  dreadful  clearness  floated  onwards 
the  hurrying,  threatening  masses.  A  large 
company  in  a  boat  that  was  working  its  way 
along  under  the  Tofton  houses  observed  their 
danger,  and  shouted,  "Get  out  of  the  current !" 

But  that  could  not  be  done  at  once,  and 
Tom,  looking  before  him,  saw  death  rushing 
on  them.  Huge  fragments,  clinging  together 
in  fatal  fellowship,  made  one  wide  mass  across 
the  stream. 

"It  is  coming,  Maggie!"  Tom  said,  in  a 
deep  hoarse  voice,  loosing  the  oars,  and  clasp- 
ing her. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  was  no  longer 
seen  upon  the  water  —  and  the  huge  mass 
was  hurrying  on  in  hideous  triumph. 

But  soon  the  keel  of  the  boat  reappeared,  a 
black  speck  on  the  golden  water. 

The    boat    reappeared  —  but    brother    and 


sister  had  gone  down  in  an  embrace  never  to 
be  parted:  living  through  again  in  one  su- 
preme moment  the  days  when  they  had  clasped 
their  little  hands  in  love,  and  roamed  the 
daisied  flelds  together. 


JOHN    RUSKIN   (18 19-1900) 

THE   STONES    OF   VENICE 
VOL.  II.    CHAP.  I. 

■■  The  Throne 

§  I.  In  the  olden  days  of  travelling,  now 
to  return  no  more,  in  which  distance  could 
not  be  vanquished  without  toil,  but  in  which 
that  toil  was  rewarded,  partly  by  the  power 
of  deliberate  survey  of  the  countries  through 
which  the  journey  lay,  and  partly  by  the 
happiness  of  the  evening  hours,  when,  from 
the  top  of  the  last  hill  he  had  surmounted,  the 
traveller  beheld  the  quiet  village  where  he  was 
to  rest,  scattered  among  the  meadows  beside 
its  valley  stream;  or,  from  the  long  hoped  for 
turn  in  the  dusty  perspective  of  the  causeway, 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  towers  of  some 
famed  city,  faint  in  the  rays  of  sunset  —  hours 
of  peaceful  and  thoughtful  pleasure,  for  which 
the  rush  of  the  arrival  in  the  railway  station  is 
perhaps  not  always,  or  to  all  men,  an  equiva- 
lent :  in  those  days,  I  say,  when  there  was 
something  more  to  be  anticipated  and  remem- 
bered in  the  first  aspect  of  each  successive 
halting-place,  than  a  new  arrangement  of  glass 
roofing  and  iron  girder,  there  were  few  moments 
of  which  the  recollection  was  more  fondly 
cherished  by  the  traveller,  than  that  which,  as 
I  endeavoured  to  describe  in  the  close  of  the 
last  chapter,  brought  him  within  sight  of 
Venice,  as  his  gondola  shot  into  the  open 
lagoon  from  the  canal  of  Mestre.  Not  but 
that  the  aspect  of  the  city  itself  was  generally 
the  source  of  some  slight  disappointment,  for, 
seen  in  this  direction,  its  buildings  are  far 
less  characteristic  than  those  of  the  other  great 
towns  of  Italy;  but  this  inferiority  was  partly 
disguised  by  distance,  and  more  than  atoned 
for  by  the  strange  rising  of  its  walls  and  towers 
out  of  the  midst,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  deep  sea, 
for  it  was  impossible  that  the  mind  or  the  eye 
could  at  once  comprehend  the  shallowness  of 
the  vast  sheet  of  water  which  stretched  away 
in  leagues  of  rippling  lustre  to  the  north  and 
south,  or  trace  the  narrow  line  of  islets  bound- 
ing it  to  the  east.     The  salt  breeze,  the  white 


404 

moaning  sea-birds,  the  masses  of  black  weed 
separating  and  disappearing  gradually,  m  knots 
of  heaving  shoal,  under  the  advance  of  the 
steady  tide,  all  proclaimed  it  to  be  indeed  the 
ocean  on  whose  bosom  the  great  city  rested 
so  calmly;  not  such  blue,  soft,  lake-like  ocean 
as  bathes  the  Neapolitan  promontories,  or 
sleeps  beneath  the  marble  rocks  of  Genoa,  but 
a  sea  with  the  bleak  power  of  our  own  northern 
waves,  yet  subdued  into  a  strange  spacious 
rest,  and  changed  from  its  angry  pallor  into  a 
field  of  burnished  gold,  as  the  sun  declined 
behind  the  belfry  tower  of  the  lonely  island 
church,  fitly  named  "St.  George  of  the  Sea- 
weed." As  the  boat  drew  nearer  to  the  city 
the  coast  which  the  traveller  had  just  left 
sank  behind  him  into  one  long,  low,  sad- 
coloured  line,  tufted  irregularly  with  brush- 
wood and  willows:  but,  at  what  seemed  its 
northern  extremity,  the  hills  of  Arqua  rose  in 
a  dark  cluster  of"  purple  pyramids,  balanced 
on  the  bright  mirage  of  the  lagoon;  two  or 
three  smooth  surges  of  inferior  hill  extended 
themselves  about  their  roots,  and  beyond 
these,  beginning  with  the  craggy  peaks  above 
Vicenza,  the  chain  of  the  Alps  girded  the  whole 
horizon  to  the  north  —  a  wall  of  jagged  blue, 
here  and  there  showing  through  its  clefts  a 
wilderness  of  misty  precipices,  fading  far  back 
into  the  recesses  of  Cadore,  and  itself  rising 
and  breaking  away  eastward,  where  the  sun 
struck  opposite  upon  its  snow,  into  mighty 
fragments  of  peaked  light,  standing  up  behind 
the  barred  clouds  of  evening,  one  after  an- 
other, countless,  the  crown  of  the  Adrian  Sea, 
until  the  eye  turned  back  from  pursuing  them, 
to  rest  upon  the  nearer  burning  of  the  cam- 
paniles of  Murano,  and  on  the  great  city, 
where  it  magnified  itself  along  the  waves,  as 
the  quick  silent  pacing  of  the  gondola  drew 
nearer  and  nearer.  And  at  last,  when  its 
walls  were  reached,  and  the  outmost  of  its 
untrodden  streets  was  entered,  not  through 
towered  gate  or  guarded  rampart,  but  as  a 
deep  inlet  between  two  rocks  of  coral  in  the 
Indian  sea;  when  first  upon  the  traveller's 
sight  opened  the  long  ranges  of  columned 
palaces  — each  with  its  black  boat  moored  at 
the  portal,  each  with  its  image  cast  down,  be- 
neath its  feet,  upon  that  green  pavement  which 
ever}'  breeze  broke  into  new  fantasies  of  rich 
tessellation;  when  first,  at  the  extremity  of 
the  bright  vista,  the  shadowy  Rialto  threw  its 
colossal  cur\'e  slowly  forth  from  behind  the 
palace  of  the  Camerlenghi;  that  strange  curve, 
so  delicate,  so  adamantine,  strong  as  a  moun- 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


tain  cavern,  graceful  as  a  bow  just  bent;  when 
first,  before  its  moonlike  circumference  was  all 
risen,  the  gondolier's  cry,  "Ah!  Stall,"  struck 
sharp  upon  the  ear,  and  the  prow  turned  aside 
under  the  mighty  cornices  that  half  met  over 
the  narrow  canal,  where  the  plash  of  the 
water  followed  close  and  loud,  ringing  along 
the  marble  by  the  boat's  side;  and  when  at 
last  that  boat  darted  forth  upon  the  breadth 
of  silver  sea,  across  which  the  front  of  the 
Ducal  palace,  flushed  with  its  sanguine  veins, 
looks  to  the  snowy  dome  of  Our  Lady  of 
Salvation,  it  was  no  marvel  that  the  mind 
should  be  so  deeply  entranced  by  the  visionary 
charm  of  a  scene  so  beautiful  and  so  strange, 
as  to  forget  the  darker  truths  of  its  history 
and  its  being.  Well  might  it  seem  that  such  a 
city  had  owed  her  existence  rather  to  the  rod 
of  the  enchanter,  than  the  fear  of  the  fugitive; 
that  the  waters  which  encircled  her  had  been 
chosen  for  the  mirror  of  her  state,  rather  than 
the  shelter  of  her  nakedness;  and  that  all 
which  in  nature  was  wild  or  merciless  —  Time 
and  Decay,  as  well  as  the  waves  and  tempests 
—  had  been  won  to  adorn  her  instead  of  to 
destroy,  and  might  still  spare,  for  ages  to 
come,  that  beauty  which  seemed  to  have  fixed 
for  its  throne  the  sands  of  the  hour-glass  as 
well  as  of  the  sea. 

§  II.  And  although  the  last  few  eventful 
years,  fraught  with  change  to  the  face  of  the 
whole  earth,  have  been  more  fatal  in  their 
influence  on  Venice  than  the  five  hundred  that 
preceded  them;  though  the  noble  landscape 
of  approach  to  her  can  now  be  seen  no  more, 
or  seen  only  by  a  glance,  as  the  engine  slackens 
its  rushing  on  the  iron  line;  and  though  many 
of  her  palaces  are  forever  defaced,  and  many 
in  desecrated  ruins,  there  is  still  so  much  of 
magic  in  her  aspect,  that  the  hurried  traveller, 
who  must  leave  her  before  the  wonder  of  that 
first  aspect  has  been  worn  away,  may  still  be 
led  to  forget  the  humility  of  her  origin,  and  to 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  depth  of  her  desolation. 
They,  at  least,  are  little  to  be  envied,  in  whose 
hearts  the  great  charities  of  the  imagination 
lie  dead,  and  for  whom  the  fancy  has  no 
power  to  repress  the  importunity  of  painful 
impressions,  or  to  raise  what  is  ignoble,  and 
disguise  what  is  discordant,  in  a  scene  so  rich 
in  its  remembrances,  so  surpassing  in  its  beauty. 
But  for  this  work  of  the  imagination  there 
must  be  no  permission  during  the  task  which 
is  before  us.  The  impotent  feelings  of  ro- 
mance, so  singularly  characteristic  of  this  cen- 
tury,  may  indeed  gild,   but   never  save,   the 


THE    STONES    OF    VENICE 


465 


remains  of  those  mightier  ages  to  which  they 
a,re  attached  like  climbing  flowers;  and  they 
must  be  torn  away  from  the  magnificent  frag- 
ments, if  we  would  see  them  as  they  stood  in 
their  own  strength.  Those  feelings,  always  as 
fruitless  as  they  are  fond,  are  in  Venice  not 
only  incapable  of  protecting,  but  even  of  dis- 
cerning, the  objects  to  which  they  ought  to 
have  been  attached.  The  Venice  of  modern 
fiction  and  drama  is  a  thing  of  yesterday,  a 
mere  efflorescence  of  decay,  a  stage  dream 
which  the  first  ray  of  daylight  must  dissipate 
into  dust.  No  prisoner,  whose  name  is  worth 
remembering,  or  whose  sorrow  deserved  sym- 
pathy, ever  crossed  that  "Bridge  of  Sighs," 
which  is  the  centre  of  the  Byronic  ideal  of 
Venice;  no  great  merchant  of  Venice  ever 
saw  that  Rialto  under  which  the  traveller 
now  passes  with  breathless  interest :  the  statue 
which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address  as  of  one 
of  his  great  ancestors  was  erected  to  a  soldier 
of  fortune  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after 
Faliero's  death;  and  the  most  conspicuous 
parts  of  the  city  have  been  so  entirely  altered 
in  the  course  of  the  last  three  centuries,  that 
if  Henry  Dandolo  or  Francis  Foscari  could  be 
summoned  from  their  tombs,  and  stood  each 
on  the  deck  of  his  galley  at  the  entrance  of 
the  Grand  Canal,  that  renowned  entrance, 
the  painter's  favourite  subject,  the  novelist's 
favourite  scene,  where  the  water  first  narrows 
by  the  steps  of  the  Church  of  La  Salute  — 
the  mighty  Doges  would  not  know  in  what 
spot  of  the  world  they  stood,  would  literally 
not  recognise  one  stone  of  the  great  city,  for 
whose  sake,  and  by  whose  ingratitude,  their 
gray  hairs  had  been  brought  down  with  bit- 
terness to  the  grave.  The  remains  of  their 
Venice  lie  hidden  behind  the  cuml^rous  masses 
which  were  the  delight  of  the  nation  in  its 
dotage;  hidden  in  many  a  grass-grown  court, 
and  silent  pathway,  and  lightless  canal,  where 
the  slow  waves  have  sapped  their  foundations 
for  five  hundred  years,  and  must  soon  prevail 
over  them  forever.  It  must  be  our  task  to 
glean  and  gather  them  forth,  and  restore  out 
of  them  some  faint  image  of  the  lost  city; 
more  gorgeous  a  thousandfold  than  that  which 
now  exists,  yet  not  created  in  the  day-dream 
of  the  prince,  nor  by  the  ostentation  of  the 
noble,  but  built  by  iron  hands  and  patient 
hearts,  contending  against  the  adversity  of 
nature  and  the  fury  of  man,  so  that  its  wonder- 
fulness  cannot  be  grasped  by  the  indolence  of 
imagination,  but  only  after  frank  inquiry  into 
the  true  nature  of  that  wild  and  solitary  scene, 


whose  restless  tides  and  trembling  sands  did 
indeed  shelter  the  Ijirth  of  the  city,  but  long 
denied  her  dominion. 

§  III.  When  the  eye  falls  casually  on  a 
map  of  Europe,  there  is  no  feature  by  which 
it  is  more  likely  to  be  arrested  than  the  strange 
sweeping  loop  formed  by  the  junction  of  the 
Alps  and  Apennines,  and  enclosing  the  great 
basin  of  Lombardy.  This  return  of  the  moun- 
tain chain  upon  itself  causes  a  vast  difference 
in  the  character  of  the  distribution  of  its  debris 
of  its  opposite  sides.  The  rock  fragments  and 
sediments  which  the  torrents  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Alps  bear  into  the  plains  are  distributed 
over  a  vast  extent  of  country,  and,  though 
here  and  there  lodged  in  beds  of  enonnous 
thickness,  soon  permit  the  firm  substrata  to 
appear  from  underneath  them ;  but  all  the 
torrents  which  descend  from  the  southern  side 
of  the  High  Alps,  and  from  the  northern  slope 
of  the  Apennines,  meet  concentrically  in  the 
recess  or  mountain  bay  which  the  two  ridges 
enclose;  every  fragment  which  thunder  breaks 
out  of  their  battlements,  and  every  grain  of 
dust  which  the  summer  rain  washes  from  their 
pastures,  is  at  last  laid  at  rest  in  the  blue 
sweep  of  the  Lombardic  plain ;  and  that  plain 
must  have  risen  within  its  rocky  barriers  as 
a  cup  fills  with  wine,  but  for  two  contrary 
influences  which  continually  depress,  or  dis- 
perse from  its  surface,  the  accumulation  of  the 
ruins  of  ages. 

§  IV.  I  will  not  tax  the  reader's  faith  in 
modern  science  by  insisting  on  the  singular 
depression  of  the  surface  of  Lombardy,  which 
appears  for  many  centuries  to  have  taken  place 
steadily  and  continually;  the  main  fact  with 
which  we  have  to  do  is  the  gradual  transport, 
by  the  Po  and  its  great  collateral  rivers,  of 
vast  masses  of  the  finer  sediment  to  the  sea. 
The  character  of  the  Lombardic  plains  is 
most  strikingly  expressed  by  the  ancient  walls 
of  its  cities,  composed  for  the  most  part  of 
large  rounded  Alpine  pebbles  alternating  with 
narrow^  courses  of  brick;  and  was  curiously 
illustrated  in  184S,  by  the  ramparts  of  these 
same  pebbles  thrown  up  four  or  five  feet  high 
round  every  field,  to  check  the  Austrian  cav- 
alry in  the  battle  under  the  walls  of  Verona. 
The  finer  dust  among  which  these  pebbles  are 
dispersed  is  taken  up  by  the  rivers,  fed  into 
continual  strength  by  the  Alpine  snow,  so  that, 
however  pure  their  waters  may  be  when  they 
issue  from  the  lakes  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
chain,  they  become  of  the  colour  and  opacity 
of  clay  before  they  reach  the  Adriatic;    the 


466 


JOHN     RUSKIN 


sediment  wliich  tliey  bear  is  at  once  thrown 
down  as  lliey  enter  tlie  sea,  forming  a  vast 
\K-\t  of  low  land  along  the  eastern  coast  of 
Italy.  The  jxnverful  stream  of  the  Po  of 
course  builds  forward  the  fastest;  on  each  side 
of  it,  north  and  south,  there  is  a  tract  of  marsh, 
fed  by  more  fecl)le  streams,  and  less  liable  to 
rapid  change  than  the  delta  of  the  central 
river.  In  one  of  these  tracts  is  built  Ravenna, 
and  in  the  other  Venice. 

§  V.  What  circumstances  directed  the  pecul- 
iar arrangement  of  this  great  belt  of  sediment 
in  the  earliest  times,  it  is  not  here  the  place  to 
inquire.  It  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that 
from  the  mouths  of  the  Adige  to  those  of  the 
Piave  there  stretches,  at  a  variable  distance 
of  from  three  to  five  miles  from  the  actual 
shore,  a  bank  of  .sand,  divided  into  long  islands 
by  narrow  channels  of  sea.  The  space  between 
this  bank  and  the  true  shore  consists  of  the  sedi- 
mentary deposits  from  these  and  other  rivers, 
a  great  plain  of  calcareous  mud,  covered,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Venice,  by  the  sea  at 
high  water,  to  the  depth  in  most  places  of  a 
foot  or  a  foot  and  a  half,  and  nearly  everywhere 
e.xposed  at  low  tide,  but  divided  by  an  intricate 
net-work  of  narrow  and  winding  channels,  from 
which  the  sea  never  retires.  In  some  places, 
according  to  the  run  of  the  currents,  the  land 
has  risen  into  marshy  islets,  consolidated, 
some  by  art,  and  some  by  time,  into  ground 
firm  enough  to  be  built  upon,  or  fruitful 
enough  to  be  cultivated :  in  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  has  not  reached  the  sea  level;  so 
that,  at  the  average  low  water,  shallow  lakelets 
glitter  among  its  irregularly  exposed  fields  of 
seaweed.  In  the  midst  of  the  largest  of  these, 
increased  in  importance  by  the  confluence  of 
several  large  river  channels  towards  one  of  the 
openings  in  the  sea  bank,  the  city  of  Venice 
itself  is  built,  on  a  crowded  cluster  of  islands; 
the  various  plots  of  higher  ground  which  ap- 
pear to  the  north  and  south  of  this  central 
cluster,  have  at  different  periods  been  also 
thickly  inhabited,  and  now  bear,  according  to 
their  size,  the  remains  of  cities,  villages,  or  iso- 
lated convents  and  churches,  scattered  among 
spaces  of  open  ground,  partly  waste  and  en- 
cumbered by  ruins,  partly  under  cultivation  for 
the  supply  of  the  metropolis. 

§  VI.  The  average  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide 
is  about  three  feet  (varying  considerably  with 
the  seasons) :  but  this  fall,  on  so  flat  a  shore, 
is  enough  to  cause  continual  movement  in  the 
waters,  and  in  the  main  canals  to  produce  a 
reflu.x  which  frequently  runs  like  a  mill  stream. 


At  high  water  no  land  is  visible  for  many 
miles  to  the  north  or  south  of  Venice,  except 
in  the  form  of  small  islands  crowned  with 
towers  or  gleaming  with  villages:  there  is  a 
channel,  some  three  miles  wide,  between  the 
city  and  the  mainland,  and  some  mile  and  a 
half  wide  between  it  and  the  sandy  break- 
water called  the  Lido,  which  divides  the  lagoon 
from  the  Adriatic,  but  which  is  so  low  as 
hardly  to  disturb  the  impression  of  the  city's 
having  been  built  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean, 
although  the  secret  of  its  true  position  is  partly, 
yet  not  painfully,  betrayed  by  the  clusters  of 
piles  set  to  mark  the  deep-water  channels, 
which  undulate  far  away  in  spotty  chains  like 
the  studded  backs  of  huge  sea-snakes,  and  by 
the  quick  glittering  of  the  crisped  and  crowded 
waves  that  flicker  and  dance  before  the  strong 
winds  upon  the  unlifted  level  of  the  shallow 
sea.  Bat  the  scene  is  widely  different  at  low 
tide.  A  fall  of  eighteen  or  twenty  inches  is 
enough  to  show  ground  over  the  greater  part 
of  the  lagoon;  and  at  the  complete  ebb  the 
city  is  seen  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  dark  - 
plain  of  seaweed,  of  gloomy  green,  except 
only  where  the  larger  branches  of  the  Brenta 
and  its  associated  streams  converge  towards 
the  port  of  the  Lido.  Through  this  salt  and 
sombre  plain  the  gondola  and  the  fishing-boat 
advance  by  tortuous  channels,  seldom  more 
than  four  or  five  feet  deep,  and  often  so  choked 
wfth  slime  that  the  heavier  keels  furrow  the 
bottom  till  their  crossing  tracks  are  seen 
through  the  clear  sea  water  like  the  ruts  upon 
a  wintry  road,  and  the  oar  leaves  blue  gashes 
upon  the  ground  at  every  stroke,  or  is  en- 
tangled among  the  thick  weed  that  fringes  the 
banks  with  the  weight  of  its  sullen  waves, 
leaning  to  and  fro  upon  the  uncertain  sway  of 
the  exhausted  tide.  The  scene  is  often  pro- 
foundly oppressive,  even  at  this  day,  when 
every  plot  of  higher  ground  bears  some  frag- 
ment of  fair  building:  but,  in  order  to  know 
what  it  was  once,  let  the  traveller  follow  in  his 
boat  at  evening  the  windings  of  some  unfre- 
quented channel  far  into  the  midst  of  the 
melancholy  plain;  let  him  remove,  in  his 
imagination,  the  brightness  of  the  great  city, 
that  still  extends  itself  in  the  distance,  and  the 
walls  and  towers  from  the  islands  that  are 
near;  and  so  wait,  until  the  bright  investiture 
and  sweet  warmth  of  the  sunset  are  withdrawn 
from  the  waters,  and  the  black  desert  of  their 
shore  lies  in  its  nakedness  beneath  the  night, 
pathless,  comfortless,  infirm,  lost  in  dark 
languor  and  fearful  silence,  except  where  the 


THE    STONES    OF    VENICE 


467 


salt  runlets  plash  into  the  tideless  pools,  or 
the  sea-birds  flit  from  their  margins  with  a 
questioning  cry;  and  he  will  be  enabled  to 
enter  in  some  sort  into  the  horror  of  heart  with 
which  this  solitude  was  anciently  chosen  by 
man  for  his  habitation.  They  little  thought, 
who  first  drove  the  stakes  into  the  sand,  and 
strewed  the  ocean  reeds  for  their  rest,  that 
their  children  were  to  be  the  princes  of  that 
ocean,  and  their  palaces  its  pride;  and  yet,  in 
the  great  natural  laws  that  rule  that  sorrowful 
wilderness,  let  it  be  remembered  what  strange 
preparation  had  been  made  for  the  things 
which  no  human  imagination  could  have  fore- 
told, and  how  the  whole  existence  and  fortune 
of  the  Venetian  nation  were  anticipated  or 
compelled,  by  the  setting  of  those  bars  and 
doors  to  the  rivers  and  the  sea.  Had  deeper 
currents  divided  their  islands,  hostile  navies 
would  again  and  again  have  reduced  the  rising 
city  into  servitude;  had  stronger  surges  beaten 
their  shores,  all  the  richness  and  refinement  of 
the  Venetian  architecture  must  have  been  ex- 
changed for  the  walls  and  bulwarks  of  an 
ordinary  sea-port.  Had  there  been  no  tide, 
as  in  other  parts  of  the  Mediterranean,  the 
narrow  canals  of  the  city  would  have  become 
noisome,  and  the  marsh  in  which  it  was  built 
pestiferous.  Had  the  tide  been  only  a  foot  or 
eighteen  inches  higher  in  its  rise,  the  water- 
access  to  the  doors  of  the  palaces  would  have 
been  impossible:  even  as  it  is,  there  is  some- 
times a  little  difficulty,  at  the  ebb,  in  landing 
without  setting  foot  upon  the  lower  and  slippery 
steps;  and  the  highest  tides  sometimes  enter 
the  courtyards,  and  overflow  the  entrance 
halls.  Eighteen  inches  more  of  difference 
between  the  level  of  the  flood  and  ebb  would 
have  rendered  the  doorsteps  of  every  palace, 
at  low  water,  a  treacherous  mass  of  weeds  and 
limpets,  and  the  entire  system  of  water-car- 
riage for  the  higher  classes,  in  their  easy  and 
daily  intercourse,  must  have  been  done  away 
with.  The  streets  of  the  city  would  have  been 
widened,  its  network  of  canals  filled  up,  and 
all  the  peculiar  character  of  the  place  and  the 
people  destroyed. 

§  VII.  The  reader  may  perhaps  have  felt 
some  pain  in  the  contrast  between  this  faithful 
view  of  the  site  of  the  Venetian  Throne,  and 
the  romantic  conception  of  it  which  we  ordi- 
narily form;  but  this  pain,  if  he  have  felt  it, 
ought  to  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the 
value  of  the  instance  thus  afforded  to  us  at 
once  of  the  inscrutal)lcness  and  the  wisdom  of 
the  ways  of  God.     If,  two  thousand  years  ago. 


we  had  been  permitted  to  watch  the  slow 
settling  of  the  slime  of  those  turbid  rivers  into 
the  polluted  sea,  and  the  gaining  upon  its 
deep  and  fresh  waters  of  the  lifeless,  impas- 
sal)le,  unvoyageable  plain,  how  little  could  we 
have  understood  the  purpose  with  which  those 
islands  were  shaped  out  of  the  void,  and  the 
torpid  waters  enclosed  with  their  desolate 
walls  of  sand !  How  little  could  we  have 
known,  any  more  than  of  what  now  seems  to 
us  most  distressful,  dark,  and  objectless,  the 
glorious  aim  which  was  then  in  the  mind  of 
Him  in  whose  hands  are  all  the  corners  of  the 
earth !  how  little  imagined  that  in  the  laws 
which  were  stretching  forth  the  gloomy  mar- 
gins of  those  fruitless  banks,  and  feeding  the 
bitter  grass  among  their  shallows,  there  was 
indeed  a  preparation,  and  the  only  preparation 
possible,  for  the  founding  of  a  city  which  was 
to  be  set  like  a  golden  clasp  on  the  girdle  of 
the  earth,  to  write  her  history  on  the  white 
scrolls  of  the  sea-surges,  and  to  word  it  in  their 
thunder,  and  to  gather  and  give  forth,  in  world- 
wide pulsation,  the  glory  of  the  West  and  of 
the  East,  from  the  burning  heart  of  her  Forti- 
tude and  Splendour. 

CHAP.  IV 

St.  M.\rk's 

§  X.  And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  be- 
fore I  bring  him  into  St.  Mark's  Place,  would 
imagine  himself  for  a  little  time  in  a  quiet 
English  cathedral  town,  and  walk  with  me  to 
the  west  front  of  its  cathedral.  Let  us  go 
together  up  the  more  retired  street,  at  the  end 
of  which  we  can  see  the  pinnacles  of  one  of 
the  towers,  and  then  through  the  low  gray 
gateway,  with  its  battlemented  top  and  small 
latticed  window  in  the  centre,  into  the  inner 
private-looking  road  or  close,  where  nothing 
goes  in  but  the  carts  of  the  tradesmen  who 
supply  the  bishop  and  the  chapter,  and  where 
there  are  little  shaven  grass-plots,  fenced  in 
by  neat  rails,  before  old-fashioned  groups  of 
somewhat  diminutive  and  excessively  trim 
houses,  with  little  oriel  and  bay  windows 
Jutting  out  here  and  there,  and  deep  wooden 
cornices  and  eaves  painted  cream  colour  and 
white,  and  small  porches  to  their  doors  in  the 
shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little,  crooked,  thick, 
indescribable  wooden  gables  warped  a  little 
on  one  side;  and  so  forward  till  we  come  to 
larger  houses,  also  old-fashioned,  but  of  red 
brick,    and   with   gardens    behind    them,    and 


468 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


fruit  walls,  which  show  here  and  there,  among 
the  nectarines,  the  vestiges  of  an  old  cloister 
arch  or  shaft,  and  looking  in  front  on  the 
cathedral  square  itself,  laid  out  in  rigid  divi- 
sions of  smooth  grass  and  gravel  walk,  yet  not 
unchecrful,  especially  on  the  sunny  side  where 
the  canons'  children  are  walking  with  their 
nursen-maids.  And  so,  taking  care  not  to 
tread  on  the  grass,  we  will  go  along  the  straight 
walk  to  the  west  front,  and  there  stand  for  a 
time,  looking  up  at  its  deep-pointed  porches 
and  the  dark  places  between  their  pillars 
where  there  were  statues  once,  and  where  the 
fragments,  here  and  there,  of  a  stately  figure 
are  still  left,  which  has  in  it  the  likeness  of  a 
king,  perhaps  indeed  a  king  on  earth,  perhaps 
a  saintly  king  long  ago  in  heaven;  and  so, 
higher  and  higher  up  to  the  great  mouldering 
wall  of  rugged  sculpture  and  confused  arcades, 
shattered,  and  gray,  and  grisly  with  heads  of 
dragons  and  mocking  fiends,  worn  by  the  rain 
and  swirling  winds  into  yet  unseemlier  shape, 
and  coloured  on  their  stony  scales  by  the  deep 
russet-orange  lichen,  melancholy  gold;  and 
so,  higher  still,  to  the  bleak  towers,  so  far 
above  that  the  eye  loses  itself  among  the 
bosses  of  their  traceries,  though  they  are  rude 
and  strong,  and  only  sees,  like  a  drift  of  eddy- 
ing black  points,  now  closing,  now  scattering, 
and  now  settling  suddenly  into  invisible  places 
among  the  bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd  of 
restless  birds  that  fill  the  whole  square  with 
that  strange  clangour  of  theirs,  so  harsh  and 
yet  so  soothing,  like  the  cries  of  birds  on  a 
solitary  coast  between  the  cliffs  and  sea. 

§  XI.  Think  for  a  little  while  of  that  scene, 
and  the  meaning  of  all  its  small  formalisms, 
mixed  with  its  serene  sublimity.  Estimate  its 
secluded,  continuous,  drowsy  felicities,  and 
its  evidence  of  the  sense  and  steady  perform- 
ance of  such  kind  of  duties  as  can  be  regu- 
lated by  the  cathedral  clock;  and  weigh  the 
influence  of  those  ark  towers  on  all  who  have 
passed  through  the  lonely  square  at  their  feet 
for  centuries,  and  on  all  who  have  seen  them 
rising  far  away  over  the  wooded  plain,  or 
catching  on  their  square  masses  the  last  rays 
of  the  sunset,  when  the  city  at  their  feet  was 
indicated  only  by  the  mist  at  the  bend  of  the 
river.  And  then  let  us  quickly  recollect  that 
we  are  in  Venice,  and  land  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Calle  Lunga  San  Moise,  which  may  be 
considered  as  there  answering  to  the  secluded 
street  that  led  us  to  our  English  cathedral 
gateway. 

§  XII.     We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley. 


some  seven  feet  wide  where  it  is  widest,  full 
of  people,  and  resonant  with  cries  of  itinerant 
salesmen  —  a  shriek  in  their  beginning,  and 
dying  away  into  a  kind  of  brazen  ringing,  all 
the  worse  for  its  confinement  between  the  high 
houses  of  the  passage  along  which  we  have 
to  make  our  way.  Over-head  an  inextricable 
confusion  of  rugged  shutters,  and  iron  balconies 
and  chimney  flues  pushed  out  on  brackets  to 
save  room,  and  arched  windows  with  project- 
ing sills  of  Istrian  stone,  and  gleams  of  green 
leaves  here  and  there  where  a  fig-tree  branch 
escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some  inner 
cortile,  leading  the  eye  up  to  the  narrow 
stream  of  blue  sky  high  over  all.  On  each 
side,  a  row  of  shops,  as  densely  set  as  may 
be,  occupying,  in  fact,  intervals  between  the 
square  stone  shafts,  about  eight  feet  high, 
which  carry  the  first  floors:  interv^als  of  which 
one  is  r arrow  and  serves  as  a  door;  the  other 
is,  in  the  more  respectable  shops,  wainscotted 
to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed  above, 
but  in  those  of  the  poorer  tradesmen  left  open 
to  the  ground,  and  the  wares  laid  on  benches 
and  tables  in  the  open  air,  the  light  in  all 
cases  entering  at  the  front  only,  and  fading 
away  in  a  few  feet  from  the  threshold  into  a 
gloom  which  the  eye  from  without  cannot 
penetrate,  but  which  is  generally  broken  by  a 
ray  or  tw-o  from  a  feeble  lamp  at  the  back 
of  the  shop,  suspended  before  a  print  of  the 
Virgin.  The  less  pious  shopkeeper  sometimes 
leaves  his  lamp  unlighted,  and  is  contented 
with  a  penny  print ;  the  more  religious  one  has 
his  print  coloured  and  set  in  a  little  shrine  with 
a  gilded  or  figured  fringe,  with  perhaps  a 
faded  flower  or  two  on  each  side,  and  his 
lamp  burning  brilliantly.  Here  at  the  fruiterer's, 
where  the  dark -green  water-melons  are  heaped 
upon  the  counter  like  cannon  balls,  the  Ma- 
donna has  a  tabernacle  of  fresh  laurel  leaves; 
but  the  pewterer  next  door  has  let  his  lamp 
out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  his  shop 
but  the  dull  gleam  of  the  .studded  patterns  on 
the  copper  pans,  hanging  from  his  roof  in  the 
darkness.  Next  comes  a  "Vendita  Frittole  e 
Liquori,"  where  the  Virgin,  enthroned  in  a 
very  humble  manner  beside  a  tallow  candle 
on  a  back  shelf,  presides  over  certain  ambro- 
sial morsels  of  a  nature  too  ambiguous  to 
be  defined  or  enumerated.  But  a  few  steps 
farther  on,  at  the  regular  wine-shop  of  the 
calle,  where  we  are  offered  "Vino  Nostrani  a 
Soldi  28.32,"  the  Madonna  is  in  great  glory, 
enthroned  above  ten  or  a  dozen  large  red 
casks  of  three-year-old  vintage,   and  flanked 


THE    STONES    OF    VENICE 


469 


by  goodly  ranks  of  bottles  of  Maraschino, 
and  two  crimson  lamps;  and  for  the  evening, 
when  the  gondoliers  will  come  to  drink  out, 
under  her  auspices,  the  money  they  have 
gained  during  the  day,  she  will  have  a  whole 
chandelier. 

§  XIII.  A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the 
hostelry  of  the  Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing  as 
we  pass  through  the  square  door  of  marble, 
deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer  wall,  we  see  the 
shadows  of  its  pergola  of  vines  resting  on  an 
ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield  carved  on 
its  side;  and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge 
and  Campo  San  Moise,  whence  to  the  en- 
trance into  St.  Mark's  Place,  called  the  Bocca 
di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Vene- 
tian character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the 
frightful  fagade  of  San  Moise,  which  we  will 
pause  at  another  time  to  examine,  and  then 
by  the  modernising  of  the  shops  as  they  near 
the  piazza,  and  the  mingling  with  the  lower 
Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups  of  Eng- 
lish and  Austrians.  We  will  push  fast  through 
them  into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end 
of  the  "Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and  then  we  forget 
them  all;  for  between  those  pillars  there  opens 
a  great  light,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we 
advance  slowly,  the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark 
seems  to  lift  itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level 
field  of  chequered  stones;  and,  on  each  side, 
the  countless  arches  prolong  themselves  into 
ranged  symmetry,  as  if  the  rugged  and  irregular 
houses  that  pressed  together  above  us  in  the 
dark  alley  had  been  struck  back  into  sudden 
obedience  and  lovely  order,  and  all  their  rude 
casements  and  broken  walls  had  been  trans- 
formed into  arches  charged  with  goodly  sculp- 
ture, and  fluted  shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

§  XIV.  And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for 
beyond  those  troops  of  ordered  arches  there 
rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  great 
square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a 
kind  of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it  far  away  —  a 
multitude  of  pillars  and  white  domes,  clustered 
into  a  long  low  pyramid  of  coloured  light;  a 
treasure-heap,  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and 
partly  of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed 
beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled 
with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of 
alabaster,  clear  as  amber  aiul  delicate  as 
ivory  —  sculpture  fantastic  and  involved,  of 
palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and  grapes  and  pome- 
granates, and  birds  clinging  and  fluttering 
among  the  branches,  all  twined  together  into 
an  endless  network  of  buds  anfl  plumes;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels, 


sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet,  and  leaning  to 
each  other  across  the  gates,  their  figures  in- 
distinct among  the  gleaming  of  the  golden 
ground  through  the  leaves  beside  them,  inter- 
rupted and  dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it 
faded  back  among  the  branches  of  Eden, 
when  first  its  gates  were  angel -guarded  long 
ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches 
there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated  stones, 
jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpen- 
tine spotted  with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles, 
that  half  refuse  and  half  yield  to  the  sunshine, 
Cleopatra-like,  "their  bluest  veins  to  kiss"  — 
the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them,  re- 
vealing line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as 
a  receding  tide  leaves  the  waved  sand;  their 
capitals  rich  with  interwoven  tracery,  rooted 
knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves  of  acan- 
thus and  vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  beginning 
and  ending  in  the  Cross;  and  above  them,  in 
the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous  chain  of 
language  and  of  life  —  angels,  and  the  signs  of 
heaven,  and  the  labours  of  men,  each  in  its 
appointed  season  upon  the  earth;  and  above 
these,  another  range  of  glittering  pinnacles, 
mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with  scarlet 
flowers  —  a  confusion  of  delight,  amidst  which 
the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen  blaz- 
ing in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength,  and 
the  St.  Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a  blue  field  cov- 
ered with  stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in  ecstasy, 
the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  marble 
foam,  and  toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue 
sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray, 
as  if  the  breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been 
frost-bound  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea- 
nymphs  had  inlaid  them  with  coral  and 
amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England 
and  this,  what  an  interval  1  There  is  a  type 
of  it  in  the  very  birds  that  haunt  them;  for, 
instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse-voiced 
and  sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak  upper 
air,  the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves, 
that  nestle  among  the  marble  foliage,  and 
mingle  the  soft  iridescence  of  their  living 
plumes,  changing  at  every  motion,  with  the 
tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have  stood  un- 
changed for  seven  hundred  years. 

§  XV.  And  what  effect  has  this  splendour 
on  those  who  pass  beneath  it?  You  may 
walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and  fro,  before 
the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and  you  will  not 
sec  an  eye  lifted  to  it,  nor  a  countenance 
brightened  by  it.  Priest  and  layman,  soldier 
and  civilian,  rich  and  poor,  pass  by  it  alike 


47° 

regardlesslv.  Up  to  the  very  recesses  of  the 
poR-hes,  tiie  meanest  tradesmen  of  the  city 
push  their  counters;  nay,  the  foundations  of 
its  pillars  are  themselves  the  seats  —  not  "of 
them  that  sell  doves"  for  sacrifice,  but  of  the 
vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.  Round  the 
whole  square  in  front  of  the  church  there  is 
almost  a  continuous  line  of  cafes,  where  the 
idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes  lounge, 
and  read  empty  journals;  in  its  centre  the 
Austrian  bands  play  during  the  time  of  vespers, 
their  martial  music  jarring  vi'ith  the  organ 
notes  — the  march  drowning  the  miserere, 
and  the  sullen  crowd  thickening  round  them  — 
a  crowd,  which,  if  it  had  its  will,  would  stiletto 
every  soldier  that  pipes  to  it.  And  in  the 
recesses  of  the  porches,  all  day  long,  knots  of 
men  of  the  lowest  classes,  unemployed  and 
listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun  like  lizards; 
and  unregarded  children  —  every  heavy  glance 
of  their  young  eyes  full  of  desperation  and 
stony  depravity,  and  their  throats  hoarse  with 
cursing  —  gamble,  and  fight,  and  snarl,  and 
sleep,  hour  after  hour,  clashing  their  bruised 
centesimi  upon  the  marble  ledges  of  the 
church  porch.  And  the  images  of  Christ  and 
His  angels  look  down  upon  it  continually. 

CHAP.  V 

Byz.vntine  Palaces 

§  XXX.  Such,  then,  was  that  first  and 
fairest  Venice  which  rose  out  of  the  barren- 
ness of  the  lagoon,  and  the  sorrow  of  her 
people;  a  city  of  graceful  arcades  and  gleam- 
ing walls,  veined  with  azure  and  warm  with 
gold,  and  fretted  with  white  sculpture  like 
frost  upon  forest  branches  turned  to  marble. 
And  yet,  in  this  beauty  of  her  youth,  she  was 
no  city  of  thoughtless  pleasure.  There  was 
still  a  sadness  of  heart  upon  her,  and  a  depth 
of  devotion,  in  which  lay  all  her  strength.  I 
do  not  insist  upon  the  probable  religious  sig- 
nification of  many  of  the  sculptures  which  are 
now  difficult  of  interpretation ;  but  the  temper 
which  made  the  cross  the  principal  ornament 
of  every  building  is  not  to  be  misunderstood, 
nor  can  we  fail  to  perceive,  in  many  of  the 
minor  sculptural  subjects,  meanings  perfectly 
familiar  to  the  mind  of  early  Christianity. 
The  peacock,  used  in  preference  to  every 
other  bird,  is  the  well-known  symbol  of  the 
resurrection;  and,  when  drinking  from  a 
fountain  or  from  a  font,  is,  I  doubt  not,  also  a 
type  of  the  new  life  received  in  faithful  bap- 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


tism.  The  vine,  used  in  preference  to  all 
other  trees,  was  equally  recognised  as,  in  all 
cases,  a  type  either  of  Christ  Himself  or  of 
those  who  were  in  a  state  of  visible  or  pro- 
fessed union  with  Him.  The  dove,  at  its  foot, 
represents  the  coming  of  the  Comforter;  and 
even  the  groups  of  contending  animals  had, 
probably,  a  distinct  and  universally  appre- 
hended reference  to  the  powers  of  evil.  But  I 
lay  no  stress  on  these  more  occult  meanings. 
The  principal  circumstance  which  marks  the 
seriousness  of  the  early  Venetian  mind  is  per- 
haps the  last  in  which  the  reader  would  sup- 
pose it  was  traceable  —  that  love  of  bright 
and  pure  colour  which,  in  a  modified  form, 
was  afterwards  the  root  of  all  the  triumph  of 
the  Venetian  schools  of  painting,  but  which, 
in  its  utmost  simplicity,  was  characteristic  of 
the  Byzantine  period  only;  and  of  which, 
there foi-^,  in  the  close  of  our  review  of  that 
period,  it  will  be  well  that  we  should  truly 
estimate  the  significance.  The  fact  is,  we 
none  of  us  enough  appreciate  the  nobleness 
and  sacredness  of  colour.  Nothing  is  more 
common  than  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  a  sub- 
ordinate beauty  — ■  nay,  even  as  the  mere 
source  of  a  sensual  pleasure;  and  we  might 
almost  believe  that  we  were  daily  among  men 
who 

Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 
To  them,  their  verdure  from  the  fields  ; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
With  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds. 

But  it  is  not  so.  Such  expressions  are  used 
for  the  most  part  in  thoughtlessness;  and  if 
the  speakers  would  only  take  the  pains  to 
imagine  what  the  world  and  their  own  exist- 
ence would  become,  if  the  blue  were  taken 
from  the  sky,  and  the  gold  from  the  sunshine, 
and  the  verdure  from  the  leaves,  and  the 
crimson  from  the  blood  which  is  the  life  of 
man,  the  flush  from  the  cheek,  the  darkness 
from  the  eye,  the  radiance  from  the  hair  —  if 
they  could  but  see,  for  an  instant,  white  liuman 
creatures  living  in  a  white  world  —  they  would 
soon  fee!  what  they  owe  to  colour.  The  fact 
is,  that,  of  all  God's  gifts  to  the  sight  of  man, 
colour  is  the  holiest,  the  most  divine,  the  most 
solemn.  We  speak  rashly  of  gay  colour  and 
sad  colour,  for  colour  cannot  at  once  be  good 
and  gay.  All  good  colour  is  in  some  degree 
pensive,  the  loveliest  is  melancholy,  and  the 
purest  and  most  thoughtful  minds  are  those 
which  love  colour  the  most. 


THE    STONES    OF   VENICE 


471 


§  XXXI.  I  know  that  this  will  sound 
strange  in  many  cars,  and  will  be  especially 
startling  to  those  who  have  considered  the 
suljject  chiefly  with  reference  to  painting; 
for  the  great  Venetian  schools  of  colour  are 
not  usually  understood  to  l^e  either  pure  or 
pensive,  and  the  idea  of  its  preeminence  is 
associated  in  nearly  every  mind  with  the 
coarseness  of  Rubens,  and  the  sensualities  of 
Correggio  and  Titian.  But  a  more  compre- 
hensive view  of  art  will  soon  correct  this  im- 
pression. It  will  be  discovered,  in  the  first 
place,  that  the  more  faithful  and  earnest  the 
religion  of  the  painter,  the  more  pure  and  prev- 
alent is  the  system  of  his  colour.  It  will  be 
found,  in  the  second  place,  that  where  colour 
becomes  a  primal  intention  with  a  painter 
otherwise  mean  or  sensual,  it  instantly  elevates 
him,  and  becomes  the  one  sacred  and  saving 
element  in  his  work.  The  very  depth  of  the 
stoop  to  which  the  Venetian  painters  and 
Rubens  sometimes  condescend,  is  a  conse- 
quence of  their  feeling  confidence  in  the  power 
of  their  colour  to  keep  them  from  falling. 
They  hold  on  by  it,  as  by  a  chain  let  down 
from  heaven,  with  one  hand,  though  they  may 
sometimes  seem  to  gather  dust  and  ashes 
with  the  other.  And,  in  the  last  place,  it 
will  be  found  that  so  surely  as  a  painter  is  irre- 
ligious, thoughtless,  or  obscene  in  disposition, 
so  surely  is  his  colouring  cold,  gloomy,  and 
valueless.  The  opposite  poles  of  art  in  this 
respect  are  Fra  Angelico  and  Salvator  Rosa; 
of  whom  the  one  was  a  man  who  smiled 
seldom,  wept  often,  prayed  constantly,  and 
never  harboured  an  impure  thought.  His  pic- 
tures are  simply  so  many  pieces  of  jewellery, 
the  colours  of  the  draperies  being  perfectly 
pure,  as  various  as  those  of  a  painted  window, 
chastened  only  by  paleness  and  relieved  upon 
a  gold  ground.  Salvator  was  a  dissipated 
jester  and  satirist,  a  man  who  spent  his  life 
in  masquing  and  revelry.  But  his  pictures  are 
full  of  horror,  and  their  colour  is  for  the  most 
part  gloomy  gray.  Truly  it  would  seem  as  if  art 
had  so  much  of  eternity  in  it,  that  it  must  take 
its  dye  from  the  close  rather  tlian  the  course  of 
life:  "In  such  laughter  the  heart  of  man  is  sor- 
rowful, and  the  end  of  that  mirth  is  heaviness." 

§  XXXII.  These  are  no  singular  instances. 
I  know  no  law  more  severely  without  excep- 
tion than  this  of  the  connection  of  pure  colour 
with  profound  and  noble  thought.  The  late 
Flemish  pictures,  shallow  in  conception  and 
obscene  in  subject,  are  always  sober  in  colour. 
But  the  early  religious  painting  of  the  Flemings 


is  as  brilliant  in  hue  as  it  is  holy  in  thouglit. 
The  Bellinis,  Francias,  Peruginos  painted  in 
crimson,  and  blue,  and  gold.  The  Caraccis, 
Guidos,  and  Rembrandts  in  brown  and  gray. 
The  builders  of  our  great  cathedrals  veiled 
their  casements  and  wrapped  their  pillars  with 
one  robe  of  purple  splendour.  The  builders 
of  the  luxurious  Renaissance  left  their  palaces 
filled  only  with  cold  white  light,  and  in  the 
paleness  of  their  native  stone. 

§  XXXIII.  Nor  does  it  seem  difiicult  to 
discern  a  noble  reason  for  this  universal  law. 
In  that  heavenly  circle  which  binds  the  statutes 
of  colour  upon  the  front  of  the  sky,  when  it 
became  the  sign  of  the  covenant  of  peace,  the 
pure  hues  of  divided  light  were  sanctified  to 
the  human  heart  forever;  nor  this,  it  would 
seem,  by  mere  arbitrary  appointment,  but  in 
consequence  of  the  fore -ordained  and  mar- 
vellous constitution  of  those  hues  into  a  seven- 
fold, or,  more  strictly  still,  a  threefold  order, 
typical  of  the  Divine  nature  itself.  Observe 
also,  the  name  Shem,  or  Sj)lendour,  given  to 
that  son  of  Noah  in  whom  this  covenant  with 
mankind  was  to  be  fulfilled,  and  see  how  that 
name  was  justified  by  every  one  of  the  Asiatic 
races  which  descended  from  him.  Not  with- 
out meaning  was  the  love  of  Israel  to  his 
chosen  son  expressed  by  the  coat  "of  many 
colours";  not  without  deep  sense  of  the 
sacredness  of  that  symbol  of  purity,  did  the 
lost  daughter  of  David  tear  it  from  her  breast: 
"With  such  robes  were  the  king's  daughters 
that  were  virgins  apparelled"  (2  Samuel,  xiii, 
18).  We  know  it  to  have  been  by  Divine 
command  that  the  Israelite,  rescued  from 
servitude,  veiled  the  tabernacle  with  its  rain  of 
purple  and  scarlet,  while  the  under  sunshine 
flashed  through  the  fall  of  the  colour  from  its 
tenons  of  gold:  but  was  it  less  by  Divine 
guidance  that  the  Mede,  as  he  struggled  out 
of  anarchy,  encompassed  his  king  with  the 
sevenfold  burning  of  the  battlements  of  Fcbat- 
ana?  —  of  which  one  circle  was  golden  like 
the  sun,  and  another  silver  like  the  moon; 
and  then  came  the  great  sacred  chord  of 
colour,  blue,  purple,  and  scarlet;  and  then  a 
circle  white  like  the  day,  and  another  dark, 
like  night;  so  that  the  city  rose  like  a  great 
mural  rainbow,  a  sign  of  peace  amidst  the 
contending  of  lawless  races,  and  guarded,  with 
colour  and  shadow,  that  seemed  to  symbolise 
the  great  order  which  rules  over  Day,  and 
Night,  and  Time,  the  first  organisation  of  the 
mighty  statutes  —  the  law  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  that  altereth  not. 


47- 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


§  XXXIV.  Let  us  not  dream  that  it  is  ow- 
ing to  the  accidents  of  tradition  or  educa- 
tion that  those  races  possess  the  supremacy 
over  colour  which  has  always  been  felt,  though 
but  lately  acknowledged  among  men.  How- 
ever their  dominion  might  be  broken,  their 
virtue  extinguished,  or  their  religion  defiled, 
they  retained  alike  the  instinct  and  the  power; 
the  instinct  which  made  even  their  idolatry 
more  glorious  than  that  of  others,  bursting 
forth  in  fire-worship  from  pyramid,  cave,  and 
mountain,  taking  the  stars  for  the  rulers  of  its 
fortune,  and  the  sun  for  the  God  of  its  life; 
the  power  which  so  dazzled  and  subdued  the 
rough  crusader  into  forgetfulness  of  sorrow  and 
of  shame,  that  Europe  put  on  the  splendour 
which  she  had  learnt  of  the  Saracen,  as  her 
sackcloth  of  mourning  for  what  she  suffered 
from  his  sword  —  the  power  which  she  con- 
fesses to  this  day,  in  the  utmost  thoughtless- 
ness of  her  pride,  or  her  beauty,  as  it  treads 
the  costly  carpet,  or  veils  itself  with  the  varie- 
gated Cachemire;  and  in  the  emulation  of  the 
concourse  of  her  workmen,  who  but  a  few 
months  back,  perceived,  or  at  least  admitted, 
for  the  first  time,  the  preeminence  which  has 
been  determined  from  the  birth  of  mankind, 
and  on  whose  charter  Nature  herself  has  set 
a  mysterious  seal,  granting  to  the  Western 
races,  descended  from  that  son  of  Noah  whose 
name  was  Extension,  the  treasures  of  the 
sullen  rock,  and  stubborn  ore,  and  gnarled 
forest,  which  were  to  accomplish  their  destiny 
across  all  distance  of  earth  and  depth  of  sea, 
while  she  matured  the  jewel  in  the  sand,  and 
rounded  the  pearl  in  the  shell,  to  adorn  the 
diadem  of  him  whose  name  was  Splendour. 

§  XXXV.  And  observe,  farther,  how  in  the 
Oriental  mind  a  peculiar  seriousness  is  asso- 
ciated with  this  attribute  of  the  love  of  colour; 
a  seriousness  rising  out  of  repose,  and  out  of 
the  depth  and  breadth  of  the  imagination,  as 
contra.sted  with  the  activity,  and  consequent 
capability  of  surprise,  and  of  laughter,  char- 
acteristic of  the  Western  mind:  as  a  man  on 
a  journey  must  look  to  his  steps  always,  and 
view  things  narrowly  and  quickly;  while  one 
at  rest  may  command  a  wider  view,  though 
an  unchanging  one,  from  which  the  pleasure 
he  receives  must  be  one  of  contemplation, 
rather  than  of  amusement  or  surprise.  Wher- 
ever the  pure  Oriental  spirit  manifests  itself 
definitely,  I  believe  its  work  is  serious;  and 
the  meeting  of  the  influences  of  the  Eastern 
and  Western  races  is  perhaps  marked  in 
Europe  more  by  the  dying  away  of  the  gro- 


tesque laughter  of  the  Goth  than  by  any  other 
sign.  I  have  more  to  say  on  this  head  in 
other  places  of  this  volume;  but  the  point  I 
wish  at  present  to  impress  upon  the  reader  is, 
that  the  bright  hues  of  the  early  architecture 
of  Venice  were  no  sign  of  gaiety  of  heart,  and 
that  the  investiture  with  the  mantle  of  many 
colours  by  which  she  is  known  above  all  other 
cities  of  Italy  and  of  Europe,  was  not  granted 
to  her  in  the  fever  of  her  festivity,  but  in  the 
solemnity  of  her  early  and  earnest  religion. 
She  became  in  after  times  the  revel  of  the 
earth,  the  masque  of  Italy;  and  therefore  is 
she  now  desolate:  but  her  glorious  robe  of 
gold  and  purple  was  given  her  when  she  rose 
a  vestal  from  the  sea,  not  when  she  became 
drunk  with  the  wine  of  her  fornication. 

§  XXXVI.  And  we  have  never  yet  looked 
with  enough  reverence  upon  the  separate  gift 
which  was  thus  bestowed  upon  her;  we  have 
never  enough  considered  what  an  inheritance 
she  has  left  us,  in  the  works  of  those  mighty 
painters  who  were  the  chief  of  her  children. 
That  inheritance  is  indeed  less  than  it  ought 
to  have  been,  and  other  than  it  ought  to  have 
been ;  but  before  Titian  and  Tintoret  arose  — 
the  men  in  whom  her  work  and  her  glory 
should  have  been  together  consummated  — • 
she  had  already  ceased  to  lead  her  sons  in  the 
way  of  truth  and  life,  and  they  erred  much, 
and  fell  short  of  that  which  was  appointed  for 
them.  There  is  no  subject  of  thought  more 
melancholy,  more  wonderful,  than  the  way  in 
which  God  permits  so  often  His  best  gifts  to 
be  trodden  under  foot  of  men,  His  richest 
treasures  to  be  wasted  by  the  moth,  and  the 
mightiest  influences  of  His  Spirit,  given  but  once 
in  the  world's  history,  to  be  quenched  and 
shortened  by  miseries  of  chance  and  guilt.  I 
do  not  wonder  at  what  men  Suffer,  but  I  won- 
der often  at  what  they  Lose.  We  may  see 
how  good  rises  out  of  pain  and  evil;  but  the 
dead,  naked,  eyeless  loss,  what  good  comes  of 
that?  The  fruit  struck  to  the  earth  before  its 
ripeness;  the  glowing  life  and  goodly  purpose 
dissolved  away  in  sudden  death;  the  words, 
half-spoken,  choked  upon  the  lips  with  clay 
forever;  or,  stranger  than  all,  the  whole 
majesty  of  humanity  to  its  fulness,  and  every 
gift  and  power  necessary  for  a  given  purpose, 
at  a  given  moment,  centred  in  one  main,  and 
all  this  perfected  blessing  permitted  to  be 
refused,  perverted,  crushed,  cast  aside  by 
those  who  need  it  most  —  the  city  which  is 
Not  set  on  a  hill,  the  candle  that  giveth  light 
to  None  that  are  in  the  house  —  these  are  the 


THE    CROWN    OF    WILD    OLIVE 


473 


heaviest  mysteries  of  this  strange  world,  and, 
it  seems  to  me,   those  which  mark  its  curse 
the  most.     And  it  is  true  that  the  power  with 
which  this  Venice  had  been  entrusted,  was  per- 
verted,   when   at   its   highest,    in    a   thousand 
miserable  ways:    still,  it  was  possessed  by  her 
alone;    to  her  all   hearts  have  turned  which 
could  be  moved  by  its  manifestation,  and  none 
without  being   made  stronger  and  nobler  by 
what   her  hand   had   wrought.     That   mighty 
Landscape,  of  dark  mountains  that  guard  the 
horizon  with  their  purple  towers,  and  solemn 
forests,    that    gather    their   weight    of    leaves, 
bronzed  with  sunshine,  not  with  age,  into  those 
gloomy  masses  fi.xed  in  heaven,  which  storm 
and  frost  have  power  no  more  to  shake,  or 
shed  —  that  mighty  Humanity,  so  perfect  and 
so  proud,  that  hides  no  weakness  beneath  the 
mantle,    and    gains    no    greatness    from    the 
diadem;    the  majesty  of  thoughtful  form,  on 
which   the  dust  of  gold  and  flame  of  jewels 
are  dashed  as  the  sea-spray  upon   the  rock, 
and  still  the  great  Manhood  seems  to  stand 
bare    against    the    blue    sky  —  that    mighty 
Mythology,  which  fills  the  daily  walks  of  men 
with  spiritual  companionship  and  beholds  the 
protecting    angels    break    with    their    burning 
presence  through   the  arrow-flights  of  battle: 
measure  the  compass  of  that  field  of  creation, 
weigh  the  value  of  the  inheritance  that  Venice 
thus  left  to  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  then 
judge  if  so  vast,  so  beneficent  a  power  could 
indeed    have    been    rooted    in    dissipation    or 
decay.     It  was  when  she  wore  the  ephod  of 
the  priest,  not  the  motley  of  the  masquer,  that 
the  fire  fell  upon  her  from  heaven;    and  she 
saw  the  first  rays  of  it  through  the  rain  of  her 
own  tears,  when,  as  the  barbaric  deluge  ebbed 
from  the  hills  of  Italy,  the  circuit  of  her  palaces, 
and  the  orb  of  her  fortunes,  rose  together,  like 
the  Iris,  painted  upon  the  Cloud. 

From    THE    CROWN    OF    WILD    OLIVE 

Preface 

Twenty  years  ago,  there  was  no  lovelier 
piece  of  lowland  scenery  in  South  England,  nor 
any  more  pathetic  in  the  world,  by  its  expression 
of  sweet  human  character  and  life,  than  that 
immediately  bordering  on  the  sources  of  the 
Wandle,  and  including  the  lower  moors  of 
Addington,  and  the  villages  of  Beddington  and 
Carshalton,  with  all  their  pools  and  streams. 
No  clearer  or  diviner  waters  ever  sang  with 
constant  lips  of  the  hand  which  "giveth  rain 


from    heaven";    no    pastures    ever   lightened 
in  spring  time  with  more  passionate  blossoming; 
no  sweeter  homes  ever  hallowed  the  heart  of  the 
passer-by  with  their  pride  of  peaceful  gladness 
—  fain-hidden —  yet  full -confessed.     The  place 
remains,  or,  until  a  few  months  ago,  remained, 
nearly  unchanged  in  its  larger  features;    but, 
with  deliberate  mind  I  say,  that  I  have  never 
seen   anything  so   ghastly   in   its   inner  tragic 
meaning,  —  not  in  Pisan  Maremma,  —  not  by 
Campagna  tomb,  —  not  fjy  the  sand-isles  of 
the  Torcellan  shore,  —  as  the  slow  stealing  of 
asjX'Ctsof  reckless,  indolent,  animal  neglect,  over 
the  delicate  sweetness  of  that  English  scene :  nor 
is   any   blasphemy   or    impiety  —  any    frantic 
saying  or  godless  thought  —  more  appalling  to 
me,  using  the  best  power  of  judgment  I  have  to 
discern  its  sense  and  scope,  than  the  insolent 
defilings  of  those  springs  by  the  human  herds 
that  drink  of  them.     Just  where  the  welling 
of  stainless  water,  trembling  and  pure,  like  a 
body  of  light,  enters  the  pool  of  Carshalton, 
cutting  itself  a  radiant  channel  down  to  the 
gravel,    through    warp   of   feathery   weeds,  all 
waving,  which  it  traverses  with  its  deejj  threads 
of  clearness,  like  the  chalcedony  in  mo.ss-agate, 
starred  here  and  there  with  white  grenouillette; 
just  in  the  verj'  rush  and  murmur  of  the  first 
spreading  currents,  the  human  wretches  of  the 
place    cast    their   street    and    house    foulness; 
heaps  of  dust  and  slime,  and  broken  shreds  of 
old  metal,  and  rags  of  putrid  clothes;    they 
having   neither  energy   to   cart    it   away,    nor 
decency  enough  to  dig  it  into  the  ground,  thus 
shed  into  the  stream,  to  diffuse  what  venom  of 
it  will  float  and  melt,  far  away,  in  all  places 
where  God  meant  those  waters  to  bring  joy 
and  health.     And,  in  a  little  pool,  behind  some 
houses  farther  in  the  village,  where  another 
spring  rises,  the  shattered  stones  of  the  well, 
and  of  the  little  fretted  channel  which  was  long 
ago  built  and  traced  for  it  by  gentler  hands, 
lie  scattered,  each  from  each,  under  a   ragged 
bank  of  mortar,  and  scoria;    and  bricklayers' 
refuse,   on   one   side,    which   the   clean   water 
nevertheless  chastises  to  purity;   but  it  cannot 
conquer  the  dead  earth   beyond;    and  there, 
circled  and  coiled  under  festering  scum,  the 
stagnant  edge  of  the  pool  effaces  itself  into  a 
slope    of    black    slime,    the    accumulation    of 
indolent  years.     Half-a-dozen  men,  with  one 
day's  work,  could  cleanse  those  pools,  and  trim 
the  flowers  about  their  banks,  and  make  every 
breath  of  summer  air  above  them  rich  with  cool 
balm;   and  every  glittering  wave  medicinal,  as 
if  it  ran,  troubled  of  angels,  from  the  porch  of 


474 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


Bethesda.  But  that  (iay's  work  is  never  given, 
nor  will  be;  nor  will  any  joy  be  possible  to 
heart  of  man,  for  evermore,  about  those  wells 
of  English  waters. 

When  I  last  left  them,  I  walked  up  slowly 
through  the  back  streets  of  Croydon,  from  the 
old  church  to  the  hospital;  and,  just  on  the 
left,  before  coming  up  to  the  crossing  of  the 
High  Street,  there  was  a  new  public-house 
built.  And  the  front  of  it  was  built  in  so  wise 
manner,  that  a  recess  of  two  feet  was  left  be- 
low its  front  windows,  between  them  and  the 
street-pavement  —  a  recess  too  narrow  for  any 
possible  use  (for  even  if  it  had  been  occupied 
by  a  seat,  as  in  old  time  it  might  have  been, 
everj'body  walking  along  the  street  would  have 
fallen  over  the  legs  of  the  reposing  wayfarers). 
But,  by  way  of  making  this  two  feet  depth  of 
freehold  land  more  expressive  of  the  dignity 
of  an  establishment  for  the  sale  of  spirituous 
liquors,  it  was  fenced  from  the  pavement  by  an 
imposing  iron  railing,  having  four  or  five  spear- 
heads to  the  yard  of  it,  and  six  feet  high;  con- 
taining as  much  iron  and  iron-work,  indeed,  as 
could  well  be  put  into  the  space;  and  by  this 
stately  arrangement,  the  little  piece  of  dead 
ground  within,  between  wall  and  street,  became 
a  protective  receptacle  of  refuse;  cigar  ends, 
and  oyster  shells,  and  the  like,  such  as  an  open- 
handed  English  street-populace,  habitually 
scatters  from  its  presence,  and  was  thus  left, 
unsweepable  by  any  ordinary  methods.  Now 
the  iron  bars  which,  uselessly  (or  in  great 
degree  worse  than  uselessly),  enclosed  this  bit 
of  ground,  and  made  it  pestilent,  represented 
a  quantity  of  work  which  would  have  cleansed 
the  Carshalton  pools  three  times  over;  —  of 
work  partly  cramped  and  deadly,  in  the  mine; 
partly  fierce  and  exhaustive,  at  the  furnace, 
partly  foolish  and  sedentar)',  of  ill-taught  stu- 
dents making  bad  designs:  work  from  the 
beginning  to  the  last  fruits  of  it,  and  in  all  the 
branches  of  it,  venomous,  deathful,  and  miser- 
able. Now,  how  did  it  come  to  pass  that  this 
work  was  done  instead  of  the  other;  that  the 
strength  and  life  of  the  English  operative  were 
spent  in  defiling  ground,  instead  of  redeeming 
it;  and  in  producing  an  entirely  (in  that  place) 
valueless  piece  of  metal,  which  can  neither  be 
eaten  nor  breathed,  instead  of  medicinal  fresh 
air,  and  pure  water? 

There  is  but  one  reason  for  it,  and  at  pres- 
ent a  conclusive  one,  —  that  the  capitalist  can 
charge  percentage  on  the  work  in  the  one  case, 
and  cannot  in  the  other.  If,  having  certain 
funds  for  supporting  labour  at  my  disposal,  I 


pay  men  merely  to  keep  my  ground  in  order, 
my  money  is,  in  that  function,  spent  once  for 
all;  but  if  I  pay  them  to  dig  iron  out  of  my 
ground,  and  work  it,  and  sell  it,  I  can  charge 
rent  for  the  ground,  and  percentage  both  on  the 
manufacture  and  the  sale,  and  make  my  capital 
profitable  in  these  three  by-ways.  The  greater 
part  of  the  profitable  investment  of  capital,  in 
the  present  day,  is  in  operations  of  this  kind,  in 
which  the  public  is  persuaded  to  buy  something 
of  no  use  to  it,  on  production,  or  sale,  of  which, 
the  capitalist  may  charge  percentage;  the  said 
public  remaining  all  the  while  under  the  per- 
suasion that  the  percentage  thus  obtained  are 
real  national  gains,  whereas,  they  are  merely 
filchings  out  of  partially  light  pockets,  to  swell 
heavy  ones. 

Thus,  the  Croydon  publican  buys  the  iron 
railing,  to  make  himself  more  conspicuous  to 
drunkards.  The  public-housekeeper  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way  presently  buys  another 
railing,  to  out-rail  him  with.  Both  are,  as  to 
their  relative  attractiveness  to  customers  of 
taste,  just  where  they  were  before;  but  they 
have  lost  the  price  of  the  railings;  which  they 
must  either  themselves  finally  lose,  or  make  their 
aforesaid  customers  of  taste  pay,  by  raising 
the  price  of  their  beer,  or  adulterating  it. 
Either  the  publicans,  or  their  customers,  are 
thus  poorer  by  precisely  what  the  capitalist 
has  gained;  and  the  value  of  the  work  itself, 
meantime,  has  been  lost,  to  the  nation;  the 
iron  bars  in  that  form  and  place  being  wholly 
useless.  It  is  this  mode  of  taxation  of  the  poor 
by  the  rich  which  is  referred  to  in  the  text,  in 
comparing  the  modem  acquisitive  power  of 
capital  with  that  of  the  lance  and  sword;  the 
only  difference  being  that  the  levy  of  black- 
mail in  old  times  was  by  force,  and  is  now  by 
cozening.  The  old  rider  and  reiver  frankly 
quartered  himself  on  the  publican  for  the  night; 
the  modern  one  merely  makes  his  lance  into  an 
iron  spike,  and  persuades  his  host  to  buy  it. 
One  comes  as  an  open  robber,  the  other  as  a 
cheating  peddler;  but  the  result,  to  the  injured 
person's  pocket,  is  absolutely  the  same.  Of 
course  many  useful  industries  mingle  with,  and 
disguise  the  useless  ones;  and  in  the  habits 
of  energy  aroused  by  the  struggle,  there  is  a  cer- 
tain direct  good.  It  is  far  better  to  spend  four 
thousand  pounds  in  making  a  good  gun,  and 
then  to  blow  it  to  pieces,  than  to  pass  life  in 
idleness.  Only  do  not  let  it  be  called  "political 
economy."  There  is  also  a  confused  notion  in 
the  minds  of  many  persons,  that  the  gathering 
of   the    property  of   the   poor  into  the  hands 


THE    CROWN    OF    WILD    OLIVE 


475 


of  the  rich  does  no  ultimate  harm ;  since,  in 
whosesoever  hands  it  may  be,  it  must  be  spent 
at  last,  and  thus,  they  think,  return  to  the  poor 
again.  This  fallacy  has  been  again  and  again 
exposed;  but  grant  the  plea  true,  and  the  same 
apology  may,  of  course,  be  made  for  black- 
mail, or  any  other  form  of  robbery.  It  might 
be  (though  practically  it  never  is)  as  advanta- 
geous for  the  nation  that  the  robber  should  have 
the  spending  of  the  money  he  extorts,  as  that 
the  person  robbed  should  have  spent  it.  But 
this  is  no  excuse  for  the  theft.  If  I  were  to  put 
a  turnpike  on  the  road  where  it  passes  my  own 
gate,  and  endeavour  to  exact  a  shilling  from  every 
passenger,  the  public  would  soon  do  away  with 
my  gate,  without  listening  to  any  plea  on  my 
part  that  "it  was  as  advantageous  to  them,  in 
the  end,  that  I  should  spend  their  shillings,  as 
that  they  themselves  should."  But  if,  instead 
of  outfacing  them  with  a  turnpike,  I  can  only 
persuade  them  to  come  in  and  buy  stones,  or 
old  iron,  or  any  other  useless  thing,  out  of  my 
ground,  I  may  rob  them  to  the  same  extent,  and 
be,  moreover,  thanked  as  a  public  benefactor, 
and  promoter  of  commercial  prosperity.  And 
this  main  question  for  the  poor  of  England  — 
for  the  poor  of  all  countries  —  is  wholly  omitted 
in  every  common  treatise  on  the  subject  of 
wealth.  Even  by  the  labourers  themselves, 
the  operation  of  capital  is  regarded  only  in  its 
effect  on  their  immediate  interests;  never  in 
the  far  more  terrific  power  of  its  appointment 
of  the  kind  and  the  oljject  of  labour.  It  matters 
little,  ultimately,  how  much  a  labourer  is  paid 
for  making  anything;  but  it  matters  fearfully 
what  the  thing  is,  which  he  is  compelled  to 
make.  If  his  labour  is  so  ordered  as  to  produce 
food,  and  fresh  air,  and  fresh  water,  no  matter 
that  his  wages  are  low;  —  the  food  and  fresh 
air  and  water  will  be  at  last  there;  and  he  will 
at  last  get  them.  But  if  he  is  paid  to  destroy 
food  and  fresh  air,  or  to  produce  iron  bars 
instead  of  them,  —  the  food  and  air  will  finally 
not  be  there,  and  he  will  not  get  them,  to  his 
great  and  final  inconvenience.  So  that,  con- 
clusively, in  political  as  in  household  economy 
the  great  question  is,  not  so  much  what  money 
you  have  in  your  pocket,  as  what  you  will  buy 
with  it,  and  do  with  it. 

I  have  been  long  accustomed,  as  all  men 
engaged  in  work  of  investigation  must  be,  to 
hear  my  statements  laughed  at  for  years,  before 
they  are  examined  or  believed;  and  I  am 
generally  content  to  wait  the  public's  time. 
But  it  has  not  been  without  displeased  sur]:)rise 
that  I  have  found  myself  totally  unable,  as  yet, 


by  any  repetition,  or  illustration,  to  force  this 
plain  thought  into  my  readers'  heads,  —  that 
the  wealth  of  nations,  as  of  men,  consists  in 
substance,  not  in  ciphers;  and  that  the  real 
good  of  all  work,  and  of  all  commerce,  depends 
on  the  final  worth  of  the  thing  you  make,  or  get 
by  it.  This  is  a  practical  enough  statement, 
one  would  think:  but  the  English  public  has 
been  so  possessed  by  its  modern  school  of 
economists  with  the  notion  that  Business  is 
always  good,  whether  it  be  busy  in  mischief 
or  in  benefit;  and  that  buying  and  selling  are 
always  salutary,  whatever  the  intrinsic  worth 
of  what  you  buy  or  sell,  —  that  it  seems  im- 
possible to  gain  so  much  as  a  patient  hearing 
for  any  inquiry  respecting  the  substantial  re- 
sult of  our  eager  modern  labours.  I  have  never 
felt  more  checked  by  the  sense  of  this  impossi- 
bility than  in  arranging  the  heads  of  the  follow- 
ing three  lectures,  which,  though  delivered  at 
considerable  intervals  of  time,  and  in  different 
places,  were  not  prepared  without  reference 
to  each  other.  Their  connection  would,  how- 
ever, have  been  made  far  more  distinct,  if  I  had 
not  been  prevented,  by  what  I  feel  to  be  an- 
other great  difficulty  in  addressing  English 
audiences,  from  enforcing,  with  any  decision, 
the  common,  and  to  me,  the  most  important, 
part  of  their  subjects.  I  chiefly  desired  (as 
I  have  just  said)  to  question  my  hearers  — 
operatives,  merchants,  and  soldiers,  as  to  the 
ultimate  meaning  of  the  business  they  had  in 
hand;  and  to  know  from  them  what  they  ex- 
pected or  intended  their  manufacture  to  come 
to,  their  selling  to  come  to,  and  their  killing  to 
come  to.  That  appeared  the  first  point  needing 
determination  before  I  could  speak  to  them  with 
any  real  utility  or  effect.  "You  craftsmen  — 
salesmen  —  swordsmen,  —  do  but  tell  me  clearly 
what  you  want;  then,  if  I  can  say  anything  to 
help  you,  I  will;  and  if  not,  I  will  account 
to  you  as  I  best  may  for  my  inability."  But 
in  order  to  put  this  question  into  any  terms, 
one  had  first  of  all  to  face  the  difficulty  just 
spoken  of  —  to  me  for  the  present  insuper- 
able, —  the  difliculty  of  knowing  whether  to 
address  one's  audience  as  believing,  or  not 
believing,  in  any  other  world  than  this.  For 
if  you  address  any  average  modern  English 
company  as  believing  in  an  Eternal  life,  and 
endeavour  to  draw  any  conclusions,  from  this 
assumed  belief,  as  to  their  present  business, 
they  will  forthwith  tell  you  that  what  you  say  is 
very  beautiful,  but  it  is  not  practical.  If,  on 
the  contrary,  you  frankly  address  them  as  un- 
believers in  Eternal  life,  and  try  to  draw  any 


476 


JOHN    RUSKIN 


consequences  from  that  unbelief,  —  they  im- 
mediately hold  you  for  an  accursed  person, 
and  shake  off  the  dust  from  their  feet  at  you. 
And  the  more  I  thought  over  what  I  had  got  to 
say,  the  less  I  found  I  could  say  it,  without  some 
reference  to  this  intangible  or  intractable  part 
of  the  subject.  It  made  all  the  difference,  in 
asserting  any  principle  of  war,  whether  one 
assumed  that  a  discharge  of  artillery  would 
merely  knead  down  a  certain  quantity  of  red 
clay  into  a  level  line,  as  in  a  brick  field;  or 
whether,  out  of  every  separately  Christian- 
named  portion  of  the  ruinous  heap,  there  went 
out,  into  the  smoke  and  dead-fallen  air  of 
battle,  some  astonished  condition  of  soul,  un- 
willingly released.  It  made  all  the  difference, 
in  speaking  of  the  possible  range  of  commerce, 
whether  one  assumed  that  all  bargains  related 
only  to  visible  property  —  or  whether  property, 
for  the  present  invisible,  but  nevertheless  real, 
was  elsewhere  purchasable  on  other  terms. 
It  made  all  the  difference,  in  addressing  a  body 
of  men  subject  to  considerable  hardship,  and 
having  to  find  some  way  out  of  it  —  whether 
one  could  confidently  say  to  them,  "My  friends, 
—  you  have  only  to  die,  and  all  will  be  right;" 
or  whether  one  had  any  secret  misgiving  that 
such  advice  was  more  blessed  to  him  that  gave, 
than  to  him  that  took  it.  And  therefore  the 
deliberate  reader  will  find,  throughout  these 
lectures,  a  hesitation  in  driving  points  home, 
and  a  pausing  short  of  conclusions  which  he 
will  feel  I  would  fain  have  come  to ;  hesitation 
which  arises  wholly  from  this  uncertainty  of 
my  hearers'  temper.  For  I  do  not  now  speak, 
nor  have  I  ever  spoken,  since  the  time  of  first 
forward  youth,  in  any  proselyting  temper,  as 
desiring  to  persuade  any  one  of  what,  in  such 
matters,  I  thought  myself;  but,  whomsoever 
I  venture  to  address,  I  take  for  the  time  his 
creed  as  I  find  it ;  and  endeavour  to  push  it  into 
such  vital  fruit  as  it  seems  capable  of.  Thus, 
it  is  a  creed  with  a  great  part  of  the  existing 
English  people,  that  they  are  in  possession  of  a 
book  which  tells  them,  straight  from  the  lips 
of  God,  all  they  ought  to  do,  and  need  to  know. 
I  have  read  that  book,  with  as  much  care  as  most 
of  them,  for  some  forty  years ;  and  am  thankful 
that,  on  those  who  trust  it,  I  can  press  its  plead- 
ings. My  endeavour  has  been  uniformly  to 
make  them  trust  it  more  deeply  than  they' do; 
trust  it,  not  in  their  own  favourite  verses  only, 
but  in  the  sum  of  all ;  trust  it  not  as  a  fetich  or 
talisman,  which  they  are  to  be  saved  by  daily 
repetitions  of;  but  as  a  Captain's  order,  to  be 
heard  and  obeyed  at  their  peril.     I  was  always 


encouraged  by  supposing  my  hearers  to  hold 
such  belief.  To  these,  if  to  any,  I  once  had  hope 
of  addressing,  with  acceptance,  words  which 
insisted  on  the  guilt  of  pride,  and  the  futility 
of  avarice;  from  these,  if  from  any,  I  once 
expected  ratification  of  a  political  economy, 
which  asserted  that  the  life  was  more  than  the 
meat,  and  the  body  than  raiment;  and  these, 
it  once  seemed  to  me,  I  might  ask,  without  ac- 
cusation of  fanaticism,  not  merely  in  doctrine 
of  the  lips,  but  in  the  bestowal  of  their  heart's 
treasure,  to  separate  themselves  from  the  crowd 
of  whom  it  is  written,  "After  all  these  things  do 
the  Gentiles  seek." 

It  cannot,  however,  be  assumed,  with  any 
semblance  of  reason,  that  a  general  audience 
is  now  wholly,  or  even  in  majority,  composed  of 
these  religious  persons.  A  large  portion  must 
always  consist  of  men  who  admit  no  such  creed; 
or  who,  at  least,  are  inaccessible  to  appeals 
founded  on  it.  And  as,  with  the  so-called 
Christian,  I  desired  to  plead  for  honest  dec- 
laration and  fulfilment  of  his  belief  in  life,  — 
with  the  so-called  infidel,  I  desired  to  plead  for 
an  honest  declaration  and  fulfilment  of  his 
belief  in  death.  The  dilemma  is  inevitable. 
Men  must  either  hereafter  live,  or  hereafter  die; 
fate  may  be  bravely  met,  and  conduct  wisely 
ordered,  on  either  expectation;  but  never  in 
hesitation  between  ungrasped  hope,  and  un- 
confronted  fear.  We  usually  believe  in  im- 
mortality, so  far  as  to  avoid  preparation  for 
death;  and  in  mortality,  so  far  as  to  avoid 
preparation  for  anything  after  death.  WTiereas, 
a  wise  man  will  at  least  hold  himself  prepared 
for  one  or  other  of  two  events,  of  which  one  or 
other  is  inevitable;  and  will  have  all  things 
in  order,  for  his  sleep,  or  in  readiness,  for  his 
awakening. 

Nor  have  we  any  right  to  call  it  an  ignoble 
judgment,  if  he  determine  to  put  them  in  order, 
as  for  sleep.  A  brave  belief  in  life  is  indeed  an 
enviable  state  of  mind,  but,  as  far  as  I  can  dis- 
cern, an  unusual  one.  I  know  few  Christians 
so  convinced  of  the  splendour  of  the  rooms  in 
their  Father's  house,  as  to  be  happier  when  their 
friends  are  called  to  those  mansions,  than  they 
would  have  been  if  the  Queen  had  sent  for  them 
to  live  at  court:  nor  has  the  Church's  most 
ardent  "desire  to  depart,  and  be  with  Christ," 
ever  cured  it  of  the  singular  habit  of  putting 
on  mourning  for  every  person  summoned  to 
such  departure.  On  the  contrary,  a  brave 
belief  in  death  has  been  assuredly  held  by 
many  not  ignoble  persons,  and  it  is  a  sign  of 
the  last  depravity  in  the  Church  itself,  when  it 


THE    CROWN    OF    WILD    OLIVE 


477 


assumes  that  such  a  belief  is  inconsistent  with 
either  purity  of  character,  or  energy  of  hand. 
The  shortness  of  hfe  is  not,  to  any  rational 
person,  a  conclusive  reason  for  wasting  the 
space  of  it  which  may  be  granted  him;  nor 
does  the  anticipation  of  death  to-morrow 
suggest,  to  any  one  but  a  drunkard,  the  ex- 
pediency of  drunkenness  to-day.  To  teach 
that  there  is  no  device  in  the  grave,  may  indeed 
make  the  deviceless  person  more  contented  in 
his  dulness;  but  it  will  make  the  deviser  only 
more  earnest  in  devising:  nor  is  human  con- 
duct likely,  in  every  case,  to  be  purer,  under  the 
conviction  that  all  its  evil  may  in  a  moment  be 
pardoned,  and  all  its  wrong-doing  in  a  moment 
redeemed;  and  that  the  sigh  of  repentance, 
which  purges  the  guilt  of  the  past,  will  waft 
the  soul  into  a  felicity  which  forgets  its  pain,  — 
than  it  may  be  under  the  sterner,  and  to  many 
not  unwise  minds,  more  probable,  apprehension, 
that  "what  a  man  soweth  that  shall  he  also 
reap,"  —  or  others  reap,  —  when  he,  the  living 
seed  of  pestilence,  walketh  no  more  in  dark- 
ness, but  lies  down  therein. 

But  to  men  whose  feebleness  of  sight,  or 
bitterness  of  soul,  or  the  offence  given  by  the 
conduct  of  those  who  claim  higher  hope,  may 
have  rendered  this  painful  creed  the  only 
possible  one,  there  is  an  appeal  to  be  made, 
more  secure  in  its  ground  than  any  which  can 
be  addressed  to  happier  persons.  I  would 
fain,  if  I  might  offencelessly,  have  spoken  to 
them  as  if  none  others  heard;  and  have  said 
thus:  Hear  me,  you  dying  men,  who  will  soon 
be  deaf  forever.  For  these  others,  at  your 
right  hand  and  your  left,  who  look  forward  to 
a  state  of  infinite  existence,  in  which  all  their 
errors  will  be  overruled,  and  all  their  faults 
forgiven ;  for  these,  who,  stained  and  blackened 
in  the  battle-smoke  of  mortality,  have  but  to  dip 
themselves  for  an  instant  in  the  font  of  death, 
and  to  rise  renewed  of  plumage,  as  a  dove  that 
is  covered  with  silver,  and  her  feathers  like 
gold;  for  these,  indeed,  it  may  be  permissible 
to  waste  their  numbered  moments,  through 
faith  in  a  future  of  innumerable  hours;  to 
these,  in  their  weakness,  it  may  be  conceded 
that  they  should  tamper  with  sin  which  can 
only  bring  forth  fruit  of  righteousness,  and 
profit  by  the  iniquity  which,  one  day,  will  be 
remembered  no  more.  In  them,  it  may  be  no 
sign  of  hardness  of  heart  to  neglect  the  poor, 
over  whom  they  know  their  Master  is  watching ; 
and  to  leave  those  to  perish  temporarily,  who 
cannot  perish  eternally.  But,  for  you,  there  is 
no  such  hope,  and  therefore  no  such  excuse. 


This  fate,  which  you  ordain  for  the  wretched, 
you  believe  to  be  all  their  inheritance;  you 
may  crush  them,  before  the  moth,  and  they  will 
never  rise  to  rebuke  you;  —  their  breath,  which 
fails  for  lack  of  food,  once  expiring,  will  never 
be  recalled  to  whisper  against  you  a  word  of 
accusing;  —  they  and  you,  as  you  think,  shall 
lie  down  together  in  the  dust,  and  the  worms 
cover  you;  —  and  for  them  there  shall  be  no 
consolation,  and  on  you  no  vengeance,  —  only 
the  question  murmured  above  your  grave: 
"Who  shall  repay  him  what  he  hath  done?" 
Is  it  therefore  easier  for  you  in  your  heart  to 
infiict  the  sorrow  for  which  there  is  no  remedy? 
Will  you  take,  wantonly,  this  little  all  of  his 
life  from  your  poor  brother,  and  make  his  brief 
hours  long  to  him  with  pain?  Will  you  be 
readier  to  the  injustice  which  can  never  be  re- 
dressed; and  niggardly  of  mercy  which  you 
can  bestow  but  once,  and  which,  refusing,  you 
refuse  forever?  I  think  better  of  you,  even  of 
the  most  selfish,  than  that  you  would  do  this, 
well  understood.  And  for  yourselves,  it  seems 
to  me,  the  question  becomes  not  less  grave, 
in  these  curt  limits.  If  your  life  were  but  a 
fever  fit,  —  the  madness  of  a  night,  whose 
follies  were  all  to  be  forgotten  in  the  dawn,  it 
might  matter  little  how  you  fretted  away  the 
sickly  hours,  —  what  toys  you  snatched  at,  or  let 
fall,  —  what  visions  you  followed  wistfully  with 
the  deceived  eyes  of  sleepless  phrenzy.  Is  the 
earth  only  an  hospital?  Play,  if  you  care  to 
play,  on  the  floor  of  the  hospital  dens.  Knit 
its  straw  into  what  crowns  please  you;  gather 
the  dust  of  it  for  treasure,  and  die  rich  in  that, 
clutching  at  the  black  motes  in  the  air  with  your 
dying  hands;  —  and  yet,  it  may  be  well  with 
you.  But  if  this  life  be  no  dream,  and  the  world 
no  hospital;  if  all  the  peace  and  power  and  joy 
you  can  ever  win,  must  be  won  now;  and  all 
fruit  of  victory  gathered  here,  or  never;  —  will 
you  still,  throughout  the  puny  totality  of  your 
life,  weary  yourselves  in  the  fire  for  vanity? 
If  there  is  no  rest  which  remaineth  for  you,  is 
there  none  you  might  presently  take?  was  this 
grass  of  the  earth  made  green  for  your  shroud 
only,  not  for  your  bed?  and  can  you  never 
lie  down  upon  it,  and  but  only  under  it?  The 
heathen,  to  whose  creed  you  have  returned, 
thought  not  so.  They  knew  that  life  brought 
its  contest,  but  they  expected  from  it  also  the 
crown  of  all  contest :  No  proud  one !  no  jewelled 
circlet  flaming  through  Heaven  above  the  height 
of  the  unmerited  throne;  only  some  few  leaves 
of  wild  olive,  cool  to  the  tired  brow,  through  a 
few  years  of   peace.     It  should   have  been  of 


478 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


gold,  they  thought;  but  Jupiter  was  poor;  this 
was  the  best  the  god  could  give  them.  Seeking 
a  greater  than  this,  they  had  known  it  a  mockery. 
Not  in  war,  not  in  wealth,  not  in  tyranny,  was 
there  any  happiness  to  be  found  for  them — 
only  in  kindly  peace,  fruitful  and  free.  The 
wreath  was  to  be  of  wild  olive,  mark  you :  — 
the  tree  that  grows  carelessly ;  tufting  the  rocks 
with  no  vivid  bloom,  no  verdure  of  branch; 
only  with  soft  snow  of  blossom,  and  scarcely 
fulfilled  fruit,  mixed  with  gray  leaf  and  thorn- 
set  stem;  no  fastening  of  diadem  for  you  but 
with  such  sharp  embroidery!  But  this,  such 
as  it  is,  you  may  win  while  yet  you  live;  type 
of  gray  honour  and  sweet  rest.  Free-hearted- 
ness,  and  graciousness,  and  undisturbed  trust, 
and  recjuited  love,  and  the  sight  of  the  peace  of 
others,  and  the  ministry  to  their  pain;  —  these, 
and  the  blue  sky  alcove  you,  and  the  sweet 
waters  and  flowers  of  the  earth  beneath;  and 
mysteries  and  presences,  innumerable,  of  living 
thing.s,  —  these  may  yet  be  here  your  riches; 
untormenting  and  divine;  serviceable  for  the 
life  that  now  is;  nor,  it  maybe,  without  prom- 
ise of  that  which  is  to  come. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD    (1822-1 
From  CULTURE   AND   ANARCHY 
SWEETNESS   AND   LIGHT 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive 
curiosity;  sometimes,  indeed,  they  make  its 
motive  mere  exclusiveness  and  vanity.  The 
culture  which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on  a 
smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture  which 
is  begotten  by  nothing  so  intellectual  as  cu- 
riosity; it  is  valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity 
and  ignorance  or  else  as  an  engine  of  social 
and  class  distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like 
a  badge  or  title,  from  other  people  who  have 
not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call  this 
cullure,  or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as  culture,  at 
all.  To  find  the  real  ground  for  the  very 
different  estimate  which  serious  people  will 
set  upon  culture,  we  must  find  some  motive  for 
culture  in  the  terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real 
ambiguity;  and  such  a  motive  the  word  curi- 
osity gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  Eng- 
lish do  not,  like  the  foreigners,  use  this  word 
in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad  sense.  With 
us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  somewhat  dis- 
approving sense.  A  liberal  and  intelligent 
eagerness  about  the  things  of  the  mind  may  be 


meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of  cu- 
riosity, but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys 
a  certain  notion  of  frivolous  and  unedifying 
activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Review,  some  little 
time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated 
French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  and  a  very 
inadequate  estimate  it  in  my  judgment  was. 
And  its  inadequacy  consisted  chiefly  in  this: 
that  in  our  English  way  it  left  out  of  sight 
the  double  sense  really  involved  in  the  word 
curiosity,  thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp 
M.  Sainte-Beuve  with  l^lame  if  it  was  said  that 
he  was  impelled  in  his  operations  as  a  critic 
by  curiosity,  and  omitting  either  to  perceive 
that  M.  Sainte-Beuve  himself,  and  many  other 
people  with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was 
praiseworthy  and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point 
out  why  it  ought  really  to  be  accounted  worthy 
of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as  there  is  a 
curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is  fu- 
tile, and  merely  a  disease,  so  there  is  certainly 
a  curiosity,  —  a  desire  after  the  things  of  the 
mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  them  as  they  are,  —  which  is, 
in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and  laudable. 
Nay,  and  the  very  desire  to  see  things  as  they 
are  implies  a  balance  and  regulation  of  mind 
which  is  not  often  attained  without  fruitful 
effort,  and  which  is  the  very  opposite  of  the 
blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind  which 
is  what  we  mean  to  blame  when  we  blame  cu- 
riosity. Montesquieu  says:  "The  first  motive 
which  ought  to  impel  us  to  study  is  the  desire  to 
augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to 
render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent." This  is  the  true  ground  to  assign  for 
the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however  mani- 
fested, and  for  culture,  viewed  simply  as  a 
fruit  of  this  passion;  and  it  is  a  worthy  ground, 
even  though  we  let  the  term  curiosity  stand  to 
describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which 
not  solely  the  scientific  passion,  the  sheer 
desire  to  see  things  as  they  are,  natural  and 
proper  in  an  intelligent  being,  appears  as  the 
ground  of  it.  There  is  a  view  in  which  all  the 
love  of  our  neighi)our,  the  impulses  toward 
action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for 
removing  human  error,  clearing  human  con- 
fusion, and  diminishing  human  misery,  the 
noble  aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better  and 
happier  than  we  found  it,  —  motives  eminently 
such  as  are  called  social,  —  come  in  as  part 
of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the  main  and 
preeminent  part.  Culture  is  then  properly  de- 
scribed not  as  having  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


479 


as  having  its  origin  in  the  love  of  perfection ;  it 
is  a  study  of  perfection.  It  moves  by  the  force, 
not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  passion 
for  pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and 
social  passion  for  doing  good.  As,  in  the  first 
view  of  it,  we  took  for  its  worthy  motto  Mon- 
tesquieu's words:  "To  render  an  intelligent 
being  yet  more  intelligent!"  so,  in  the  second 
view  of  it,  there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can 
have  than  these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson:  "To 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail ! " 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is 
apt  to  be  overhasty  in  determining  what  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  say,  because  its  turn  is  for 
acting  rather  than  thinking  and  it  wants  to  be 
beginning  to  act ;  and  whereas  it  is  apt  to  take 
its  own  conceptions,  which  proceed  from  its 
own  state  of  development  and  share  in  all  the 
imperfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for  a 
basis  of  action;  what  distinguishes  culture  is, 
that  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific  passion  as  well 
as  by  the  passion  of  doing  good ;  that  it  demands 
worthy  notions  of  reason  and  the  will  of  God, 
and  does  not  readily  suffer  its  own  crude 
conceptions  to  substitute  themselves  for  them. 
And  knowing  that  no  action  or  institution  can 
be  salutary  and  stable  which  is  not  based  on 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not  so  bent  on 
acting  and  instituting,  even  with  the  great  aim 
of  diminishing  human  error  and  misery  ever 
before  its  thoughts,  but  that  it  can  remember  that 
acting  and  instituting  are  of  little  use,  unless  we 
know  how  and  what  we  ought  to  act  and  to 
institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more 
far-reaching  than  that  other,  which  is  founded 
solely  on  the  scientific  passion  for  knowing. 
But  it  needs  times  of  faith  and  ardour,  times 
when  the  intellectual  horizon  is  opening  and 
widening  all  round  us,  to  flourish  in.  And  is 
not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon 
within  which  we  have  long  lived  and  moved 
now  lifting  up,  and  are  not  new  lights  finding 
free  passage  to  shine  in  upon  us?  For  a  long 
time  there  was  no  passage  for  them  to  make 
their  way  in  upon  us,  and  then  it  was  of  no  use 
to  think  of  adapting  the  world's  action  to  them. 
Where  was  the  hope  of  making  reason  and  the 
will  of  God  prevail  among  people  who  had  a 
routine  which  they  had  christened  reason  and 
the  will  of  God,  in  which  they  were  inextricably 
bound,  and  beyond  which  they  Irad  no  power 
of  looking  ?  But  now  the  iron  force  of  adhesion 
to  the  old  routine,  —  social,  political,  religious 
• — has  wonderfully  yielded;  the  iron  force  of 
exclusion  of  all  which  is  new  has  wonderfully 


yielded.  The  danger  now  is,  not  that  people 
should  obstinately  refuse  to  allow  anything  but 
their  old  routine  to  pass  for  reason  and  the  will 
of  God,  but  either  that  they  should  allow  some 
novelty  or  other  to  pass  for  these  too  easily,  or 
else  that  they  should  underrate  the  importance 
of  them  altogether,  and  think  it  enough  to  follow 
action  for  its  own  sake,  without  troubling  them- 
selves to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  pre- 
vail therein.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment  for 
culture  to  be  of  service,  culture  which  believes 
in  making  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail, 
believes  in  perfection,  is  the  study  and  pursuit 
of  perfection,  and  is  no  longer  debarred,  by  a 
rigid  invincible  exclusion  of  whatever  is  new, 
from  getting  acceptance  for  its  ideas,  simply 
because  they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seized, 
the  moment  it  is  regarded  not  solely  as  the 
endeavour  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  draw 
towards  a  knowledge  of  the  universal  order 
which  seems  to  be  intended  and  aimed  at  in 
the  world,  and  which  it  is  a  man's  happiness 
to  go  along  with  or  his  misery  to  go  counter  to, 
—  to  learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God,  —  the 
moment,  I  say,  cuhure  is  considered  not 
merely  as  the  endeavour  to  sec  and  learn  this, 
but  as  the  endeavour,  also,  to  make  it  prevail, 
the  moral,  social,  and  beneficent  character  of 
culture  becomes  manifest.  The  mere  endeav- 
our to  see  and  learn  the  truth  for  our  own 
personal  satisfaction  is  indeed  a  commence- 
ment for  making  it  prevail,  a  preparing  the 
way  for  this,  which  always  serves  this,  and  is 
wrongly,  therefore,  stamped  with  blame  ab- 
solutely in  itself  and  not  only  in  its  caricature 
and  degeneration.  But  perhaps  it  has  got 
stamped  with  blame,  and  disparaged  with  the 
dubious  title  of  curiosity,  because  in  comparison 
with  this  wider  endeavour  of  such  great  and 
plain  utility  it  looks  selfish,  petty,  and  unprofit- 
able. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  important 
of  the  efforts  by  which  the  human  race  has 
manifested  its  impulse  to  perfect  itself,  —  re- 
ligion, that  voice  of  the  deepest  human  ex- 
perience, —  does  not  only  enjoin  and  sanction 
the  aim  which  is  the  great  aim  of  culture,  the 
aim  of  setting  ourselves  to  ascertain  what  per- 
fection is  and  to  make  it  prevail ;  but  also,  in 
determining  generally  in  what  human  per- 
fection consists,  religion  comes  to  a  conclusion 
identical  with  that  which  culture,  —  culture 
seeking  the  determination  of  this  question 
through  all  the  voices  of  human  experience 
which  have  been  heard  upon  it,  of  art,  science, 


48o 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


poetry,  philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  of  re- 
ligion, in  order  to  give  a  greater  fulness  and 
certainty  to  its  sohition,  —  likewise  reaches. 
Religion  says:  The  kingdom  of  God  is  within 
you°  and  culture,  in  like  manner,  places  human 
perfection  in  an  internal  condition,  in  the 
growth  and  predominance  of  our  humanity 
proper,  as  distinguished  from  our  animality. 
It  i)laces  it  in  the  ever-increasing  efficacy  and 
in  the  general  harmonious  expansion  of  those 
gifts  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  make  the 
[leculiar  dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of 
human  nature.  As  I  have  said  on  a  former 
occasion:  "It  is  in  making  endless  additions 
to  itself,  in  the  endless  expansion  of  its  powers, 
in  endless  growth  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  that 
the  spirit  of  the  human  race  finds  its  ideal. 
To  reach  this  ideal,  culture  is  an  indispensable 
aid,  and  that  is  the  true  value  of  culture." 
Not  a  having  and  a  resting,  but  a  growing 
and  a  becoming,  is  the  character  of  perfection 
as  culture  conceives  it;  and  here,  too,  it  coin- 
cides with  religion. 

And  because  men  are  all  members  of  one 
great  whole,  and  the  sympathy  which  is  in 
human  nature  will  not  allow  one  member  to 
i)e  indifferent  to  the  rest  or  to  have  a  perfect 
welfare  independent  of  the  rest,  the  expansion 
of  our  humanity,  to  suit  the  idea  of  perfection 
which  culture  forms,  must  be  a  general  expan- 
sion. Perfection,  as  culture  conceives  it,  is 
not  possible  while  the  individual  remains  iso- 
lated. The  individual  is  required,  under  pain 
of  being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in  his  own 
development  if  he  disobeys,  to  carry  others 
along  with  him  in  his  march  towards  perfection, 
to  be  continually  doing  all  he  can  to  enlarge 
and  increase  the  volume  of  the  human  stream 
sweeping  thitherward.  And  here,  once  more, 
culture  lays  on  us  the  same  obligation  as  reli- 
gion, which  says,  as  Bishop  Wilson  has  admi- 
rably put  it,  that  "to  promote  the  kingdom  of 
God  is  to  increase  and  hasten  one's  own  hap- 
piness." 

But,  finally,  perfection,  —  as  culture  from 
a  thorough  disinterested  study  of  human  nature 
and  human  experience  learns  to  conceive  it, 
^  is  a  harmonious  expansion  of  all  the  powers 
which  make  the  beauty  and  worth  of  human 
nature,  and  is  not  consistent  with  the  over- 
development of  any  one  power  at  the  expense 
of  the  rest.  Here  culture  goes  beyond  religion, 
as  religion  is  generally  conceived  by  us. 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and 
of  harmonious  perfection,  general  perfection, 
and    perfection    which    consists    in    becoming 


something  rather  than  in  having  something,  in 
an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit, 
not  in  an  outward  set  of  circumstances,  —  it  is 
clear  that  culture,  instead  of  being  the  frivolous 
and  useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,  and  Mr. 
Frederic  Harrison,  and  many  other  Liberals 
are  apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very  important  function 
to  fulfil  for  mankind.  And  this  function  is 
particularly  important  in  our  modern  world, 
of  which  the  whole  civilisation  is,  to  a  much 
greater  degree  than  the  civilisation  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  mechanical  and  external,  and  tends 
constantly  to  become  more  so.  But  above  all 
in  our  own  country  has  culture  a  weighty  part 
to  perform,  because  here  that  mechanical  char- 
acter, which  civilisation  tends  to  take  every- 
where, is  shown  in  the  most  eminent  degree. 
Indeed  nearly  all  the  characters  of  perfection, 
as  cultUi'e  teaches  us  to  fLx  them,  meet  in  this 
country  with  some  powerful  tendency  which 
thwarts  them  and  sets  them  at  defiance.  The 
idea  of  perfection  as  an  inward  condition  of  the 
mind  and  spirit  is  at  variance  with  the  mechan- 
ical and  material  civilisation  in  esteem  with  us, 
and  nowhere,  as  I  have  said,  so  much  in  esteem 
as  with  us.  The  idea  of  perfection  as  a  general 
expansion  of  the  human  family  is  at  variance 
with  our  strong  individualism,  our  hatred  of  all 
limits  to  the  unrestrained  swing  of  the  indi- 
vidual's personality,  our  maxim  of  "every  man 
for  himself."  Above  all,  the  idea  of  perfection 
as  a  harmonious  expansion  of  human  nature 
is  at  variance  with  our  want  of  flexibility,  with 
our  inaptitude  for  seeing  more  than  one  side 
of  a  thing,  with  our  intense  energetic  absorption 
in  the  particular  pursuit  we  happen  to  be  fol- 
lowing. So  culture  has  a  rough  task  to  achieve 
in  this  country.  Its  preachers  have,  and  are 
likely  long  to  have,  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  they 
w-ill  much  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a  great  while 
to  come,  as  elegant  or  spurious  Jeremiahs  than 
as  friends  and  benefactors.  That,  however, 
will  not  prevent  their  doing  in  the  end  good 
service  if  they  persevere.  And,  meanwhile,  the 
mode  of  action  they  have  to  pursue,  and  the  sort 
of  habits  they  must  fight  against,  ought  to 
be  made  quite  clear  for  every  one  to  see,  who 
may  be  willing  to  look  at  the  matter  attentively 
and  dispassionately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting 
danger;  often  in  machinery  most  absurdly  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  end  which  this  machin- 
ery, if  it  is  to  do  any  good  at  all,  is  to  serve; 
but  always  in  machinery,  as  if  it  had  a  value 
in  and  for  itself.  What  is  freedom  but  ma- 
chinery?   what  is  population  but  machinery? 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


481 


what  is  coal  but  machinery?  what  are  rail- 
roads but  machinery?  what  is  wealth  but 
machinery?  what  are,  even,  religious  organi- 
sations  but  machinery  ?  Now  almost  every 
voice  in  England  is  accustomed  to  speak  of 
these  things  as  if  they  were  precious  ends  in 
themselves,  and  therefore  had  some  of  the  char- 
acters of  perfection  indisputably  joined  to  them. 
I  have  before  now  noticed  Mr.  Roebuck's 
stock  argument  for  proving  the  greatness  and 
happiness  of  England  as  she  is,  and  for  quite 
stopping  the  mouths  of  all  gainsayers.  Mr. 
Roebuck  is  never  weary  of  reiterating  this  argu- 
ment of  his,  so  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  be 
weary  of  noticing  it.  "May  not  every  man  in 
England  say  what  he  likes?"  —  Mr.  Roebuck 
perpetually  asks;  and  that,  he  thinks,  is  quite 
sufficient,  and  when  every  man  may  say  what 
he  likes,  our  aspirations  ought  to  be  satisfied. 
But  the  aspirations  of  culture,  which  is  the 
study  of  perfection,  are  not  satisfied,  unless 
what  men  say,  when  they  may  say  what  they 
like,  is  worth  saying,  —  has  good  in  it,  and 
more  good  than  bad.  In  the  same  way  the 
Times,  replying  to  some  foreign  strictures  on 
the  dress,  looks,  and  behaviour  of  the  English 
abroad,  urges  that  the  English  ideal  is  that 
every  one  should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just 
as  he  likes.  But  culture  indefatigably  tries, 
not  to  make  what  each  raw  person  may  like 
the  rule  by  which  he  fashions  himself;  but  to 
draw  ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed 
beautiful,  graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get 
the  raw  person  to  like  that. 

And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to  rail- 
roads and  coal.  Every  one  must  have  observed 
the  strange  language  current  during  the  late 
discussions  as  to  the  possible  failure  of  our 
supplies  of  coal.  Our  coal,  thousands  of  people 
were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of  our  national 
greatness;  if  our  coal  runs  short,  there  is  an 
end  of  the  greatness  of  England.  But  what 
is  greatness  ?  —  culture  makes  us  ask.  Great- 
ness is  a  spiritual  condition  worthy  to  excite 
love,  interest,  and  admiration;  and  the  out- 
ward proof  of  possessing  greatness  is  that 
we  excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration.  If 
England  were  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  to- 
morrow, which  of  the  two,  a  hundred  years 
hence,  would  most  excite  the  love,  interest,  and 
admiration  of  mankind,  —  would  most,  there- 
fore, show  the  evidences  of  having  possessed 
greatness,  —  the  England  of  the  last  twenty 
years,  or  the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of  a  time 
of  splendid  spiritual  effort,  but  when  our  coal, 
and  our  industrial  operations  depending  on  coal. 


were  very  little  developed?  Well,  then,  what 
an  unsound  habit  of  mind  it  must  be  which 
makes  us  talk  of  things  like  coal  or  iron  as  con- 
stituting the  greatness  of  England,  and  how 
salutary  a  friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing 
things  as  they  are,  and  thus  dissipating  delusions 
of  this  kind  and  fixing  standards  of  perfection 
that  are  real ! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  pro- 
digious works  for  material  advantage  are  di- 
rected, —  the  commonest  of  commonplaces 
tells  us  how  men  are  always  apt  to  regard 
wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself;  and  cer- 
tainly they  have  never  been  so  apt  thus  to  regard 
it  as  they  are  in  England  at  the  present  time. 
Never  did  people  believe  anything  more  firmly 
than  nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten  at  the  present 
day  believe  that  our  greatness  and  welfare  are 
proved  by  our  being  so  very  rich.  Now,  the 
use  of  culture  is  that  it  helps  us,  by  means  of 
its  spiritual  standard  of  perfection,  to  regard 
wealth  as  but  machinery,  and  not  only  to  say 
as  a  matter  of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as 
but  machinery,  but  really  to  perceive  and  feel 
that  it  is  so.  If  it  were  not  for  this  purging 
effect  wrought  upon  our  minds  by  culture,  the 
whole  world,  the  future  as  well  as  the  present, 
would  inevitably  belong  to  the  Philistines. 
The  people  who  believe  most  that  our  great- 
ness and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  very 
rich,  and  who  most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts 
to  becoming  rich,  are  just  the  very  people  whom 
we  call  Philistines.  Culture  says:  "Consider 
these  people,  then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits, 
their  manners,  the  very  tones  of  their  voice; 
look  at  them  attentively;  observe  the  litera- 
ture they  read,  the  things  which  give  them 
pleasure,  the  words  which  come  forth  out  of 
their  mouths,  the  thoughts  which  make  the 
furniture  of  their  minds:  would  any  amount 
of  wealth  be  worth  having  with  the  condition 
that  one  was  to  become  just  like  these  people 
by  having  it?"  And  thus  culture  begets  a  dis- 
satisfaction which  is  of  the  highest  possible 
value  in  stemming  the  common  tide  of  men's 
thoughts  in  a  wealthy  and  industrial  commu- 
nity, and  which  saves  the  future,  as  one  may 
hope,  from  being  vulgarised,  even  if  it  cannot 
save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health  and 
vigour,  are  things  which  are  nowhere  treated 
in  such  an  unintelligent,  misleading,  exagger- 
ated way  as  in  England.  Both  are  really  ma- 
chinery; yet  how  many  people  all  around  us  do 
we  see  rest  in  them  and  fail  to  look  beyond 
them !     Why,  one  has  heard  people,  fresh  from 


482 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


reading  certain  articles  of  the  Times  on  the 
Registrar-General's  returns  .of  marriages  and 
[)irlhs  in  this  country,  who  would  talk  of  our 
large  English  families  in  quite  a  solemn  strain, 
as  if  they  had  something  in  itself  beautiful, 
elevating,  and  meritorious  in  them;  as  if  the 
British  Philistine  would  have  only  to  present 
himself  before  the  Great  Judge  with  his  twelve 
children,  in  order  to  be  received  among  the 
sheep  as  a  matter  of  right ! 

But  bodily  health  and  vigour,  it  may  be 
said,  are  not  to  be  classed  with  wealth  and 
population  as  mere  machinery;  they  have 
a  more  real  and  essential  value.  True;  but 
only  as  they  are  more  intimately  connected 
with  a  perfect  spiritual  condition  than  wealth 
or  population  are.  The  moment  we  disjoin 
them  from  the  idea  of  a  perfect  spiritual  con- 
dition, and  pursue  them,  as  we  do  pursue  them, 
for  their  own  sake  and  as  ends  in  themselves, 
our  worship  of  them  becomes  as  mere  worship 
of  machinery,  as  our  worship  of  wealth  or  pop- 
ulation, and  as  unintelligent  and  vulgarising 
a  worship  as  that  is.  Every  one  with  anything 
like  an  adccjuate  idea  of  human  perfection  has 
distinctly  marked  this  subordination  to  higher 
and  spiritual  ends  of  the  cultivation  of  bodily 
vigour  and  activity.  "Bodily  exercise  profit- 
cth  little;  but  godliness  is  profitable  unto  all 
things,"  says  the  author  of  the  Epistle  to  Tim- 
othy. And  the  utilitarian  Franklin  says  just 
as  explicitly:  —  "Eat  and  drink  such  an  exact 
quantity  as  suits  the  constitution  of  thy  body, 
in  reference  to  the  services  of  the  mind.'"  But 
the  point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping  the  mark 
of  human  perfection  simply  and  broadly  in 
view,  and  not  assigning  to  this  perfection,  as 
religion  or  utilitarianism  assigns  to  it,  a  special 
and  limited  character,  this  point  of  view,  I  .say, 
of  culture  is  best  given  by  these  words  of 
Epictetus:  — ■  "It  is  a  sign  of  d</)i»ia,"  says  he, 
—  that  is,  of  a  nature  not  finely  tempered,  — 
"to  give  yourselves  up  to  things  which  relate 
to  the  body;  to  make,  for  instance,  a  great  fuss 
about  exercise,  a  great  fuss  about  eating,  a  great 
fuss  about  drinking,  a  great  fuss  about  walk- 
ing, a  great  fuss  about  riding.  All  these  things 
ought  to  be  done  merely  by  the  way:  the  for- 
mation of  the  spirit  and  character  must  be  our 
real  concern."  This  is  admirable;  and,  in- 
deed, the  Greek  word  ev^ma,  a  finely  tempered 
nature,  gives  exactly  the  notion  of  perfection 
as  culture  brings  us  to  conceive  it:  a  har- 
monious perfection,  a  perfection  in  which  the 
characters  of  beauty  and  intelligence  are  both 
present,   which    unites  "the    two    noblest  of 


things,"  —  as  Swift,  who  of  one  of  the  two, 
at  any  rate,  had  himself  all  too  little,  most 
happily  calls  them  in  his  Baltic  of  the  Books,  — 
"the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and  light." 
The  €v(})vrj's  is  the  man  who  tends  towards 
sweetness  and  light;  the  dc^vT^s,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  our  Philistine.  The  immense  spiritual 
significance  of  the  Greeks  is  due  to  their  having 
been  inspired  with  this  central  and  happy  idea 
of  the  essential  character  of  human  perfection ; 
and  Mr.  Bright's  misconception  of  culture,  as 
a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin,  comes  itself, 
after  all,  from  this  wonderful  significance  of  the 
Greeks  having  affected  the  very  machinery  of 
our  education,  and  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  homage 
to  it. 

In  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to  be 
characters  of  perfection,  culture  is  of  like  spirit 
with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with  poetry. 
Far  more  than  on  our  freedom,  our  population, 
and  our  industrialism,  many  amongst  us  rely 
upon  our  religious  organisations  to  save  us. 
I  have  called  religion  a  yet  more  important 
manifestation  of  human  nature  than  poetry, 
because  it  has  worked  on  a  broader  scale  for 
perfection,  and  with  greater  masses  of  men. 
But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature 
perfect  on  all  its  sides,  which  is  the  dominant 
idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and  invaluable  idea, 
though  it  has  not  yet  had  the  success  that  the 
idea  of  conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our 
animality,  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on 
the  moral  side,  —  which  is  the  dominant  idea 
of  religion,  —  has  been  enabled  to  have ;  and 
it  is  destined,  adding  to  itself  the  religious  idea 
of  a  devout  energy,  to  transform  and  govern 
the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in 
which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect 
on  all  sides  adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  devout 
energy,  and  works  in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on 
this  account  of  such  surpassing  interest  and 
instructiveness  for  us,  though  it  was,  —  as, 
having  regard  to  the  Greeks  themselves,  we 
must  own,  —  a  premature  attempt,  an  attempt 
which  for  success  needed  the  moral  and  reli- 
gious fibre  in  humanity  to  be  more  braced  and 
developed  than  it  had  yet  been.  But  Greece 
did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of  beauty,  har- 
mony, and  complete  human  perfection,  so 
present  and  paramount.  It  is  impossible  to 
have  this  idea  too  present  and  paramount; 
only,  the  moral  fibre  must  be  braced  too.  And 
we,  because  we  have  braced  the  moral  fibre, 
are  not  on  that  account  in  the  right  way,  if 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


483 


at  the  same  time  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony, 
and  complete  human  perfection,  is  wanting  or 
misapprehended  amongst  us;  and  evitlenlly 
it  is  wanting  or  misapprehended  at  present. 
And  when  we  rely  as  we  do  on  our  religious 
organisations,  which  in  themselves  do  not  and 
cannot  give  us  this  idea,  and  think  we  have 
done  enough  if  we  make  them  spread  and  pre- 
vail, then,  I  say,  we  fall  into  our  common  fault 
of  overvaluing  machinery. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  people 
to  confound  the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction 
which  follows  the  subduing  of  the  obvious 
faults  of  our  animality  with  what  I  may  call 
absolute  inward  peace  and  satisfaction,  —  the 
peace  and  satisfaction  which  are  reached  as 
we  draw  near  to  complete  spiritual  perfection, 
and  not  merely  to  moral  perfection,  or  rather 
to  relative  moral  perfection.  No  people  in  the 
world  have  done  more  and  struggled  more  to 
attain  this  relative  moral  perfection  than  our 
English  race  has.  For  no  people  in  the  world 
has  the  command  to  resisi  the  devil,  to  over- 
come the  wicked  one,  in  the  nearest  and  most 
obvious  sense  of  those  words,  had  such  a  press- 
ing force  and  reality.  And  we  have  had  our 
reward,  not  only  in  the  great  worldly  prosperity 
which  our  obedience  to  this  command  has 
brought  us,  but  also,  and  far  more,  in  great 
inward  peace  and  satisfaction.  But  to  me  few 
things  are  more  pathetic  than  to  see  people, 
on  the  strength  of  the  inward  peace  and  sat- 
isfaction which  their  rudimentary  efforts  tow- 
ards perfection  have  brought  them,  employ, 
concerning  their  incomplete  perfection  and  the 
religious  organisations  within  which  they  have 
found  it,  language  which  properly  applies  only 
to  complete  perfection,  and  is  a  far-off  echo 
of  the  human  soul's  prophecy  of  it.  Religion 
itself,  I  need  hardly  say,  supplies  them  in 
abundance  with  this  grand  language.  And 
very  freely  do  they  use  it;  yet  it  is  really  the 
severest  possible  criticism  of  such  an  incom- 
plete perfection  as  alone  we  have  yet  reached 
through  our  religious  organisations. 

The  impulse  of  the  English  race  towards 
moral  development  and  self-conquest  has  no- 
where so  powerfully  manifested  itself  as  in 
Puritanism.  Nowhere  has  Puritanism  found 
so  adequate  an  expression  as  in  the  religious 
organisation  of  the  Independents.  The  mod- 
ern Independents  have  a  newspaj)er,  the  Non- 
conformist, written  with  great  sincerity  and 
ability.  The  motto,  the  standard,  the  pro- 
fession of  faith  which  this  organ  of  theirs 
carries  aloft,  is:    "The  Dissidencc  of  Dissent 


and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  reli- 
gion." There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and  an 
ideal  of  complete  harmonious  human  perfec- 
tion !  One  need  not  go  to  culture  and  poetry 
to  find  language  to  judge  it.  Religion,  with 
its  instinct  for  perfection,  sui)plies  language  to 
judge  it,  language,  too,  which  is  in  our  mouths 
every  day.  "Finally,  be  of  one  mind,  united 
in  feeling,"  says  St.  Peter.  There  is  an  ideal 
which  judges  the  Puritan  ideal:  "The  Di.ssi- 
dence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the 
Protestant  religion!"  And  religious  organi- 
sations like  this  are  what  people  believe  in, 
rest  in,  would  give  their  lives  for !  Such,  I  say, 
is  the  wonderful  virtue  of  even  the  beginnings 
of  perfection,  of  having  conquered  even  the 
plain  faults  of  our  animality,  that  the  religious 
organisation  which  has  helped  us  to  do  it  can 
seem  to  us  something  precious,  salutary,  and 
to  be  propagated,  even  when  it  wears  such  a 
brand  of  imperfection  on  its  forehead  as  this. 
And  men  have  got  such  a  habit  of  giving  to  the 
language  of  religion  a  special  application,  of 
making  it  a  mere  jargon,  that  for  the  condem- 
nation which  religion  itself  passes  on  the  short- 
comings of  their  religious  organisations  they 
have  no  ear;  they  are  sure  to  cheat  themselves 
and  to  explain  this  condemnation  away.  They 
can  only  be  reached  by  the  criticism  which 
culture,  like  poetry,  speaking  a  language  not 
to  be  sophisticated,  and  resolutely  testing  these 
organisations  by  the  ideal  of  a  human  perfection 
complete  on  all  sides,  applies  to  them. 

But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will  be 
said,  are  again  and  again  failing,  and  failing 
conspicuously,  in  the  necessary  first  stage  to  a 
harmonious  perfection,  in  the  subduing  of  the 
great  obvious  faults  of  our  animality,  which  it 
is  the  glory  of  these  religious  organisations  to 
have  helped  us  to  subdue.  True,  they  do  often 
so  fail.  They  have  often  been  without  the 
virtues  as  well  as  the  faults  of  the  Puritan; 
it  has  been  one  of  their  dangers  that  they 
so  felt  the  Puritan's  faults  that  they  too  much 
neglected  the  practice  of  his  virtues.  I  will 
not,  however,  exculpate  them  at  the  Puritan's 
expense.  They  have  often  failed  in  morality, 
and  morality  is  indispensable.  And  they  have 
been  punished  for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan 
has  been  rewarded  for  his  performance.  They 
have  been  punished  wherein  they  erred;  but 
their  ideal  of  beauty,  of  sweetness  and  light, 
and  a  human  nature  complete  on  all  its  sides, 
remains  the  true  ideal  of  perfection  still;  just 
as  the  Puritan's  ideal  of  perfection  remains 
narrow  and  inadequate,  although  for  what  he 


484 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


did  well  he  has  l:)een  richly  rewarded.  Not- 
withstanding the  mighty  results  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers'  voyage,  they  and  their  standard  of 
perfection  are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure 
to  ourselves  Shakspeare  or  Virgil,  —  souls  in 
whom  sweetness  and  light,  and  all  that  in  hu- 
man nature  is  most  humane,  were  eminent,  — 
accompanying  thein  on  their  voyage,  and  think 
what  intolerable  company  Shakspeare  and 
Virgil  would  have  found  them!  In  the  same 
way  let  us  judge  the  religious  organisations 
which  we  see  all  around  us.  Do  not  let  us 
deny  the  good  and  the  happiness  which  they 
have  accomplished;  but  do  not  let  us  fail  to 
see  clearly  that  their  idea  of  human  perfection 
is  narrow  and  inadequate,  and  that  the  Dissi- 
dence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the 
Protestant  religion  will  never  bring  humanity 
lo  its  true  goal.  As  I  said  with  regard  to 
wealth:  Let  us  look  at  the  life  of  those  who 
live  in  and  for  it,  —  so  I  say  with  regard  to 
the  religious  organisations.  Look  at  the  life 
imaged  in  such  a  newspaper  as  the  Noncon- 
formist, —  a  life  of  jealousy  of  the  Establish- 
ment, disputes,  tea-meetings,  openings  of 
chapels,  sermons;  and  then  think  of  it  as  an 
ideal  of  a  human  life  completing  itself  on  all 
sides,  and  aspiring  with  all  its  organs  after 
sweetness,  light,  and  perfection ! 

Another  newspaper,  representing,  like  the 
Nonconformist,  one  of  the  religious  organisa- 
tions of  this  country,  was  a  short  time  ago 
giving  an  account  of  the  crowd  at  Epsom  on 
the  Derby  day,  and  of  all  the  vice  and  hideous- 
ness  which  was  to  be  seen  in  that  crowd;  and 
then  the  writer  turned  suddenly  round  upon 
Professor  Huxley,  and  asked  him  how  he  pro- 
posed to  cure  all  this  vice  and  hideousness 
without  religion.  I  confess  I  felt  disposed  to 
ask  the  asker  this  question :  and  how  do  you 
propose  to  cure  it  with  such  a  religion  as  yours? 
How  is  the  ideal  of  a  life  so  unlovely,  so  un- 
attractive, so  incomplete,  so  narrow,  so  far 
removed  from  a  true  and  satisfying  ideal  of 
human  perfection,  as  is  the  life  of  your  religious 
organisation  as  you  yourself  reflect  it,  to  con- 
quer and  transform  all  this  vice  and  hideous- 
ness? Indeed,  the  strongest  plea  for  the  study 
of  perfection  as  pursued  by  culture,  the  clearest 
proof  of  the  actual  inadequacy  of  the  idea  of 
perfection  held  by  the  religious  organisations, 
—  expressing,  as  I  have  said,  the  "most  wide- 
spread effort  which  the  human  race  has  yet 
made  after  perfection,  ~  is  to  be  found  in  the 
state  of  our  life  and  society  with  these  in  pos- 
session of  it,  and  having  been  in  possession  of 


it  I  know  not  how  many  hundred  years.  We 
are  all  of  us  included  in  some  religious  organi- 
sation or  other;  we  all  call  ourselves,  in  the 
sublime  and  aspiring  language  of  religion 
which  I  have  before  noticed,  children  of  God. 
Children  of  God ;  —  it  is  an  immense  pretension  ! 
• —  and  how  are  we  to  justify  it?  By  the  works 
which  we  do,  and  the  words  which  we  speak. 
And  the  work  which  we  collective  children  of 
God  do,  our  grand  centre  of  life,  our  city  which 
we  have  builded  for  us  to  dwell  in,  is  London ! 
London,  with  its  unutterable  external  hideous- 
ness, and  with  its  internal  canker  of  piihlice 
egcstas,  privatim  opulcntia,  —  to  use  the  words 
which  Sallust  puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about 
Rome,  • —  unequalled  in  the  world  !  The  word, 
again,  which  we  children  of  God  speak,  the 
voice  W'hich  most  hits  our  collective  thought, 
the  newspaper  with  the  largest  circulation  in 
Englana,  nay,  with  the  largest  circulation  in 
the  whole  world,  is  the  Daily  Telegraph!  I 
say  that  when  our  religious  organisations,  — 
which  I  admit  to  express  the  most  considerable 
effort  after  perfection  that  our  race  has  yet 
made,  —  land  us  in  no  better  result  than  this, 
it  is  high  time  to  examine  carefully  their  idea 
of  perfection,  and  to  see  whether  it  does  not 
leave  out  of  account  sides  and  forces  of  human 
nature  which  we  might  turn  to  great  use; 
whether  it  would  not  be  more  operative  if  it 
were  more  complete.  And  I  say  that  the  Eng- 
lish reliance  on  our  religious  organisations  and 
on  their  ideas  of  human  perfection  just  as  they 
stand,  is  like  our  reliance  on  freedom,  on  mus- 
cular Christianity,  on  population,  on  coal,  on 
wealth,  —  mere  belief  in  machinery,  and  un- 
fruitful; and  that  it  is  wholesomely  counter- 
acted by  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they 
are,  and  on  drawing  the  human  race  onwards 
to  a  more  complete,  a  harmonious  perfection. 
Culture,  however,  shows  its  single-minded 
love  of  perfection,  its  desire  simply  to  make 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  its  freedom 
from  fanaticism,  by  its  attitude  towards  all 
this  machinery,  even  while  it  insists  that  it  is 
machinery.  Fanatics,  seeing  the  mischief  men 
do  themselves  by  their  blind  belief  in  some 
machinery  or  other,  —  whether  it  is  wealth 
and  industrialism,  or  whether  it  is  the  culti- 
vation of  bodily  strength  and  activity,  or 
whether  it  is  a  religious  organisation,  —  oppose 
with  might  and  main  the  tendency  to  this 
or  that  political  and  religious  organisation,  or  to 
games  and  athletic  exercises,  or  to  wealth  and 
industrialism,  and  try  violently  to  stop  it. 
But  the  flexibility  wliich  sweetness  cyid  light 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


485 


give,  and  which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  culture 
pursued  in  good  faith,  enables  a  man  to  see 
that  a  tendency  may  be  necessary,  and  even, 
as  a  preparation  for  something  in  the  future, 
salutary,  and  yet  that  the  generations  or  indi- 
viduals who  obey  this  tendency  are  sacrificed 
to  it,  that  they  fall  short  of  the  hope  of  per- 
fection by  following  it;  and  that  its  mischiefs 
are  to  be  criticised,  lest  it  should  take  too  firm 
a  hold  and  last  after  it  has  served  its  purpose. 

Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a  speech 
at  Paris,  —  and  others  have  pointed  out  the 
same  thing,  —  how  necessary  is  the  present 
great  movement  towards  wealth  and  industrial- 
ism, in  order  to  lay  broad  foundations  of  ma- 
terial well-being  for  the  society  of  the  future. 
The  worst  of  these  justifications  is,  that  they  are 
generally  addressed  to  the  very  people  engaged, 
body  and  soul,  in  the  movement  in  question; 
at  all  events,  that  they  are  always  seized  with 
the  greatest  avidity  by  these  people,  and  taken 
by  them  as  quite  justifying  their  life;  and  that 
thus  they  tend  to  harden  them  in  their  sins. 
Now,  culture  admits  the  necessity  of  the  move- 
ment towards  fortune-making  and  e.xaggerated 
industrialism,  readily  allows  that  the  future 
may  derive  benefit  from  it;  but  insists,  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  passing  generations  of  in- 
dustrialists, —  forming,  for  the  most  part,  the 
stout  main  body  of  iphilistinism,  —  are  sacri- 
ficed to  it.  In  the  same  way,  the  result  of  all 
the  games  and  sports  which  occupy  the  passing 
generation  of  boys  and  young  men  may  be  the 
establishment  of  a  better  and  sounder  physical 
type  for  the  future  to  work  with.  Culture  does 
not  set  itself  against  the  games  and  sports; 
it  congratulates  the  future,  and  hopes  it  will 
make  a  good  use  of  its  improved  physical  basis; 
but  it  points  out  that  our  passing  generation 
of  boys  and  young  men  is,  meantime,  sacrificed. 
Puritanism  was  perhaps  necessary  to  develop 
the  moral  fibre  of  the  English  race,  Noncon- 
formity to  break  the  yoke  of  ecclesiastical 
domination  over  men's  minds  and  to  prepare 
the  way  for  freedom  of  thought  in  the  distant 
future;  still,  culture  points  out  that  the  har- 
monious perfection  of  generations  of  Puritans 
and  Nonconformists  has  been,  in  consequence, 
sacrificed.  Freedom  of  speech  may  be  neces- 
sary for  the  society  of  the  future,  but  the  young 
lions  of  the  Daily  Telegraph  in  the  meanwhile 
are  sacrificed.  A  voice  for  every  man  in  his 
country's  government  may  be  necessary  for 
the  society  of  the  future,  but  meanwhile  Mr. 
Beales  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  are  sacrificed. 

Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many 


faults;  and  she  has  heavily  paid  for  them  in 
defeat,  in  isolation,  in  want  of  hold  upon  the 
modern  world.  Yet  we  in  Oxford,  brought  up 
amidst  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  that  beauti- 
ful place,  have  not  failed  to  seize  one  truth,  — 
the  truth  that  beauty  and  sweetness  are  essen- 
tial characters  of  a  complete  human  perfection. 
When  I  insist  on  this,  I  am  all  in  the  faith  and 
tradition  of  Oxford.  I  say  boldly  that  this  our 
sentiment  for  beauty  and  sweetness,  our  senti- 
ment against  hideousness  and  rawness,  has 
been  at  the  bottom  of  our  attachment  to  so 
many  beaten  causes,  of  our  opposition  to  so 
many  triumphant  movements.  And  the  senti- 
ment is  true,  and  has  never  been  wholly  de- 
feated, and  has  shown  its  power  even  in  its 
defeat.  We  have  not  won  our  political  battles, 
we  have  not  carried  our  main  points,  we  have 
not  stopped  our  adversaries'  advance,  we  have 
not  marched  victoriously  with  the  modern 
world;  but  we  have  told  silently  upon  the  mind 
of  the  country,  we  have  prepared  currents 
of  feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries'  position 
when  it  seems  gained,  we  have  kept  up  our  own 
communications  with  the  future.  Look  at  the 
course  of  the  great  movement  which  shook 
Oxford  to  its  centre  some  thirty  years  ago! 
It  was  directed,  as  any  one  who  reads  Dr. 
Newman's  Apology  may  see,  against  what  in 
one  word  may  be  called  "Liberalism."  Liber- 
alism prevailed;  it  was  the  appointed  force 
to  do  the  work  of  the  hour;  it  was  necessary, 
it  was  inevitable  that  it  should  prevail.  The 
Oxford  movement  was  broken,  it  failed;  our 
wrecks  are  scattered  on  every  shore :  — 

Quae  regio  in  tcrris  nostri  non  plena  laboris? 

But  what  was  it,  this  liberalism,  as  Dr.  Newman 
saw  it,  and  as  it  really  broke  the  Oxford  move- 
ment ?  It  was  the  great  middle-class  liberalism, 
which  had  for  the  cardinal  points  of  its  belief 
the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  and  local  self-govern- 
ment, in  politics;  in  the  social  sphere,  free- 
trade,  unrestricted  competition,  and  the  mak- 
ing of  large  industrial  fortunes;  in  the  religious 
sphere,  the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the 
Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion.  I  do 
not  say  that  other  and  more  intelligent  forces 
than  this  were  not  opposed  to  the  Oxford 
movement:  but  this  was  the  force  which  really 
beat  it;  this  was  the  force  which  Dr.  Newman 
felt  himself  fighting  with;  this  was  the  force 
which  till  only  the  other  day  seemed  to  be  the 
paramount  force  in  this  country,  and  to  be  in 
possession  of  the  future;    this  was  the  force 


486 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 


whose  achievements  fill  Mr.  Lowe  with  such 
inexpressible  admiration,  and  whose  rule  he 
was  so  horror-struck  to  see  threatened.  And 
where  is  this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now? 
It  is  thrust  into  the  second  rank,  it  is  become 
a  power  of  yesterday,  it  has  lost  the  future.  A 
new  power  has  suddenly  appeared,  a  power 
which  it  is  impossible  yet  to  judge  fully,  but 
which  is  certainly  a  wholly  different  force  from 
middle-class  liberalism;  different  in  its  cardinal 
points  of  belief,  different  in  its  tendencies  in 
every  sphere.  It  loves  and  admires  neither 
the  legislation  of  middle-class  Parliaments, 
nor  the  local  self-government  of  middle-class 
vestries,  nor  the  unrestricted  competition  of 
middle-class  industrialists,  nor  the  dissidence 
of  middle-class  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism 
of  middle-class  Protestant  religion.  I  am  not 
now  praising  this  new  force,  or  saying  that  its 
own  ideals  are  better;  all  I  say  is,  that  they  are 
wholly  different.  And  who  will  estimate  how 
much  the  currents  of  feeling  created  by  Dr. 
Newman's  movement,  the  keen  desire  for 
beauty  and  sweetness  which  it  nourished,  the 
deep  aversion  it  manifested  to  the  hardness  and 
vulgarity  of  middle-class  liberalism,  the  strong 
light  it  turned  on  the  hideous  and  grotesque 
illusions  of  middle-class  Protestantism,  —  who 
will  estimate  how  much  all  these  contributed 
to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dissatisfaction  which 
has  mined  the  ground  under  self-confident 
liberalism  of  the  last  thirty  years,  and  has  pre- 
pared the  way  for  its  sudden  collapse  and  super- 
session ?  It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  sentiment 
of  Oxford  for  beauty  and  sweetness  conquers, 
and  in  this  manner  long  nay  it  continue  to 
conquer ! 

In  this  manner  it  works  to  the  same  end  as 
culture,  and  there  is  plenty  of  work  for  it  yet 
to  do.  I  have  said  that  the  new  and  more 
democratic  force  which  is  now  superseding 
our  old  middle-class  liberalism  cannot  yet  be 
rightly  judged.  It  has  its  main  tendencies 
still  to  form.  We  hear  promises  of  its  giving 
us  administrative  reform,  law  reform,  reform 
of  education,  and  I  know  not  what;  but  those 
promises  come  rather  from  its  advocates,  wish- 
ing to  make  a  good  plea  for  it  and  to  justify 
it  for  superseding  middle-class  liberalism,  than 
from  clear  tendencies  which  it  has  itself  yet 
developed. _  But  meanwhile  it  has  plenty  of 
w-ell-intentioned  friends  against  whom  culture 
may  with  advantage  continue  to  uphold  steadily 
its  ideal  of  human  perfection;  that  this  is  an 
inward ^  spiritual  activity,  having  for  its  char- 
acters increased   sweetness,  increased  light,  in- 


creased life,  increased  sympathy.  Mr.  Bright, 
who  has  a  foot  in  both  worlds,  the  world  of 
middle-class  liberalism  and  the  world  of 
democracy,  but  who  brings  most  of  his  ideas 
from  the  world  of  middle-class  liberalism  in 
w^hich  he  was  bred,  always  inclines  to  inculcate 
that  faith  in  machinery  to  which,  as  we  have 
seen.  Englishmen  are  so  prone,  and  which  has 
been  the  bane  of  middle-class  liberalism.  He 
complains  with  a  sorrowful  indignation  of 
people  who  "appear  to  have  no  proper  estimate 
of  the  value  of  the  franchise" ;  he  leads  his  dis- 
ciples to  believe,  —  what  the  Englishman  is 
always  too  ready  to  believe,  —  that  the  having 
a  vote,  like  the  having  a  large  family,  or  a  large 
business,  or  large  muscles,  has  in  itself  some 
edifying  and  perfecting  effect  upon  human 
nature.  Or  else  he  cries  out  to  the  democ- 
racy,—  "the  men,"  as  he  calls  them,  "upon 
whose  shoulders  the  greatness  of  England 
rests,"  —  he  cries  out  to  them:  "See  what  you 
have  done !  I  look  over  this  country  and  see 
the  cities  you  have  built,  the  railroads  you  have 
made,  the  manufactures  you  have  produced, 
the  cargoes  which  freight  the  ships  of  the  great- 
est mercantile  navy  the  world  has  ever  seen ! 
I  see  that  you  have  converted  by  your  labours 
what  was  once  a  wilderness,  these  islands,  into 
a  fruitful  garden ;  I  know  that  you  have  created 
this  wealth,  and  are  a  nation  whose  name  is 
a  word  of  power  throughout  all  the  world." 
Why,  this  is  just  the  very  style  of  laudation  with 
which  Mr.  Roebuck  or  Mr.  Lowe  debauches 
the  minds  of  the  middle  classes,  and  makes 
such  Philistines  of  them.  It  is  the  same  fash- 
ion of  teaching  a  man  to  value  himself  not  on 
what  he  is,  not  on  his  progress  in  sweetness  and 
light,  but  on  the  number  of  the  railroads  he  has 
constructed,  or  the  bigness  of  the  tabernacles 
he  has  built.  Only  the  middle  classes  are 
told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their  energy, 
self-reliance,  and  capital,  and  the  democracy 
are  told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their  hands 
and  sinews.  But  teaching  the  democracy  to 
put  its  trust  in  achievements  of  this  kind  is 
merely  training  them  to  be  Philistines  to  take 
the  place  of  the  Philistines  whom  they  are 
superseding;  and  they  too,  like  the  middle 
class,  will  be  encouraged  to  sit  down  at  the 
banquet  of  the  future  without  having  on  a 
wedding  garment,  and  nothing  excellent  can 
then  come  from  them.  Those  who  know  their 
besetting  faults,  those  who  have  watched  them 
and  listened  to  them,  or  those  who  will  read  the 
instructive  account  recently  given  of  them  by 
one  of  themselves,  the  Journeyman  Engineer, 


CULTURE    AND    ANARCHY 


487 


will  agree  that  the  idea  which  culture  sets  be- 
fore us  of  perfection,  —  an  increased  spiritual 
activity,  having  for  its  characters  increased 
sweetness,  increased  light,  increased  life,  in- 
creased sympathy,  —  is  an  idea  which  the  new 
democracy  needs  far  more  than  the  idea  of  the 
blessedness  of  the  franchise,  or  the  wonderful- 
ness  of  its  own  industrial  performances. 

Other  well-meaning  friends  of  this  new 
power  are  for  leading  it,  not  in  the  old  ruts  of 
middle-class  Philistinism,  but  in  ways  which 
are  naturally  alluring  to  the  feet  of  democracy, 
though  in  this  country  they  are  novel  and 
untried  ways.  I  may  call  them  the  ways  of 
Jacobinism.  Violent  indignation  with  the  past, 
abstract  systems  of  renovation  applied  whole- 
sale, a  new  doctrine  drawn  up  in  black  and 
white  for  elaborating  down  to  the  very  smallest 
details  a  rational  society  for  the  future,  —  these 
are  the  ways  of  Jacol^inism.  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  and  other  disciples  of  Comte,  —  one 
of  them,  Mr.  Congreve,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
and  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  pub- 
licly expressing  my  respect  for  his  talents  and 
character,  —  are  among  the  friends  of  democ- 
racy who  are  for  leading  it  in  paths  of  this 
kind.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  is  very  hostile  to 
culture,  and  from  a  natural  enough  motive; 
for  culture  is  the  eternal  opponent  of  the  two 
things  which  are  the  signal  marks  of  Jacobin- 
ism, —  its  fierceness,  and  its  addiction  to  an 
abstract  system.  Culture  is  always  assigning 
to  system-makers  and  systems  a  smaller  share 
in  the  bent  of  human  destiny  than  their  friends 
like.  A  current  in  people's  minds  sets  towards 
new  ideas ;  people  are  dissatisfied  with  their  old 
narrow  stock  of  Philistine  ideas,  Anglo-Saxon 
ideas,  or  any  other;  and  some  man,  some 
Bentham  or  Comte,  who  has  the  real  merit  of 
having  early  and  strongly  felt  and  helped  the 
new  current,  but  who  brings  plenty  of  narrow- 
ness and  mistakes  of  his  own  into  his  feeling 
and  help  of  it,  is  credited  with  being  the  author 
of  the  whole  current,  the  fit  person  to  be  en- 
trusted with  its  regulation  and  to  guide  the 
human  race. 

The  excellent  German  historian  of  the  my- 
thology of  Rome,  Preller,  relating  the  introduc- 
tion at  Rome  under  the  Tarquins  of  the  wor- 
ship of  Apollo,  the  god  of  light,  healing,  and 
reconciliation,  will  have  us  observe  that  it  was 
not  so  much  the  Tarquins  who  brought  to  Rome 
the  new  worship  of  Apollo,  as  a  current  in  the 
mind  of  the  Roman  people  which  set  power- 
fully at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship  of  this 
•kind,  and  away  from  the  old  run  of  Latin  and 


Sabine  religious  ideas.  In  a  similar  way, 
culture  directs  our  attention  to  the  natural 
current  there  is  in  human  affairs,  and  to  its 
continual  working,  and  will  not  let  us  rivet  our 
faith  upon  any  one  man  and  his  doings.  It 
makes  us  see  not  only  his  good  side,  but  also 
how  much  in  him  was  of  necessity  limited 
and  transient;  nay,  it  even  feels  a  pleasure,  a 
sense  of  an  increased  freedom  and  of  an  ampler 
future,  in  so  doing. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  under  the  influence 
of  a  mind  to  which  I  feel  the  greatest  obliga- 
tions, the  mind  of  a  man  who  was  the  very 
incarnation  of  sanity  and  clear  sense,  a  man 
the  most  considerable,  it  seems  to  me,  whom 
America  has  yet  produced,  —  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin, —  I  remember  the  relief  with  which,  after 
long  feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  imperturb- 
able common-sense,  I  came  upon  a  project  of 
his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of  Job,  to 
replace  the  old  version,  the  style  of  which,  says 
Franklin,  has  become  obsolete,  and  thence  less 
agreeable.  "I  give,"  he  continues,  "a  few 
verses,  which  may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the 
kind  of  version  I  would  recommend."  We  all 
recollect  the  famous  verse  in  our  translation : 
"Then  Satan  answered  the  Lord  and  said: 
'  Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nought?'"  Franklin 
makes  this:  "Does  your  Majesty  imagine  that 
Job's  good  conduct  is  the  effect  of  mere  personal 
attachment  and  affection?"  I  well  remember 
how,  when  first  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief,  and  said  to  myself:  "After 
all,  there  is  a  stretch  of  humanity  beyond 
Franklin's  victorious  good  sense!"  So,  after 
hearing  Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the 
renovator  of  modern  society,  and  Bentham's 
mind  and  ideas  proposed  as  the  rulers  of  our 
future,  I  open  the  Deontology.  There  I  read: 
"While  Xenophon  was  writing  his  history  and 
Euclid  teaching  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato 
were  talking  nonsense  under  pretence  of  talking 
wisdom  and  morality.  This  morality  of  theirs 
consisted  in  words;  this  wisdom  of  theirs  was 
the  denial  of  matters  known  to  every  man's 
experience."  From  the  moment  of  reading 
that,  I  am  delivered  from  the  bondage  of 
Bentham !  the  fanaticism  of  his  adherents  can 
touch  me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  inadequacy 
of  his  mind  and  ideas  for  supplying  the  rule  of 
human  society,  for  perfection. 

Culture  tends  always  thus  to  deal  with  the 
men  of  a  system,  of  disciples,  of  a  school;  with 
men  like  Comte,  or  the  late  Mr.  Buckle,  or  Mr. 
Mill.  However  much  it  may  find  to  admire 
in  these  personages,  or  in  some  of  them,   it 


488 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


nevertheless  remembers  the  text:  "Be  not  ye 
called  Rabbi!"  and  it  soon  passes  on  from 
any  Rabbi.  But  Jacobinism  loves  a  Rabbi ;  it 
does  not  want  to  pass  on  from  its  Rabbi  in 
pursuit  of  a  future  and  still  unreached  perfec- 
tion ;  it  wants  its  Rabbi  and  his  ideas  to  stand 
for  perfection,  that  they  may  with  the  more 
authority  recast  the  world;  and  for  Jacobin- 
ism, therefore,  culture,  —  eternally  passing  on- 
wards and  seeking,  —  is  an  impertinence  and 
an  offence.  But  culture,  just  because  it  resists 
this  tendency  of  Jacobinism  to  impose  on  us  a 
man  with  limitations  and  errors  of  his  own 
along  with  the  true  ideas  of  which  he  is  the 
organ,  really  does  the  world  and  Jacobinism 
itself  a  service. 

So,  too,  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred  of  the 
past  and  of  those  whom  it  makes  liable  for 
the  sins  of  the  past,  cannot  away  with  the  in- 
exhaustible indulgence  proper  to  culture,  the 
consideration  of  circumstances,  the  severe 
judgment  of  actions  joined  to  the  merciful 
judgment  of  persons.  "The  man  of  culture 
is  in  politics,"  cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison, 
"one  of  the  poorest  mortals  alive!"  Mr. 
Frederic  Harrison  wants  to  be  doing  business, 
and  he  complains  that  the  man  of  culture  stops 
him  with  a  "turn  for  small  fault-finding,  love 
of  selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in  action."  Of 
what  use  is  culture,  he  asks,  except  for  "a  critic 
of  new  books  or  a  professor  of  belles  letlres" ? 
Why,  it  is  of  use  because,  in  presence  of  the 
fierce  exasperation  which  breathes,  or  rather, 
I  may  say,  hisses  through  the  whole  produc- 
tion in  which  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  asks  that 
question,  it  reminds  us  that  the  perfection  of 
human  nature  is  sweetness  and  light.  It  is 
of  use  because,  like  religion,  —  that  other 
effort  after  perfection,  —  it  testifies  that,  where 
bitter  envying  and  strife  are,  there  is  confusion 
and  every  evil  work. 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pur- 
suit of  sweetness  and  light.  He  who  works 
for  sweetness  and  light,  works  to  make  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  He  who  works 
for  machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works 
only  for  confusion.  Culture  looks  beyond 
machinery,  cuhure  hates  hatred;  culture  has 
one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness 
and  light.  It  has  one  even  yet  greater !  — 
the  passion  for  making  them  prevail.  It  is 
not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man ; 
it  knows  that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the 
few  must  be  imperfect  until  the  raw  and  un- 
kindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with 
sweetness  and  light.     If  I  have  not  shrunk 


from  saying  that  we  must  work  for  sweetness 
and  light,  so  neither  have  I  shrunk  from  saying 
that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have 
sweetness  and  light  for  as  many  as  possible. 
Again  and  again  I  have  insisted  how  those  are 
the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those  are 
the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how  those 
are  the  flowering  times  for  literature  and  art  and 
all  the  creative  power  of  genius,  when  there  is 
a  national  glow  of  life  and  thought,  when  the 
whole  of  society  is  in  the  fullest  measure  per- 
meated by  thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  intelli- 
gent and  alive.  Only  it  must  be  real  thought 
and  real  beauty;  real  sweetness  and  real  light. 
Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  give  the  masses,  as 
they  call  them,  an  intellectual  food  prepared  and 
adapted  in  the  way  they  think  proper  for  the 
actual  condition  of  the  masses.  The  ordinary 
popular  literature  is  an  example  of  this  way  of 
working  on  the  masses.  Plenty  of  people  will 
try  to  indoctrinate  the  masses  with  the  set  of 
ideas  and  judgments  constituting  the  creed 
of  their  own  profession  or  party.  Our  reli- 
gious and  political  organisations  give  an  ex- 
ample of  this  way  of  working  on  the  masses. 
I  condemn  neither  way;  but  culture  works 
differently.  It  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to 
the  level  of  inferior  classes;  it  does  not  try  to 
win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with 
ready-made  judgments  and  watchwords.  It 
seeks  to  do  away  with  classes ;  to  make  the  best 
that  has  been  thought  and  known  in  the  world 
current  everywhere;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  where  they 
may  use  ideas,  as  it  uses  them  itself,  freely, 
—  nourished,  and  not  bound  by  them. 

This  is  the  social  idea;  and  the  men  of  cul- 
ture are  the  true  apostles  of  equality.  The 
great  men  of  culture  are  those  who  have  had 
a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  making  prevail, 
for  carrying  from  one  end  of  society  to  the 
other,  the  best  knowledge,  the  best  ideas  of 
their  time;  who  have  laboured  to  divest  know- 
ledge of  all  that  was  harsh,  uncouth,  difficult, 
abstract,  professional,  exclusive;  to  humanise 
it,  to  make  it  efficient  outside  the  clique  of  the 
cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still  remaining  the 
besl  knowledge  and  thought  of  the  time,  and  a 
true  source,  therefore,  of  sweetness  and  light. 
Such  a  man  was  Abelard  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
in  spite  of  all  his  imperfections;  and  thence 
the  boundless  emotion  and  enthusiasm  which 
Abelard  excited.  Such  were  Lessing  and  Her- 
der in  Germany,  at  the  end  of  the  last  cen- 
tury; and  their  services  to  Germany  were  in 
this   way    inestimably    precious.     Generations 


LESLIE    STEPHEN 


489 


will  pass,  and  literary  monuments  will  accu- 
mulate, and  works  far  more  perfect  than  the 
works  of  Lcssing  and  Herder  will  be  produced 
in  Germany;  and  yet  the  names  of  these  two 
men  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence  and 
enthusiasm  such  as  the  names  of  the  most 
gifted  masters  will  hardly  awaken.  And  why? 
Because  they  humanised  knowledge;  because 
they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and  intelli- 
gence; because  they  worked  powerfully  to  dif- 
fuse sweetness  and  light,  to  make  reason  and 
the  will  of  God  prevail.  With  Saint  Augustine 
they  said:  "Let  us  not  leave  thee  alone  to 
make  in  the  secret  of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou 
didst  before  the  creation  of  the  firmament,  the 
division  of  light  from  darkness;  let  the  children 
of  thy  spirit,  placed  in  their  firmament,  make 
their  light  shine  upon  the  earth,  mark  the 
division  of  night  and  day,  and  announce  the 
revolution  of  the  times;  for  the  old  order  is 
passed,  and  the  new  arises;  the  night  is  spent, 
the  day  is  come  forth;  and  thou  shalt  crown 
the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when  thou  shalt 
send  forth  labourers  into  thy  harvest  sown  by 
other  hands  than  theirs;  when  thou  shalt  send 
forth  new  labourers  to  new  seedtimes,  whereof 
the  harvest  shall  be  not  yet." 

LESLIE  STEPHEN   (1832-1904) 

From  NEWMAN'S  THEORY   OF   BELIEF 

Some  persons,  it  is  said,  still  cherish  the 
pleasant  illusion  that  to  write  a  history  of 
thought  is  not,  on  the  face  of  it,  a  chimerical 
undertaking.  Their  opinion  implies  the  as- 
sumption that  all  contemporary  thought  has 
certain  common  characteristics,  and  that  the 
various  prophets,  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  this 
or  any  other  age,  utter  complementary  rather 
than  contradictory  doctrines.  Could  we  attain 
the  vantage-ground  which  will  be  occupied 
by  our  posterity,  we  might,  of  course,  detect 
an  underlying  unity  of  purpose  in  the  perplex- 
ing labyrinth  of  divergent  intellectual  parts. 
And  yet,  making  all  allowance  for  the  distortions 
due  to  mental  perspective  when  the  oljjects  of 
vision  are  too  close  to  our  eyes,  it  is  diiificult  to 
see  how  two  of  the  most  conspicuous  teachers 
of  modern  Englishmen  are  to  be  forced  into 
neighbouring  compartments  of  the  same  logi- 
cal framework.  Newman  and  J.  S.  Mill  were 
nearly  contemporaries;  they  were  probably 
the  two  greatest  masters  of  philosophical 
English  in  recent  times,  and  the  mind  of  the 
same  generation  will  bear  the  impress  of  their 


speculation.  And  yet  they  move  in  spheres 
of  thought  so  different  that  a  critic,  judging 
purely  from  internal  evidence,  might  be  in- 
clined to  assign  them  to  entirely  different 
periods.  The  distance  from  Oxford  to  W^est- 
minster  would  seem  to  be  measurable  rather 
in  centuries  than  in  miles.  Oxford,  as  New- 
man says,  was,  in  his  time,  a  "mediaeval  uni- 
versity." The  roar  of  modern  controversies 
was  heard  dimly,  as  in  a  dream.  Only  the 
vague  rumours  of  portentous  phantoms  of 
German  or  English  origin  —  Pantheism  and 
neologies  and  rationalism  —  might  occasionally 
reach  the  quiet  cloisters  where  Aristotelian 
logic  still  reigned  supreme.  To  turn  from 
Newman's  "Apologia"  to  Mill's  "Autobiog- 
raphy" is,  in  the  slang  of  modem  science,  to 
plunge  the  organism  in  a  totally  different  en- 
vironment. With  Newman  we  are  knee-deep 
in  the  dust  of  the  ancient  fathers,  poring  over 
the  histories  of  Eutychians,  Monophysites, 
or  Arians,  comparing  the  teaching  of  Luther 
and  Melanchthon  with  that  of  Augustine; 
and  from  such  dry  bones  extracting  —  not  the 
materials  of  antiquarian  discussions  or  philo- 
sophical histories  —  but  living  and  effective 
light  for  our  own  guidance.  The  terminal 
limit  of  our  inquiries  is  fixed  by  Butler's 
"Analogy."  Newman  ends  where  Mill  began. 
It  was  precisely  the  study  of  Butler's  book 
which  was  the  turning-point  in  the  mental 
development  of  the  elder  Mill,  and  the  cause 
of  his  son's  education  in  entire  ignorance  of 
all  that  is  generally  called  religion.  The 
foundation-stone  of  Mill's  creed  is  to  New- 
man the  great  rock  of  offence;  the  atmosphere 
habitually  breathed  by  the  free-thinker  was  to 
the  theologian  as  a  mephitic  vapour  in  which  all 
that  is  pure  and  holy  mentally  droops  and  dies. 
But,  for  the  most  part,  Newman  would  rather 
ignore  than  directly  encounter  this  insidious 
evil.  He  will  not  reason  with  such,  but  pass 
them  by  with  an  averted  glance.  "Why," 
he  asks,  "should  we  vex  ourselves  to  find  out 
whether  our  own  deductions  are  philosophical 
or  no,  provided  they  are  religious?" 

That  free  play  of  the  pure  intellect,  which 
with  Mill  is  the  necessary  and  suiBcient  guar- 
antee of  all  improvement  of  the  race,  forms, 
according  to  Newman,  the  inlet  for  an  "all- 
corroding  and  all-dissolving"  scepticism,  the 
very  poison  of  the  soul ;  for  the  intellect,  when 
not  subordinated  to  the  conscience  and  en- 
lightened by  authority,  is  doomed  to  a  perpetuity 
of  fruitless  wandering.  The  shibboleths  of 
Mill's   creed   are    mentioned   by   Newman  -^ 


490 


LESLIE    STEPHEN 


if  mentioned  at  all  —  with  unmixed  aversion. 
Liberalism,  foreshadowed  by  the  apostate 
Julian,  "is  now  Satan's  chief  instrument  in 
deluding  the  nations;"  and  even  toleration  — 
though  one  fancies  that  here  Newman  is  glad 
to  find  an  expedient  for  reconciling  his  feelings 
to  the  logic  which  had  once  prompted  him  to 
less  tolerant  utterances  —  is  a  principle  "con- 
ceived in  the  spirit  of  unbelief,"  though  "provi- 
dentially overruled"  for  the  advantage  of 
Catholicism. 

For  the  most  part,  as  I  have  said,  the  two 
writers  are  too  far  apart  to  have  even  the  rela- 
tion of  direct  antagonism.  But  as  both  are 
profoundly  interested  in  the  bearing  of  their 
teaching  upon  conduct,  they  necessarily  come 
into  collision  upon  some  vital  questions.  The 
contrast  is  instructive.  Mill  tells  us  that  the 
study  of  Dumont's  redaction  of  Bentham  made 
him  a  different  being.  It  was  the  dropping 
of  the  keystone  into  the  arch  of  previously 
fragmentar>'  belief.  It  gave  him  "a  creed,  a 
doctrine,  a  philosophy;  in  one  among  the  best 
senses  of  the  word,  a  religion ;  the  inculcation 
and  diffusion  of  which  would  be  made  the  prin- 
cipal outward  purpose  of  a  life."  The  pro- 
gress of  the  race  would  be  henceforward  his 
aim ;  and  the  belief  that  such  progress  was  a 
law  of  Nature  could  supply  him  with  hope  and 
animation.  Here  we  have  the  characteristic 
divergence  between  the  modes  of  thought  na- 
tive to  science  and  theology.  Utilitarianism, 
when  Newman  happens  to  mention  it,  is,  of 
course,  mentioned  as  equivalent  to  Material- 
ism —  the  preference  of  temporal  comfort  to 
spiritual  welfare.  It  prescribes  as  the  ultimate 
end  of  all  legislation  the  pursuit  of  "whatever 
tends  to  produce  wealth."  From  Newman's 
point  of  view,  it  is  less  "a  religion"  than  the 
antithesis  of  a  religion,  for  the  end  which  it 
proposes  to  men  is,  briefly,  the  sum-total  of  all 
the  seductions  by  which  the  world  attracts 
men  from  their  allegiance  to  the  Church.  To 
emphasise  and  enforce  this  distinction,  to  show 
that  the  Christian  morality  tramples  under  foot 
and  rejects  as  worthless  all  that  the  secular 
philosopher  values  as  most  precious,  is  the  pur- 
pose of  his  subtlest  logic  and  keenest  rhetoric. 
The  contrast  between  the  prosperous  self-sat- 
isfied denizen  of  this  world  and  the  genuine 
Christianity  set  forth  in  the  types  of  the 
"humble  monk,  and  the  holy  nun,"  is  ever 
before  him.  In  their  "calm  faces,  and  sweet 
plaintive  voices,  and  spare  frames,  and  gentle 
manners,  and  hearts  weaned  from  the  world," 
he  sees  the  embodiment  of  the  one  true  ideal. 


What  common  ground  can  there  be  between 
such  Christianity  and  the  religion  of  progress? 
"Our  race's  progress  and  perfectibility,"  he 
says,  "is  a  dream,  because  revelation  contra- 
dicts it."  And  even  if  there  were  no  explicit 
contradiction,  how  could  the  two  ideas  coalesce  ? 
The  "foundation  of  all  true  doctrine  as  to  the 
way  of  salvation"  is  the  "great  truth"  of  the 
corruption  of  man.  His  present  nature  is  evil, 
not  good,  and  produces  evil  things,  not  good 
things.  His  improvement,  then,  if  he  improves, 
must  be  supernatural  and  miraculous,  not  the 
spontaneous  working  of  his  natural  tendencies. 
The  \ery  basis  of  rational  hope  of  progress  is 
therefore  struck  away.  The  enthusiasm  which 
that  hope  generates  in  such  a  mind  as  Mill's 
is  therefore  mere  folly  —  it  is  an  empty  exul- 
tation over  a  process  which,  when  it  really  ex- 
ists, involves  the  more  effectual  weaning  of  the 
world  from  God.  In  his  sermons,  Newman 
aims  his  sharpest  taunts  at  the  superficial  opti- 
mism of  the  disciples  of  progress.  The  popular 
religion  of  the  day  forgets  the  "darker,  deeper 
views"  (darker  as  deeper)  "of  man's  condition 
and  prospects."  Conscience,  the  fundamental 
religious  faculty,  is  a  "stem,  gloomy  principle," 
and  therefore  systematically  ignored  by  worldly 
and  shallow  souls.  A  phrase,  quoted  in  the 
"Apologia"  with  some  implied  apology  for  its 
vehemence,  is  but  a  vivid  expression  of  this 
sentiment.  It  is  his  "firm  conviction  that  it 
would  be  a  gain  to  this  country  were  it  vastly 
more  superstitious,  more  bigoted,  more  gloomy, 
more  fierce  in  its  religion,  than  at  present  it 
shows  itself  to  be."  The  great  instrument  of 
his  opponents  is  as  objectionable  as  their  end 
is  futile  and  their  temper  shallow.  The  lovers 
of  progress  found  their  hopes  on  the  influ- 
ence of  illumination  in  dispelling  superstition. 
"Superstition,"  replies  Newman,  "is  better 
than  your  so-called  illumination."  Supersti- 
tion, in  fact,  differs  from  religion,  not  in  the 
temper  and  disposition  of  mind  which  it  in- 
dicates, but  in  the  authority  which  it  accepts; 
it  is  the  blind  man  groping  after  the  guiding 
hand  vouchsafed  to  him  in  revelation.  The 
world,  when  trjing  to  turn  to  its  Maker,  has 
"ever  professed  a  gloomy  religion  in  spite  of 
itself."  Its  sacrifices,  its  bodily  tortures,  its 
fierce  delight  in  self-tormenting,  testify  to  its 
sense  of  guilt  and  corruption.  These  "dark 
and  desperate  struggles"  are  superstition  when 
set  beside  Christianity;  but  such  superstition 
"is  man's  purest  and  best  religion  before  the 
Gospel  shines  on  him."  To  be  gloomy,  to 
see  ourselves  with  horror,  "to  wait  naked  and 


NEWMAN'S    THEORY    OF    BELIEF 


491 


shivering  among  the  trees  of  the  garden"  .  .  . 
"in  a  word,  to  be  superstitious  is  Nature's 
best  offering,  her  most  acceptable  service,  her 
most  matured  and  enlarged  wisdom,  in  pres- 
ence of  a  holy  and  offended  God." 

The  contrast  is  drawn  out  most  systematically 
in  two  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  lectures  on 
"Anglican  Difficulties"  (Nos.  VIII  and  IX). 
They  contain  some  of  the  passages  which  most 
vexed  the  soul  of  poor  Kingsley,  to  whom  the 
theory  was  but  partly  intelligible,  and  alto- 
gether abhorrent.  They  are  answers  to  the 
ordinary  objections  that  Catholicism  is  hostile 
to  progress  and  favourable  to  superstition. 
Newman  meets  the  objections  —  not  by  trav- 
ersing the  statements,  but  by  denying  their 
relevancy.  Catholic  countries  are,  let  us  grant, 
less  civilised  than  Protestant ;  what  then  ? 
The  office  of  the  Church  is  to  save  souls,  not 
to  promote  civilisation.  As  he  had  said  whilst 
still  a  Protestant  (for  this  is  no  theory  framed 
under  pressure  of  arguments,  but  a  primitive 
and  settled  conviction),  the  Church  does  not 
seek  to  make  men  good  subjects,  good  citizens, 
good  members  of  society,  not,  in  short,  to  secure 
any  of  the  advantages  which  the  Utilitarian 
would  place  in  the  first  rank,  but  to  make  them 
members  of  the  New  Jerusalem.  The  two  ob- 
jects are  so  far  from  identical  that  they  may 
be  incompatible;  nay,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
"Christianity  has  at  any  time  been  of  any  great 
spiritual  advantage  to  the  world  at  large." 
It  has  saved  individuals,  not  reformed  society. 
Intellectual  enlightenment  is  beyond  its  scope, 
and  often  hurtful  to  its  influence.  So  says  the 
Protestant,  and  fancies  that  he  has  aimed  a 
blow  at  its  authority.  Newman  again  accepts 
his  statement  without  hesitation.  In  truth, 
Catholicism  often  generates  mere  superstition, 
and  allies  itself  with  falsehood,  vice,  and  pro- 
fanity. What  if  it  does?  It  addresses  the 
conscience  first,  and  the  reason  through  the 
conscience.  Superstition  proves  that  the  con- 
science is  still  alive.  If  divine  faith  is  found  in 
alliance,  not  merely  with  gross  conceptions,  but 
with  fraud  and  cruelty,  that  proves  not,  as  the 
Protestant  would  urge,  that  good  Catholicism 
may  sanction  vice,  but  that  even  vice  cannot 
destroy  Catholicism.  Faith  lays  so  powerful 
a  grasp  upon  the  soul,  that  it  survives  even 
in  the  midst  of  moral  and  mental  degradation, 
where  the  less  rigorous  creed  of  the  Protestant 
would  be  asphyxiated.  If  the  power  of  saving 
souls  be  the  true  test  of  the  utility  of  a  religion, 
that  is  not  the  genuine  creed  wliich  makes  men 
most  decorous,  but  that  which  stimulates  the 


keenest  sensibility  to  the  influences  of  tlie  un- 
seen world.  The  hope  of  ultimate  pardon 
may  make  murder  more  frequent,  but  it  gives 
a  better  chance  of  saving  the  murderer's  soul 
at  the  very  foot  of  the  gallows. 

Applying  so  different  a  standard,  Newman 
comes  to  results  shocking  to  those  who  would 
deny  the  possibility  of  thus  separating  natural 
virtue  from  religion.  Such,  for  example,  is 
the  contrast  between  the  pattern  statesman, 
honourable,  generous,  and  conscious  by  nature, 
and  the  lazy,  slatternly,  lying  beggarwoman 
who  has  got  a  better  chance  of  heaven,  because 
in  her  may  dwell  a  seed  of  supernatural  faith; 
or  the  admiring  picture  of  the  poor  nun  who 
"points  to  God's  wounds  as  imprinted  on  her 
hands  and  feet  and  side,  though  she  herself 
has  been  instrumental  in  their  formation." 
She  is  a  liar  or  a  hysterical  patient,  says  blunt 
English  common-sense,  echoed  by  Kingsley; 
but  Newman  condones  her  offence  in  considera- 
tion of  the  lively  faith  from  which  it  sprang. 
On  his  version,  the  contrast  is  one  between 
the  world  and  the  Church,  between  care  for  the 
external  and  the  transitory,  and  care  for  the 
enclosed  and  eternal.  "We,"  he  says,  "come 
to  poor  human  nature  as  the  angels  of  God; 
you  as  policemen."  Nature  "lies,  hke  Lazarus, 
at  your  gate,  full  of  sores.  You  see  it  gasping 
and  panting  with  privations  and  penalties;  and 
you  sing  to  it,  you  dance  to  it,  you  show  it  your 
picture-books,  you  let  off  your  fireworks,  you 
open  your  menageries.  Shallow  philosophers! 
Is  this  mode  of  going  on  so  winning  and  persua- 
sive that  we  should  imitate  it?"  We,  in  short, 
are  the  physicians  of  the  soul;  you,  at  best, 
the  nurses  of  the  body. 

Newman,  so  far,  is  the  antithesis  of  Mill. 
He  accepts  that  version  of  Christianity  which 
is  most  diametrically  opposed  to  the  tendency 
of  what  is  called  modern  thought.  The  Zeit- 
geist is  a  deluding  spirit ;  he  is  an  incarnation  of 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  That  two 
eminent  thinkers  should  differ  radically  in  their 
estimate  of  the  world  and  its  value,  that  the 
Church  of  one  man's  worship  should  be  the 
prison  of  another  man's  reason,  is  not  sur- 
prising. Temperament  and  circumstance,  not 
logic,  make  the  difference  between  a  pessimist 
and  an  optimist,  and  social  conditions  have  a 
more  powerful  influence  than  speculation  in 
giving  colour  to  the  creeds  of  the  day.  Yet 
we  may  fairly  ask  for  an  explanation  of  the 
fact  that  one  leader  of  men  should  express  his 
conceptions  by  symbols  which  have  lost  all 
meaning  for  his  contemporary.     The  doctrine 


492 


WALTER    PATER 


which,  to  Mill,  seemed  hopelessly  obsolete,  had 
still  enough  vitality  in  the  mind  of  Newman  to 
throw  out  fresh  shoots  of  extraordinary  vigour 
of  growth.  To  account  for  such  phenomena 
by  calling  one  system  reactionary  is  to  make  the 
facts  explain  themselves.  The  stream  is  now 
flowing  east  because  it  was  before  flowing  west : 
—  Such  a  reason  can  only  satisfy  those  who 
regard  all  speculation  as  consisting  in  a  help- 
less and  endless  oscillation  between  antagonist 
creeds.  To  attempt  any  adequate  explanation, 
however,  would  be  nothing  less  than  to  write 
the  mental  history  of  the  last  half-century. 
A  more  limited  problem  may  be  briefly  dis- 
cussed. What,  we  may  ask,  is  the  logic  by 
which,  in  the  last  resort,  Newman  would  justify 
his  conclusions?  The  reasoning  upon  which 
he  relies  may  be  cause  or  effect;  it  may  have 
prompted  or  been  prompted  by  the  ostensible 
conclusions;  but,  in  any  case,  it  may  show  us 
upon  what  points  he  comes  into  contact  with 
other  teachers.  No  one  can  quite  cut  himself 
loose  from  the  conditions  of  the  time;  and  it 
must  be  possible  to  find  some  point  of  inter- 
section between  the  two  lines  of  thought,  how- 
ever widely  they  may  diverge. 


WALTER  PATER   (1839-1894) 
STYLE 

Since  all  progress  of  mind  consists  for  the 
most  part  in  differentiation,  in  the  resolution 
of  an  obscure  and  complex  object  into  its  com- 
ponent aspects,  it  is  surely  the  stupidest  of 
losses  to  confuse  things  which  right  reason  has 
put  asunder,  to  lose  the  sense  of  achieved  dis- 
tinctions, the  distinction  between  poetry  and 
prose,  for  instance,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly, 
between  the  laws  and  characteristic  excellences 
of  verse  and  prose  composition.  On  the  other 
hand,  those  who  have  dwelt  most  emphatically 
on  the  distinction  between  prose  and  verse, 
prose  and  poetry,  may  sometimes  have  been 
tempted  to  limit  the  proper  functions  of  prose 
too  narrowly;  and  this  again  is  at  least  false 
economy,  as  being,  in  effect,  the  renunciation  of 
a  certain  means  or  faculty,  in  a  world  where 
after  all  we  must  needs  make  the  most  of  things. 
Critical  efforts  to  hmit  art  a  priori,  by  anticipa- 
tions regarding  the  natural  incapacity  of  the 
material  with  which  this  or  that  artist  works, 
as  the  sculptor  with  solid  form,  or  the  prose- 
writer  with  the  ordinary  language  of  men,  are 
always  liable  to  be  discredited  by  the  facts  of 


artistic  production;  and  while  prose  is  actually 
found  to  be  a  coloured  thing  with  Bacon, 
picturesque  with  Livy  and  Carlyle,  musical 
with  Cicero  and  Newman,  mystical  and  inti- 
mate with  Plato  and  Michelet  and  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  exalted  or  florid,  it  may  be,  with  Mil- 
ton and  Taylor,  it  will  be  useless  to  protest 
that  it  can  be  nothing  at  all,  except  something 
very  tamely  and  narrowly  confined  to  mainly 
practical  ends  —  a  kind  of  "good  round-hand" ; 
as  useless  as  the  protest  that  poetry  might  not 
touch  prosaic  subjects  as  with  Wordsworth, 
or  an  abstruse  matter  as  with  Browning,  or 
treat  contemporarj'  life  nobly  as  with  Tenny- 
son. In  subordination  to  one  essential  beauty 
in  all  good  literary  style,  in  all  literature  as  a  fine 
art,  as  there  are  many  beauties  of  poetrj'  so  the 
beauties  of  prose  are  many,  and  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  criticism  to  estimate  them  as  such ;  as 
it  is  good  in  the  criticism  of  verse  to  look  for 
those  hard,  logical,  and  quasi-prosaic  excel- 
lences which  that  too  has,  or  needs.  To  find 
in  the  poem,  amid  the  flowers,  the  allusions, 
the  mixed  perspectives,  of  Lycidas  for  instance, 
the  thought,  the  logical  structure:  —  how 
wholesome !  how  delightful  1  as  to  identify 
in  prose  what  we  call  the  poetry,  the  imagina- 
tive power,  not  treating  it  as  out  of  place  and 
a  kind  of  vagrant  intruder,  but  by  way  of  an 
estimate  of  its  rights,  that  is,  of  its  achieved 
powers,  there. 

Dryden,  with  the  characteristic  instinct 
of  his  age,  loved  to  emphasise  the  distinction 
between  poetry  and  prose,  the  protest  against 
their  confusion  with  each  other,  coming  with 
somewhat  diminished  effect  from  one  whose 
poetry  was  so  prosaic.  In  truth,  his  sense  of 
prosaic  excellence  affected  his  verse  rather 
than  his  prose,  which  is  not  only  fervid,  richly 
figured,  poetic,  as  we  say,  but  vitiated,  all  un- 
consciously, by  many  a  scanning  line.  Setting 
up  correctness,  that  humble  merit  of  prose,  as 
the  central  literary  excellence,  he  is  really  a  less 
correct  writer  than  he  may  seem,  still  with 
an  imperfect  mastery  of  the  relative  pronoun. 
It  might  have  been  foreseen  that,  in  the  rota- 
tions of  mind,  the  province  of  poetry  in  prose 
would  find  its  assertor;  and,  a  century  after 
Dryden,  amid  very  different  intellectual  needs, 
and  with  the  need  therefore  of  great  modifica- 
tions in  literary  form,  the  range  of  the  poetic 
force  in  literature  was  effectively  enlarged  by 
Wordsworth.  The  true  distinction  between 
prose  and  poetry  he  regarded  as  the  almost 
technical  or  accidental  one  of  the  absence  or 
presence  of  metrical  beauty,  or,  say!    metrical 


I 


STYLE 


493 


restraint ;  and  for  him  the  opposition  came'  to 
be  between  verse  and  prose  of  course;  but,  as 
the  essential  dichotomy  in  this  matter,  between 
imaginative  and  unimaginative  writing,  parallel 
to  De  Quincey's  distinction  between  "the  liter- 
ature of  power  and  the  literature  of  knowledge," 
in  the  former  of  which  the  composer  gives  us 
not  fact,  but  his  peculiar  sense  of  fact,  whether 
past  or  present. 

Dismissing  then,  under  sanction  of  Words- 
worth, that  harsher  opposition  of  poetry  to 
prose,  as  savouring  in  fact  of  the  arbitrary 
psychology  of  the  last  century,  and  with  it  the 
prejudice  that  there  can  be  but  one  only  beauty 
of  prQse  style,  I  propose  here  to  point  out  cer- 
tain qualities  of  all  hterature  as  a  fine  art,  which, 
if  they  apply  to  the  literature  of  fact,  apply  still 
niore  to  the  literature  of  the  imaginative  sense 
of  fact,  while  they  apply  indifferently  to  verse 
and  prose,  so  far  as  either  is  really  imagina- 
tive—  certain  conditions  of  true  art  in  both  alike, 
which  conditions  may  also  contain  in  them  the 
secret  of  the  proper  discrimination  and  guard- 
ianship of  the  peculiar  excellences  of  either. 

The  line  between  fact  and  something  quite 
different  from  external  fact  is,  indeed,  hard  to 
draw.  In  Pascal,  for  instance,  in  the  persua- 
sive writers  generally,  how  ^difficult  to  define 
the  point  where,  from  time  to  time,  argument 
which,  if  it  is  to  be  worth  anything  at  all,  must 
consist  of  facts  or  groups  of  facts,  becomes  a 
pleading  —  a  theorem  no  longer,  but  essentially 
an  appeal  to  the  reader  to  catch  the  writer's 
spirit,  to  think  with  him,  if  one  can  or  will  — 
an  expression  no  longer  of  fact  but  of  his 
sense  of  it,  his  peculiar  intuition  of  a  world, 
prospective,  or  discerned  below  the  faulty  con- 
ditions of  the  present,  in  either  case  changed 
somewhat  from  the  actual  world.  In  science, 
on  the  other  hand,  in  history  so  far  as  it  con- 
forms to  scientific  rule,  we  have  a  literary  do- 
main where  the  imagination  may  be  thought  to 
be  always  an  intruder.  And  as,  in  all  science, 
the  functions  of  literature  reduce  themselves 
eventually  to  the  transcribing  of  fact,  so  all  the 
excellences  of  literary  form  in  regard  to  science 
are  reducible  to  various  kinds  of  painstaking; 
this  good  quality  being  involved  in  all  "skilled 
work"  whatever,  in  the  drafting  of  an  act  of 
parliament,  as  in  sewing.  Yet  here  again,  the 
writer's  sense  of  fact,  in  history  especially,  and 
in  all  those  complex  subjects  which  do  but  lie 
on  the  borders  of  science,  will  still  take  the 
place  of  fact,  in  various  degrees.  Your  his- 
torian, for  instance,  with  absolutely  truthful 
intention,   amid    the  multitude  of    facts  pre- 


sented to  him  must  needs  select,  and  in  select- 
ing assert  something  of  his  own  humour,  some- 
thing that  comes  not  of  the  world  without  but 
of  a  vision  within.  So  Gibbon  moulds  his 
unwieldy  material  to  a  preconceived  view. 
Livy,  Tacitus,  Michelet,  moving  full  of  poig- 
nant sensibility  amid  the  records  of  the  past, 
each,  after  his  own  sense,  modifies  —  who  can 
tell  where  and  to  what  degree?  —  and  becomes 
something  else  than  a  transcriber;  each,  as  he 
thus  modifies,  passing  into  the  domain  of  art 
proper.  For  just  in  proportion  as  the  writer's 
aim,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  comes  to 
be  the  transcribing,  not  of  the  world,  not  of 
mere  fact,  but  of  his  sense  of  it,  he  becomes  an 
artist,  his  work  fine  art ;  and  good  art  (as  I 
hope  ultimately  to  show)  in  proportion  to  the 
truth  of  his  presentment  of  that  sense;  as  in 
those  humbler  or  plainer  functions  of  literature 
also,  truth  —  truth  to  bare  fact,  there  —  is  the 
essence  of  such  artistic  quality  as  they  may 
have.  Truth !  there  can  be  no  merit,  no  craft 
at  all,  without  that.  And  further,  all  beauty  is 
in  the  long  run  ovAy  fineness  of  truth,  or  what 
we  call  expression,  the  finer  accommodation  of 
speech  to  that  vision  within. 

—  The  transcript  of  his  sense  of  fact  rather 
than  the  fact,  as  being  preferable,  pleasanter, 
more  beautiful  to  the  writer  himself.  In  lit- 
erature, as  in  every  other  product  of  human 
skill,  in  the  moulding  of  a  bell  or  a  platter  for 
instance,  wherever  this  sense  asserts  itself, 
wherever  the  producer  so  modifies  his  work 
as,  over  and  above  its  primary  use  or  inten- 
tion, to  make  it  pleasing  (to  himself,  of  course, 
in  the  first  instance)  there,  "fine"  as  opposed 
to  merely  serviceable  art,  exists.  Literary  art, 
that  is,  like  all  art  which  is  in  any  way  imitative 
or  reproductive  of  fact  —  form,  or  colour,  or 
incident  —  is  the  representation  of  such  fact  as 
connected  with  soul,  of  a  specific  personality, 
in  its  preferences,  its  volition  and  power. 

Such  is  the  matter  of  imaginative  or  artistic 
literature  —  this  transcript,  not  of  mere  fact, 
but  of  fact  in  its  infinite  variety,  as  modified 
by  human  preference  in  all  its  infinitely  varied 
forms.  It  will  be  good  literary  art  not  because 
it  is  brilliant  or  sober,  or  rich,  or  impulsive,  or 
severe,  but  just  in  proportion  as  its  representa- 
tion of  that  sense,  that  soul-fact,  is  true,  verse 
being  only  one  department  of  such  hterature, 
and  imaginative  prose,  it  may  be  thought, 
being  the  special  art  of  the  modern  world. 
That  imaginative  prose  should  be  the  special 
and  opportune  art  of  the  modern  world  results 
from   two   important   facts   about   the   latter: 


494 


WALTER    PATER 


first,  the  chaotic  variety  and  complexity  of  its 
interests,  making  the  intellectual  issue,  the 
really  master  currents  of  the  present  time 
incalculable  —  a  condition  of  mind  little  sus- 
ceptible of  the  restraint  proper  to  verse  form, 
so  that  the  most  characteristic  verse  of  the 
nineteenth  century  has  been  lawless  verse ;  and 
secondly,  an  all-pervading  naturalism,  a  curi- 
osity about  everything  whatever  as  it  really  is, 
involving  a  certain  humility  of  attitude,  cognate 
to  what  must,  after  all,  be  the  less  ambitious 
form  of  literature.  And  prose  thus  asserting 
itself  as  the  special  and  privileged  artistic  faculty 
of  the  present  day,  will  be,  however  critics  may 
try  to  narrow  its  scope,  as  varied  in  its  excellence 
as  humanity  itself  reflecting  on  the  facts  of  its 
latest  experience  —  an  instrument  of  many 
stops,  meditative,  observant,  descriptive,  elo- 
quent, analytic,  plaintive,  fervid.  Its  beauties 
will  be  not  exclusively  "pedestrian":  it  will 
exert,  in  due  measure,  all  the  varied  charms  of 
poetry,  down  to  the  rhythm  which,  as  in  Cicero, 
or  Wichelet,  or  Newman,  at  their  best,  gives  its 
musical  value  to  every  syllable. 

The  literary  artist  is  of  necessity  a  scholar, 
and  in  what  he  proposes  to  do  will  have  in 
mind,  first  of  all,  the  scholar  and  the  scholarly 
conscience  —  the  male  conscience  in  this 
matter,  as  we  must  think  it,  under  a  system 
of  education  which  still  to  so  large  an  extent 
limits  real  scholarship  to  men.  In  his  self- 
criticism,  he  supposes  always  that  sort  of  reader 
who  will  go  (full  of  eyes)  warily,  considerately, 
though  without  consideration  for  him,  over 
the  ground  which  the  female  conscience  trav- 
erses so  lightly,  so  amiably.  For  the  mate- 
rial in  which  he  works  is  no  more  a  creation 
of  his  own  than  the  sculptor's  marble.  Product 
of  a  myriad  various  minds  and  contend- 
ing tongues,  compact  of  obscure  and  minute 
association,  a  language  has  its  own  abundant 
and  often  recondite  laws,  in  the  habitual  and 
summary  recognition  of  which  scholarship 
consists.  A  writer,  full  of  a  matter  he  is  be- 
fore all  things  anxious  to  express,  may  think 
of  those  laws,  the  limitations  of  vocabulary, 
structure,  and  the  like,  as  a  restriction,  but  if 
a  real  artist  will  find  in  them  an  opportunity. 
His  punctilious  observance  of  the  proprieties 
of  his  medium  will  diffuse  through  all  he  writes 
a  general  air  of  sensibility,  of  refined  usage. 
Exclusiones  debitae  naturae  —  the  exclusions, 
or  rejections,  which  nature  demands  —  we 
know  how  large  a  part  these  play,  according  to 
Bacon,  in  the  science  of  nature.  In  a  some- 
what changed  sense,  we  might  say  that  the  art 


of  the  scholar  is  summed  up  in  the  observ- 
ance of  those  rejections  demanded  by  the 
nature  of  his  medium,  the  material  he 
must  use.  Alive  to  the  value  of  an  atmos- 
phere in  which  every  term  finds  its  utmost 
degree  of  expression,  and  with  all  the  jealousy 
of  a  lover  of  words,  he  will  resist  a  constant 
tendency  on  the  part  of  the  majority  of  those 
who  use  them  to  efface  the  distinctions  of 
language,  the  facility  of  writers  often  rein- 
forcing in  this  respect  the  work  of  the  vulgar. 
He  will  feel  the  obligation  not  of  the  laws  only, 
but  of  those  aftinities,  avoidances,  those  mere 
preferences,  of  his  language,  which  through  the 
associations  of  literary  history  have  become 
a  part  of  its  nature,  prescribing  the  rejection 
of  many  a  neology,  many  a  license,  many  a 
gipsy  phrase  which  might  present  itself  as 
actually  expressive.  His  appeal,  again,  is  to 
the  scholar,  who  has  great  experience  in  litera- 
ture, and  will  show  no  favour  to  short-cuts,  or 
hackneyed  illustration,  or  an  affectation  of 
learning  designed  for  the  unlearned.  Hence 
a  contention,  a  sense  of  self-restraint  and  re- 
nunciation, having  for  the  susceptible  reader 
the  effect  of  a  challenge  for  minute  considera- 
tion ;  the  attention  of  the  writer,  in  cverj-  minut- 
est detail,  being  a  pledge  that  it  is  worth  the 
reader's  while  to  be  attentive  too,  that  the  writer 
is  dealing  scrupulously  with  his  instrument, 
and  therefore,  indirectly,  with  the  reader  him- 
self also,  that  he  has  the  science  of  the  instru- 
ment he  plays  on,  perhaps,  after  all,  with  a 
freedom  which  in  such  case  will  be  the  freedom 
of  a  master. 

For  meanwhile,  braced  only  by  those  re- 
straints, he  is  really  vindicating  his  liberty  in 
the  making  of  a  vocabulary,  an  entire  system 
of  composition,  for  himself,  his  own  true  man- 
ner; and  when  we  speak  of  the  manner  of  a 
true  master  we  mean  what  is  essential  in  his  art. 
Pedantry  being  only  the  scholarship  of  le 
cuistrc  (we  have  no  English  equivalent)  he  is 
no  pedant,  and  does  but  show  his  intelligence 
of  the  rules  of  language  in  his  freedoms  with 
it,  addition  or  expansion,  which  like  the  spon- 
taneities of  manner  in  a  well-bred  person  will 
still  further  illustrate  good  taste.  —  The  right 
vocabulary.  Translators  have  not  invariably 
seen  how  all-important  that  is  in  the  work  of 
translation,  driving  for  the  most  part  at  idiom 
or  construction;  whereas,  if  the  original  be 
first-rate,  one's  first  care  should  be  with  its 
elementary  particles,  Plato,  for  instance,  being 
often  reproducible  by  an  exact  following,  with 
no  variation  in  structure,  of  word  after  word, 


STYLE 


495 


as  the  pencil  follows  a  drawing  under  tracing- 
paper,  so  only  each  word  or  syllable  be  not  of 
false  colour,  to  change  my  illustration  a  little. 
Well !  that  is  because  any  writer  worth  trans- 
lating at  all  has  winnowed  and  searched  through 
his  vocabulary,  is  conscious  of  the  words  he 
would  select  in  systematic  reading  of  a  dic- 
tionary, and  still  more  of  the  words  he  would 
reject  were  the  dictionary  other  than  Johnson's; 
and  doing  this  with  his  peculiar  sense  of  the 
world  ever  in  view,  in  search  of  an  instrument 
for  the  adequate  expression  of  that,  he  begets 
a  vocabulary  faithful  to  the  colouring  of  his 
own  spirit,  and  in  the  strictest  sense  original. 
That  living  authority  which  language  needs 
lies,  in  truth,  in  its  scholars,  who  recognising 
always  that  every  language  possesses  a  genius, 
a  very  fastidious  genius,  of  its  own,  expand  at 
once  and  purify  its  very  elements,  which  must 
needs  change  along  with  the  changing  thoughts 
of  living  people.  Ninety  years  ago,  for  in- 
stance, great  mental  force,  certainly,  was 
needed  by  Wordsworth,  to  break  through  the 
consecrated  poetic  associations  of  a  century,  and 
speak  the  language  that  was  his,  that  was  to 
become  in  a  measure  the  language  of  the  next 
generation.  But  he  did  it  with  the  tact  of  a 
scholar  also.  English,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
past,  has  been  assimilating  the  phraseology  of 
pictorial  art;  for  half  a  century,  the  phrase- 
ology of  the  great  German  metaphysical  move- 
ment of  eighty  years  ago;  in  part  also  the 
language  of  mystical  theology:  and  none  but 
pedants  will  regret  a  great  consequent  increase 
of  its  resources.  For  many  years  to  come  its 
enterprise  may  well  lie  in  the  naturalisation  of 
the  vocabulary  of  science,  so  only  it  be  under 
the  eye  of  sensitive  scholarship  —  in  a  liberal 
naturalisation  of  the  ideas  of  science  too,  for 
after  all  the  chief  stimulus  of  good  style  is  to 
possess  a  full,  rich,  complex  matter  to  grapple 
with.  The  literary  artist,  therefore,  will  be 
well  aware  of  physical  science;  science  also 
attaining,  in  its  turn,  its  true  literary  ideal. 
And  then,  as  the  scholar  is  nothing  without  the 
historic  sense,  he  will  be  apt  to  restore  not  really 
obsolete  or  really  worn-out  words,  but  the  finer 
edge  of  words  still  in  use:  ascertain,  communi- 
cate, discover  —  words  like  these  it  has  been 
part  of  our  "business"  to  misuse.  And  still, 
as  language  was  made  for  man,  he  will  be 
no  authority  for  correctnesses  which,  limiting 
freedom  of  utterance,  were  yet  but  accidents  in 
their  origin;  as  if  one  vowed  not  to  say  "its," 
which  ought  to  have  been  in  Shakespeare; 
''his"    and    "hers,"     for    inanimate    objects, 


being  but  a  barbarous  and  really  inexpressive 
survival.  Yet  we  have  known  many  things 
like  this.  Racy  Saxon  monosyllables,  close 
to  us  as  touch  and  sight,  he  will  intermix 
readily  with  those  long,  savoursome,  I>atin 
words,  rich  in  "  second  intention."  In  this 
late  day  certainly,  no  critical  process  can 
be  conducted  reasonably  without  eclecticism. 
Of  such  eclecticism  we  have  a  justifying  ex- 
ample in  one  of  the  first  poets  of  our  time. 
How  illustrative  of  monosyllabic  effect,  of 
sonorous  Latin,  of  the  phraseology  of  science, 
of  metaphysic,  of  colloquialism  even,  are  the 
writings  of  Tennyson;  yet  with  what  a  fine, 
fastidious  scholarship  throughout ! 

A  scholar  writing  for  the  scholarly,  he  will 
of  course  leave  something  to  the  willing  intelli- 
gence of  his  reader.  "To  go  preach  to  the  first 
passer-by,"  says  Montaigne,  "to  become  tutor 
to  the  ignorance  of  the  first  I  meet,  is  a  thing  I 
abhor;"  a  thing,  in  fact,  naturally  distressing 
to  the  scholar,  who  will  therefore  ever  be  shy 
of  offering  uncomplimentary  assistance  to  the 
reader's  wit.  To  really  strenuous  minds  there 
is  a  pleasurable  stimulus  in  the  challenge  for  a 
continuous  effort  on  their  part,  to  be  rewarded 
by  securer  and  more  intimate  grasp  of  the 
author's  sense.  Self-restraint,  a  skilful  economy 
of  means,  ascesis,  that  too  has  a  beauty  of  its 
own ;  and  for  the  reader  supposed  there  will  be 
an  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  that  frugal  close- 
ness of  style  which  makes  the  most  of  a  word, 
in  the  exaction  from  every  sentence  of  a  pre- 
cise relief,  in  the  just  spacing  out  of  word  to 
thought,  in  the  logically  filled  space  connected 
always  with  the  delightful  sense  of  difficulty 
overcome. 

Different  classes  of  persons,  at  different 
times,  make,  of  course,  very  various  demands 
upon  literature.  Still,  scholars,  I  suppose,  and 
not  only  scholars,  but  all  disinterested  lovers 
of  books,  will  always  look  to  it,  as  to  all  other 
fine  art,  for  a  refuge,  a  sort  of  cloistral  refuge, 
from  a  certain  vulgarity  in  the  actual  world. 
A  perfect  poem  like  Lycidas,  a  perfect  fiction 
like  Esmond,  the  perfect  handling  of  a  theory 
like  Newman's  Idea  of  a  University,  has  for 
them  something  of  the  uses  of  a  religious 
"retreat."  Here,  then,  with  a  view  to  the 
central  need  of  a  select  few,  those  "men  of  a 
finer  thread"  who  have  formed  and  maintained 
the  literary  ideal,  everything,  every  component 
element,  will  have  undergone  exact  trial,  and, 
above  all,  there  will  be  no  uncharacteristic 
or  tarnished  or  vulgar  decoration,  permissible 
ornament  being  for  the  most  part  structural, 


496 


WALTER   PATER 


or  necessary.  As  the  painter  in  his  picture, 
so  the  artist' in  his  book,  aims  at  the  production 
by  honourable  artifice  of  a  peculiar  atmosphere. 
"The  artist,"  says  Schiller,  "may  be  known 
rather  by  what  he  omils;"  and  in  literature,  too, 
the  true  artist  may  be  best  recognised  by  his 
tact  of  omission.  For  to  the  grave  reader 
words  too  are  grave ;  and  the  ornamental  word, 
the  figure,  the  accessory  form  or  colour  or  ref- 
erence, is  rarely  content  to  die  to  thought  pre- 
cisely at  the  right  moment,  but  will  inevita- 
bly linger  awhile,  stirring  a  long  "brain-wave" 
behind  it  of  perhaps  quite  alien  associations. 

Just  there,  it  may  be,  is  the  detrimental 
tendency  of  the  sort  of  scholarly  attentiveness 
of  rain(l  I  am  recommending.  But  the  true 
artist  allows  for  it.  He  will  remember  that,  as 
the  very  word  ornament  indicates  what  is  in 
itself  non-essential,  so  the  "one  beauty"  of  all 
literary  style  is  of  its  very  essence,  and  indepen- 
dent, in  prose  and  verse  alike,  of  all  removable 
decoration;  that  it  may  exist  in  its  fullest 
lustre,  as  in  Flaubert's  Madame  Bovary,  for 
instance,  or  in  Stendhal's  Le  Rouge  et  Le  Noir, 
in  a  composition  utterly  unadorned,  with  hardly 
a  single  suggestion  of  visibly  beautiful  things. 
Parallel,  allusion,  the  allusive  way  generally,  the 
flowers  in  the  garden:  —  he  knows  the  narcotic 
force  of  these  upon  the  negligent  intelligence  to 
which  any  diversion,  literally,  is  welcome,  any 
vagrant  intruder,  because  one  can  go  wander- 
ing away  with  it  from  the  immediate  subject. 
Jealous,  if  he  have  a  really  quickening  motive 
within,  of  all  that  does  not  hold  directly  to 
that,  of  the  facile,  the  otiose,  he  will  never 
depart  from  the  strictly  pedestrian  process,  un- 
less he  gains  a  ponderable  something  thereby. 
Even  assured  of  its  congruity,  he  will  still 
question  its  serviceableness.  Is  it  worth  while, 
can  we  afford,  to  attend  to  just  that,  to  just 
that  figure  or  literary  reference,  just  then?^ 
Surplusage  !  he  will  dread  that,  as  the  runner  on 
his  muscles.  For  in  truth  all  art  does  but 
consist  in  the  removal  of  surplusage,  from  the 
last  finish  of  the  gem-engraver  blowing  away 
the  last  particle  of  invisible  dust,  back  to  the 
earliest  divination  of  the  finished  work  to  be, 
lying  somewhere,  according  to  Michelangelo's 
fancy,  in  the  rough-hewn  block  of  stone. 

And  what  applies  to  figure  or  flower  must  be 
understood  of  all  other  accidental  or  removable 
ornaments  of  writing  whatever;  and  not  of 
specific  ornament  only,  but  of  all  that  latent 
colour  and  imagery  which  language  as  such 
carries  in  it.  A  lover  of  words  for  their  own 
sake,  to  whom  nothing  about  them  is  unimpor- 


tant, a  minute  and  constant  observer  of  their 
physiognomy,  he  will  be  on  the  alert  not  only 
for  obviously  mixed  metaphors  of  course,  but 
for  the  metaphor  that  is  mixed  in  all  our  speech, 
though  a  rapid  use  may  involve  no  cognition 
of  it.  Currently  recognising  the  incident,  the 
colour,  the  physical  elements  or  particles  in 
words  like  absorb,  consider,  extract,  to  take  the 
first  that  occur,  he  will  avail  himself  of  them, 
as  further  adding  to  the  resources  of  expression. 
The  elementary  particles  of  language  will  be 
realised  as  colour  and  light  and  shade  through 
his  scholarly  living  in  the  full  sense  of  them. 
Still  opposing  the  constant  degradation  of  lan- 
guage by  those  who  use  it  carelessly,  he  will 
not  treat  coloured  glass  as  if  it  were  clear; 
and  while  half  the  world  is  using  figure  uncon- 
sciously, will  be  fully  aware  not  only  of  all  that 
latent  figurative  texture  in  speech,  but  of  the 
vague,  lazy,  half-formed  personification  —  a 
rhetoric,  depressing,  and  worse  than  nothing, 
because  it  has  no  really  rhetorical  motive  — 
which  plays  so  large  a  part  there,  and,  as  in 
the  case  of  more  ostentatious  ornament,  scru- 
pulously exact  of  it,  from  syllable  to  syllable, 
its  precise  value. 

So  far  I  have  been  speaking  of  certain  con- 
ditions of  the  literary  art  arising  out  of  the  me- 
dium or  material  in  or  upon  which  it  works, 
the  essential  qualities  of  language  and  its 
aptitudes  for  contingent  ornamentation,  mat- 
ters which  define  scholarship  as  science  and 
good  taste  respectively.  They  are  both  subser- 
vient to  a  more  intimate  quality  of  good  style: 
more  intimate,  as  coming  nearer  to  the  artist 
himself.  The  otiose,  the  facile,  surplusage: 
why  are  these  abhorrent  to  the  true  literary 
artist,  except  because,  in  literary  as  in  all 
other  art,  structure  is  all-important,  felt,  or 
painfully  missed,  everywhere  ?  —  that  archi- 
tectural conception  of  work,  which  foresees  the 
end  in  the  beginning  and  never  loses  sight  of 
it,  and  in  every  part  is  conscious  of  all  the  rest, 
till  the  last  sentence  does  but,  with  undimin- 
ished vigour,  unfold  and  justify  the  first  — 
a  condition  of  literary  art,  which,  in  contra- 
distinction to  another  quality  of  the  artist  him- 
self, to  be  spoken  of  later,  I  shall  call  the 
necessity  of  mind  in  style. 

An  acute  philosophical  writer,  the  late  Dean 
Mansel  (a  writer  whose  works  illustrate  the 
literary  beauty  there  may  be  in  closeness, 
and  with  obvious  repression  or  economy  of  a 
fine  rhetorical  gift)  wrote  a  book,  of  fascinating 
precision  in  a  very  obscure  subject,  to  show  that 
all  the  technical  laws  of  logic  are  but  means  of 


STYLE 


497 


securing,  in  each  and  all  of  its  apprehensions, 
the  unity,  the  strict  identity  with  itself,  of  the 
apprehending  mind.  All  the  laws  of  good 
writing  aim  at  a  similar  unity  or  identity  of  the 
mind  in  all  the  processes  by  which  the  word  is 
associated  to  its  import.  The  term  is  right, 
and  has  its  essential  beauty,  when  it  becomes, 
in  a  manner,  what  it  signifies,  as  with  the  names 
of  simple  sensations.  To  give  the  phrase,  the 
sentence,  the  structural  member,  the  entire 
composition,  song,  or  essay,  a  similar  unity 
with  its  subject  and  with  itself:  —  style  is  in 
the  right  way  when  it  tends  towards  that.  All 
depends  upon  the  original  unity,  the  vital 
wholeness  and  identity,  of  the  initiatory  ap- 
prehension or  view.  So  much  is  true  of  all 
art,  which  therefore  requires  always  its  logic, 
its  comprehensive  reason  —  insight,  foresight, 
retrospect,  in  simultaneous  action  —  true,  most 
of  all,  of  the  literary  art,  as  being  of  all  the  arts 
most  closely  cognate  to  the  abstract  intelli- 
gence. Such  logical  coherency  may  be  evi- 
denced not  merely  in  the  lines  of  composition  as 
a  whole,  but  in  the  choice  of  a  single  word, 
while  it  by  no  means  interferes  with,  but  may 
even  prescribe,  much  variety,  in  the  building  of 
the  sentence  for  instance,  or  in  the  manner,  ar- 
gumentative, descriptive,  discursive,  of  this  or 
that  part  or  member  of  the  entire  design. 
The  blithe,  crisp  sentence,  decisive  as  a  child's 
expression  of  its  needs,  may  alternate  with  the 
long-contending,  victoriously  intricate  sentence; 
the  sentence,  born  with  the  integrity  of  a  single 
word,  relieving  the  sort  of  sentence  in  which, 
if  you  look  closely,  you  can  see  much  con- 
trivance, much  adjustment,  to  bring  a  highly 
qualified  matter  into  compass  at  one  view. 
For  the  literary  architecture,  if  it  is  to  be  rich 
and  expressive,  involves  not  only  foresight  of 
the  end  in  the  beginning,  but  also  development 
or  growth  of  design,  in  the  process  of  execution, 
with  many  irregularities,  surprises,  and  after- 
thoughts; the  contingent  as  well  as  the  neces- 
sary being  subsumed  under  the  unity  of  the 
whole.  As  truly,  to  the  lack  of  such  architect- 
ural design,  of  a  single,  almost  visual,  image, 
vigorously  informing  an  entire,  perhaps  very 
intricate,  composition,  which  shall  be  austere, 
ornate,  argumentative,  fanciful,  yet  true  from 
first  to  last  to  that  vision  within,  may  be  at- 
tributed those  weaknesses  of  conscious  or  un- 
conscious repetition  of  word,  phrase,  motive, 
or  member  of  the  whole  matter,  indicating,  as 
Flaubert  was  aware,  an  original  structure  in 
thought  not  organically  complete.  With  such 
foresight,  the  actual  conclusion  will  most  often 


get  itself  written  out  of  hand,  before,  in  the 
more  obvious  sense,  the  work  is  finished.  With 
some  strong  and  leading  sense  of  the  world, 
the  tight  hold  of  which  secures  true  composi- 
tion and  not  mere  loose  accretion,  the  literary 
artist,  I  suppose,  goes  on  considerately,  setting 
joint  to  joint,  sustained  by  yet  restraining  the 
productive  ardour,  retracing  the  negligences  of 
his  first  sketch,  repeating  his  steps  only  that 
he  may  give  the  reader  a  sense  of  secure  and 
restful  progress,  readjusting  mere  assonances 
even,  that  they  may  soothe  the  reader,  or  at 
least  not  interrupt  him  on  his  way;  and  then, 
somewhere  before  the  end  comes,  is  burdened, 
inspired,  with  his  conclusion,  and  betimes  de- 
livered of  it,  leaving  off,  not  in  weariness  and 
because  he  finds  himself  at  an  end,  but  in  all  the 
freshness  of  volition.  His  work  now  structurally 
complete,  with  all  the  accumulating  effect  of 
secondary  shades  of  meaning,  he  finishes  the 
whole  up  to  the  just  proportion  of  that  ante- 
penultimate conclusion,  and  all  becomes  ex- 
pressive. The  house  he  has  built  is  rather  a 
body  he  has  informed.  And  so  it  happens,  to 
its  greater  credit,  that  the  better  interest  even 
of  a  narrative  to  be  recounted,  a  story  to  be 
told,  will  often  be  in  its  second  reading.  And 
though  there  are  instances  of  great  writers  who 
have  been  no  artists,  an  unconscious  tact  some- 
times directing  work  in  which  we  may  detect, 
very  pleasurably,  many  of  the  effects  of  con- 
scious art,  yet  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures 
of  really  good  prose  literature  is  in  the  critical 
tracing  out  of  that  conscious  artistic  structure, 
and  the  pervading  sense  of  it  as  we  read.  Yet 
of  poetic  literature  too;  for,  in  truth,  the  kind 
of  constructive  intelligence  here  supposed  is  one 
of  the  forms  of  the  imagination. 

That  is  the  special  function  of  mind,  in  style. 
Mind  and  soul,  —  hard  to  ascertain  philo- 
sophically, the  distinction  is  real  enough  prac- 
tically, for  they  often  interfere,  are  sometimes 
in  conflict,  with  each  other.  Blake,  in  the  last 
century,  is  an  instance  of  preponderating  soul, 
embarrassed,  at  a  loss,  in  an  era  of  preponderat- 
ing mind.  As  a  quality  of  style,  at  all  events, 
soul  is  a  fact,  in  certain  writers  —  the  way  they 
have  of  absorbing  language,  of  attracting  it  into 
the  peculiar  spirit  they  are  of,  with  a  subtlety 
which  makes  the  actual  result  seem  like  some 
inexplicable  inspiration.  By  mind,  the  liter- 
ary artist  reaches  us,  through  static  and  ob- 
jective indications  of  design  in  his  work,  legi- 
ble to  all.  By  soul,  he  reaches  us,  somewhat 
capriciously  perhaps,  one  and  not  another, 
through    vagrant    sympathy    and    a    kind    of 


498 


WALTER    PATER 


immediate  contact.  Mind  we  cannot  choose  but 
api)rove  where  we  recognise  it;  soul  may  repel 
us,  not  because  we  misunderstand  it.  The  way 
in  which  theological  interests  sometimes  avail 
themselves  of  language  is  perhaps  the  best 
illustration  of  the  force  I  mean  to  indicate  gen- 
erally in  literature,  by  the  word  soid.  Ardent 
religious  persuasion  may  exist,  may  make  its 
way,  without  finding  any  equivalent  heat  in 
language:  or,  again,  it  may  enkindle  words  to 
various  degrees,  and  when  it  really  takes  hold 
of  them  doubles  its  force.  Religious  history 
presents  many  remarkable  instances  in  which, 
through  no  mere  phrase-worship,  an  uncon- 
scious literary  tact  has,  for  the  sensitive,  laid 
open  a  privileged  pathway  from  one  to  another. 
"The  altar-fire,"  people  say,  "has  touched 
tiiose  lips!"  The  Vulgate,  the  English  Bible, 
the  English  Prayer-Book,  the  writings  of  Swe- 
denborg,  the  Tracts  for  the  Times:  —  there,  we 
have  instances  of  widely  different  and  largely 
dilTuscd  phases  of  religious  feeling  in  operation 
as  soul  in  style.  But  something  of  the  same 
kind  acts  with  similar  power  in  certain  writers 
of  quite  other  than  theological  literature,  on 
behalf  of  some  wholly  personal  and  peculiar 
sense  of  theirs.  Most  easily  illustrated  by 
theological  literature,  this  quality  lends  to 
profane  writers  a  kind  of  religious  influence. 
At  their  best,  these  writers  become,  as  we  say 
sometimes,  "prophets";  such  character  de- 
pending on  the  effect  not  merely  of  their  matter, 
but  of  their  matter  as  allied  to,  in  "electric 
affinity"  with,  peculiar  form,  and  working  in 
all  cases  by  an  immediate  sympathetic  contact, 
on  which  account  it  is  that  it  may  be  called 
soul,  as  opposed  to  mind,  in  style.  And  this 
too  is  a  faculty  of  choosing  and  rejecting  what  is 
congruous  or  otherwise,  with  a  drift  towards 
unity  —  unity  of  atmosphere  here,  as  there  of 
design  —  soul  securing  colour  (or  perfume, 
might  we  say?)  as  mind  secures  form,  the  latter 
being  essentially  finite,  the  former  vague  or 
infinite,  as  the  influence  of  a  living  person  is 
practically  infinite.  There  are  some  to  whom 
nothing  has  any  real  interest,  or  real  meaning, 
e.xcept  as  operative  in  a  given  person;  and  it 
is  they  who  best  appreciate  the  quality  of  soul 
in  literary  art.  They  seem  to  know  a  person, 
in  a  book,  and  make  way  by  intuition:  yet, 
although  they  thus  enjoy  the  completeness  of 
a  personal  information,  it  is  still  a  character- 
istic of  soul,  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  that  it 
does  but  suggest  what  can  never  be  uttered, 
not  as  being  difTerent  from,  or  more  obscure 
than,  what  actually  gets  said,  but  as  containing 


that  plenary  substance  of  which  there  is  only 
one  phase  or  facet  in  what  is  there  expressed. 

If  all  high  things  have  their  martyrs,  Gustave 
Flaubert  might  perhaps  rank  as  the  martyr  of 
literary  style.  In  his  printed  correspondence, 
a  curious  series  of  letters,  written  in  his  twenty- 
fifth  year,  records  what  seems  to  have  been  his 
one  other  passion  —  a  series  of  letters  which, 
with  its  fine  casuistries,  its  firmly  repressed 
anguish,  its  tone  of  harmonious  gray,  and  the 
sense  of  disillusion  in  which  the  whole  matter 
ends,  might  have  been,  a  few  slight  changes  sup- 
posed, one  of  his  own  fictions.  Writing  to 
Madame  X.  certainly  he  does  display,  by 
"taking  thought"  mainly,  by  constant  and 
delicate  pondering,  as  in  his  love  for  literature, 
a  heart  really  moved,  but  still  more,  and  as  the 
pledge  of  that  emotion,  a  loyalty  to  his  work. 
Madame  X.,  too,  is  a  literary  artist,  and  the 
best  gifts  he  can  send  her  are  precepts  of  per- 
fection in  art,  counsels  for  the  effectual  pursuit 
of  that  better  love.  In  his  love-letters  it  is 
the  pains  and  pleasures  of  art  he  insists  on,  its 
solaces:  he  communicates  secrets,  reproves, 
encourages,  with  a  view  to  that.  Whether  the 
lady  was  dissatisfied  with  such  divided  or 
indirect  service,  the  reader  is  not  enabled  to 
see ;  but  sees  that,  on  Flaubert's  part  at  least, 
a  living  person  could  be  no  rival  of  what  was, 
from  first  to  last,  his  leading  passion,  a  some- 
what solitary  and  exclusive  one. 

"I  must  scold  you,"  he  writes,  "for  one  thing, 
which  shocks,  scandalises  me,  the  small  con- 
cern, namely,  you  show  for  art  just  now. 
As  regards  glory  be  it  so:  there,  I  approve. 
But  for  art !  —  the  one  thing  in  life  that  is  good 
and  real  —  can  you  compare  with  it  an  earthly 
love?  —  prefer  the  adoration  of  a  relative  beauty 
to  the  culliis  of  the  true  beauty?  Well!  I  tell 
you  the  truth.  That  is  the  one  thing  good  in 
me:  the  one  thing  I  have,  to  me  estimable. 
For  yourself,  you  blend  with  the  beautiful 
a  heap  of  alien  things,  the  useful,  the  agree- 
able, what  not?  — 

"The  only  way  not  to  be  unhappy  is  to  shut 
yourself  up  in  art,  and  count  everything  else  as 
nothing.  Pride  takes  the  place  of  all  beside 
when  it  is  established  on  a  large  basis.  Work ! 
God  wills  it.     That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  clear.  — • 

"I  am  reading  over  again  the  ALneid,  certain 
verses  of  which  I  repeat  to  myself  to  satiety. 
There  are  phrases  there  which  stay  in  one's 
head,  by  which  I  find  myself  beset,  as  with 
those  musical  airs  which  are  forever  returning, 
and  cause  you  pain,  you  love  them  so  much. 
I  observe  that  I  no  longer  laugh  much,  and 


STYLE 


499 


am  no  longer  depressed.  I  am  ripe.  You  talk 
of  my  serenity,  and  envy  me.  It  may  well 
surprise  you.  Sick,  irritated,  the  prey  a  thou- 
sand times  a  day  of  cruel  pain,  I  continue  my 
labour  like  a  true  working-man,  who,  with 
sleeves  turned  up,  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow, 
beats  away  at  his  anvil,  never  troubling  him- 
self whether  it  rainsor  blows,  for  hail  or  thunder. 
I  was  not  like  that  formerly.  The  change  has 
taken  place  naturally,  though  my  will  has 
counted  for  something  in  the  matter.  — 

"Those  who  write  in  good  style  are  some- 
times accused  of  a  neglect  of  ideas,  and  of  the 
moral  end,  as  if  the  end  of  the  physician  were 
something  else  than  healing,  of  the  painter 
than  painting  —  as  if  the  end  of  art  were  not, 
before  all  else,  the  beautiful." 

What,  then,  did  Flaubert  understand  by 
beauty,  in  the  art  he  pursued  with  so  much 
fervour,  with  so  much  self-command?  Let  us 
hear  a  sympathetic  commentator:  — 

"Possessed  of  an  absolute  belief  that  there 
exists  but  one  way  of  expressing  one  thing,  one 
word  to  call  it  by,  one  adjective  to  qualify, 
one  verb  to  animate  it,  he  gave  himself  to  super- 
human labour  for  the  discovery,  in  every  phrase, 
of  that  word,  that  verb,  that  epithet.  In  this 
way,  he  believed  in  some  mysterious  harmony 
of  expression,  and  when  a  true  word  seemed 
to  him  to  lack  euphony  still  went  on  seeking 
another,  with  invincible  patience,  certain  that 
he  had  not  yet  got  hold  of  the  zozw/i/e  word.  .  .  . 
A  thousand  preoccupations  would  beset  him  at 
the  same  moment,  always  with  this  desperate 
certitude  fixed  in  his  spirit:  Among  all  the 
expressions  in  the  world,  all  forms  and  turns 
of  expression,  there  is  but  one  —  one  form, 
one  mode  —  to  express  what  I  want  to 
say." 

The  one  word  for  the  one  thing,  the  one 
thought,  amid  the  multitude  of  words,  terms, 
that  might  just  do:  the  problem  of  style  was 
there !  —  the  unique  word,  phrase,  sentence, 
paragraph,  essay,  or  song,  absolutely  proper 
to  the  single  mental  presentation  or  vision 
within.  In  that  perfect  justice,  over  and  above 
the  many  contingent  and  removable  beauties 
with  which  beautiful  style  may  charm  us,  but 
which  it  can  exist  without,  independent  of  them 
yet  dexterously  availing  itself  of  them,  omni- 
present in  good  work,  in  function  at  every 
point,  from  single  epithets  to  the  rhythm  of  a 
whole  book,  lay  the  specific,  indispensable, 
very  intellectual,  beauty  of  literature,  the  pos- 
sibility of  which  constitutes  it  a  fine  art. 

One  seems  to  detect  the  influence  of  a  philo- 


sophic idea  there,  the  idea  of  a  natural  economy, 
of  some  preexistent  ada])tation,  between  a  rel- 
ative, somewhere  in  the  world  of  thought,  and 
its  correlative,  somewhere  in  the  world  of 
language  —  both  alike,  rather,  somewhere  in 
the  mind  of  the  artist,  desiderative,  expectant, 
inventive  —  meeting  each  other  with  the  readi- 
ness of  "soul  and  body  reunited,"  in  Blake's 
rapturous  design ;  and,  in  fact,  Flaubert  was 
fond  of  giving  his  theory  philosophical  expres- 
sion. 

"There  are  no  beautiful  thoughts,"  he  would 
say,  "without  beautiful  forms,  and  conversely. 
As  it  is  impossible  to  extract  from  a  physical 
body  the  qualities  which  really  constitute  it 
—  colour,  extension,  and  the  like  —  without 
reducing  it  to  a  hollow  abstraction,  in  a  word, 
without  destroying  it;  just  so  it  is  impossible 
to  detach  the  form  from  the  idea,  for  the  idea 
only  exists  by  virtue  of  the  form." 

AH  the  recognised  flowers,  the  removable 
ornaments  of  literature  (including  harmony 
and  ease  in  reading  aloud,  very  carefully  con- 
sidered by  him)  counted  certainly;  for  these  too 
are  part  of  the  actual  value  of  what  one  says. 
But  still,  after  all,  with  Flaubert,  the  search,  the 
unwearied  research,  was  not  for  the  smooth, 
or  winsome,  or  forcible  word,  as  such,  as  with 
false  Ciceronians,  but  quite  simply  and  honestly 
for  the  word's  adjustment  to  its  meaning.  The 
first  condition  of  this  must  be,  of  course,  to 
know  yourself,  to  have  ascertained  your  own 
sense  exactly.  Then,  if  we  suppose  an  artist, 
he  says  to  the  reader,  —  I  want  you  to  see 
precisely  what  I  see.  Into  the  mind  sensitive 
to  "  form,"  a  flood  of  random  sounds,  colours, 
incidents,  is  ever  penetrating  from  the  world 
without,  to  become,  by  sympathetic  selection, 
a  part  of  its  very  structure,  and,  in  turn,  the 
visible  vesture  and  expression  of  that  other 
world  it  sees  so  steadily  within,  nay,  already 
with  a  partial  conformity  thereto,  to  be  refined, 
enlarged,  corrected,  at  a  hundred  points;  and 
it  is  just  there,  just  at  those  doubtful  points 
that  the  function  of  style,  as  tact  or  taste, 
intervenes.  The  unique  term  will  come  more 
quickly  to  one  than  another,  at  one  time  than 
another,  according  also  to  the  kind  of  matter 
in  question.  Quickness  and  slowness,  ease  and 
closeness  alike,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
artistic  character  of  the  true  word  found  at  last. 
As  there  is  a  charm  of  ease,  so  there  is  also  a 
special  charm  in  the  signs  of  discovery,  of  effort 
and  contention  towards  a  due  end,  as  so  often 
with  Flaubert  himself  —  in  the  style  which 
has   been    pliant,    as   only   obstinate,    durable 


500 


WALTER    PATER 


metal  can  be,  to  the  inherent  perplexities  and 
recusancy  of  a  certain  difficult  thought. 

If  Flaubert  had  not  told  us,  perhaps  we  should 
never  have  guessed  how  tardy  and  painful  his 
own  procedure  really  was,  and  after  reading 
his  confession  may  think  that  his  almost  endless 
hesitation  had  much  to  do  with  diseased  nerves. 
Often,  jierhaps,  the  felicity  supposed  will  be  the 
product  of  a  happier,  a  more  exuberant  nature 
than  Flaubert's.  Aggravated,  certainly,  by  a 
morbid  physical  condition,  that  anxiety  in 
"seeking  the  phrase,"  which  gathered  all  the 
other  small  enmiis  of  a  really  quiet  existence 
into  a  kind  of  battle,  was  connected  with  his 
lifelong  contention  against  facile  poetry,  facile 
art  —  art,  facile  and  flimsy ;  and  what  con- 
stitutes the  true  artist  is  not  the  slowness  or 
quickness  of  the  process,  but  the  absolute 
success  of  the  result.  As  with  those  labourers 
in  the  parable,  the  prize  is  independent  of  the 
mere  length  of  the  actual  day's  work.  "You 
talk,"  he  writes,  odd,  trying  lover,  to  Madame 
X. — 

"You  talk  of  the  exclusiveness  of  my  literary 
tastes.  That  might  have  enabled  you  to  divine 
what  kind  of  a  person  I  am  in  the  matter  of 
love.  I  grow  so  hard  to  please  as  a  literary 
artist,  that  I  am  driven  to  despair.  I  shall  end 
by  not  writing  another  line." 

"Happy,"  he  cries,  in  a  moment  of  discourage- 
ment at  that  patient  labour,  which  for  him,  cer- 
tainly, was  the  condition  of  a  great  success  — 

"Happy  those  who  have  no  doubts  of  them- 
selves! who  lengthen  out,  as  the  pen  runs  on, 
all  that  flows  forth  from  their  brains.  As 
for  me,  I  hesitate,  I  disappoint  myself,  turn 
round  upon  myself  in  despite:  my  taste  is 
augmented  in  proportion  as  my  natural  vigour 
decreases,  and  I  afflict  my  soul  over  some  dubi- 
ous word  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  pleasure 
I  get  from  a  whole  page  of  good  writing.  One 
would  have  to  live  two  centuries  to  attain  a  true 
idea  of  any  matter  whatever.  What  Buffon 
said  is  a  big  blasphemy:  genius  is  not  long- 
continued  patience.  Still,  there  is  some 
truth  in  the  statement,  and  more  than  peoi)le 
think,  especially  as  regards  our  own  day. 
Art !  art !  art !  bitter  deception !  phantom 
that  glows  with  light,  only  to  lead  one  on  to 
destruction." 

Again  — 

"I  am  growing  so  peevish  about  my  writing. 
I  am  like  a  man  whose  ear  is  true  but  who  plays 
falsely  on  the  violin:  his  fingers  refuse  to  re- 
produce precisely  those  sounds  of  which  he  has 
the  inward  sense.     Then  the  tears  come  rollinc' 


down  from  the  poor  scraper's  eyes  and  the 
bow  falls  from  his  hand." 

Coming  slowly  or  quickly,  when  it  comes,  as 
it  came  with  so  much  labour  of  mind,  but  also 
with  so  much  lustre,  to  Gustave  Flaubert, 
this  discovery  of  the  word  will  be,  like  all 
artistic  success  and  felicity,  incapable  of  strict 
analysis:  effect  of  an  intuitive  condition  of  mind, 
it  must  be  recognised  by  like  intuition  on  the 
])art  of  the  reader,  and  a  sort  of  immediate 
sense.  In  every  one  of  those  masterly  sentences 
of  Flaubert  there  was,  below  all  mere  contriv- 
ance, shaping  and  afterthought,  by  some 
happy  instantaneous  concourse  of  the  various 
faculties  of  the  mind  with  each  other,  the  exact 
apprehension  of  what  was  needed  to  carry  the 
meaning.  And  that  it  fits  with  absolute  justice 
will  be  a  judgment  of  immediate  sense  in  the 
appreciative  reader.  We  all  feel  this  in  what 
may  be  called  inspired  translation.  Well ! 
all  language  involves  translation  from  inward 
to  outward.  In  literature,  as  in  all  forms  of 
art,  there  are  the  absolute  and  the  merely  rel- 
ative or  accessory  beauties;  and  precisely  in 
that  exact  proportion  of  the  term  to  its  purpose 
is  the  absolute  beauty  of  style,  prose  or  verse. 
All  the  good  qualities,  the  beauties,  of  verse 
also,  are  such,  only  as  precise  expression. 

In  the  highest  as  in  the  lowliest  literature, 
then,  the  one  indispensable  beauty  is,  after  all, 
truth :  —  truth  to  bare  fact  in  the  latter,  as  to 
some  personal  sense  of  fact,  diverted  somewhat 
from  men's  ordinary  sense  of  it,  in  the  former; 
truth  there  as  accuracy,  truth  here  as  expres- 
sion, that  finest  and  most  intimate  form  of 
truth,  the  vraie  vcrite.  And  what  an  eclectic 
principle  this  really  is!  employing  for  its  one 
sole  purpose  —  that  absolute  accordance  of 
expression  to  idea  —  all  other  literary  beauties 
and  excellences  whatever:  how  many  kinds  of 
style  it  covers,  explains,  justifies,  and  at  the 
same  time  safeguards !  Scott's  facility,  Flau- 
bert's deeply  pondered  evocation  of  "the 
phrase,"  are  equally  good  art.  Say  what  you 
have  to  say,  what  you  have  a  will  to  say,  in  the 
simplest,  the  most  direct  and  exact  manner 
possible,  with  no  surplusage:  —  there,  is  the 
justification  of  the  sentence  so  fortunately 
born,  "entire,  smooth,  and  round,"  that  it 
needs  no  punctuation,  and  also  (that  is  the 
point !)  of  the  most  elaborate  period,  if  it  be 
right  in  its  elaboration.  Here  is  the  oflice  of 
ornament:  here  also  the  purpose  of  restraint 
in  ornament.  As  the  exponent  of  truth,  that 
austerity  (the  beauty,  the  function,  of  which  in 
literature  Flaubert  understood  so  well)  becomes 


STYLE 


501 


not  the  correctness  or  purism  of  the  mere 
scholar,  but  a  security  against  the  otiose,  a 
jealous  exclusion  of  what  does  not  really  tell 
towards  the  pursuit  of  relief,  of  life  and  vigour 
in  the  portraiture  of  one's  sense.  License  again, 
the  making  free  with  rule,  if  it  be  indeed,  as 
people  fancy,  a  habit  of  genius,  flinging  aside 
or  transforming  all  that  opposes  the  liberty  of 
beautiful  production,  will  be  but  faith  to  one's 
own  meaning.  The  seeming  baldness  of 
Le  Rouge  ct  Le  Noir  is  nothing  in  itself;  the 
wild  ornament  of  Les  Miserahles  is  nothing 
in  itself;  and  the  restraint  of  Flaubert,  amid  a 
real  natural  opulence,  only  redoubled  beauty  — 
the  phrase  so  large  and  so  precise  at  the  same 
time,  hard  as  bronze,  in  service  to  the  more 
perfect  adaptation  of  words  to  their  matter. 
Afterthoughts,  retouchings,  finish,  will  be  of 
profit  only  so  far  as  they  too  really  serve  to 
bring  out  the  original,  initiative,  generative, 
sense  in  them. 

In  this  way,  according  to  the  well-known 
saying,  "The  style  is  the  man,"  complex  or 
simple,  in  his  individuality,  his  plenary  sense  of 
what  he  really  has  to  say,  his  sense  of  the  world ; 
all  cautions  regarding  style  arising  out  of  so 
many  natural  scruples  as  to  the  medium  through 
which  alone  he  can  expose  that  inward  sense  of 
things,  the  purity  of  this  medium,  its  laws  or 
tricks  of  refraction:  nothing  is  to  be  left  there 
which  might  give  conveyance  to  any  matter 
save  that.  Style  in  all  its  varieties,  reserved 
or  opulent,  terse,  abundant,  musical,  stimulant, 
academic,  so  long  as  each  is  really  character- 
istic or  expressive,  finds  thus  its  justification, 
the  sumptuous  good  taste  of  Cicero  being  as 
truly  the  man  himself,  and  not  another,  justi- 
fied, yet  insured  inalienably  to  him,  thereby, 
as  would  have  been  his  portrait  by  Raffaelle, 
in  full  consular  splendour,  on  his  ivory 
chair. 

A  relegation,  you  may  say  perhaps  —  a  rele- 
gation of  style  to  the  subjectivity,  the  mere 
caprice,  of  the  individual,  which  must  soon 
transform  it  into  mannerism.  Not  so !  since 
there  is,  under  the  conditions  supposed,  for 
those  elements  of  the  man,  for  every  lineament 
of  the  vision  within,  the  one  word,  the  one 
acceptable  word,  recognisable  by  the  sensitive, 
by  others  "who  have  intelligence"  in  the 
matter,  as  absolutely  as  ever  anything  can  be 
in  the  evanescent  and  delicate  region  of  human 
language.  The  style,  the  manner,  would  be  the 
man,  not  in  his  unreasoned  and  really  unchar- 
acteristic caprices,  involuntary  or  aft'ected,  but 
in   absolutely   sincere   apprehension    of   what 


is  most  real  to  him.  But  let  us  hear  our  French 
guide  again.  — 

"Styles,"  says  Flaubert's  commentator, 
"Styles,  as  so  many  peculiar  moulds,  each  of 
which  bears  the  mark  of  a  particular  writer, 
who  is  to  pour  into  it  the  whole  content  of  his 
ideas,  were  no  part  of  his  theory.  What  he 
believed  in  was  Style:  that  is  to  say,  a  certain 
absolute  and  unique  manner  of  expressing  a 
thing,  in  all  its  intensity  and  colour.  For  him 
the  form  was  the  work  itself.  As  in  living 
creatures,  the  blood,  nourishing  the  body, 
determines  its  very  contour  and  external 
aspect,  just  so,  to  his  mind,  the  matter,  the  ba- 
sis, in  a  work  of  art,  imposed,  necessarily,  the 
unique,  the  just  expression,  the  measure,  the 
rhythm  —  the  form  in  all  its  characteristics." 

If  the  style  be  the  man,  in  all  the  colour  and 
intensity  of  a  veritable  apprehension,  it  will  be 
in  a  real  sense  "impersonal." 

I  said,  thinking  of  books  like  Victor  Hugo's 
Les  Miserables,  that  prose  literature  was  the 
characteristic  art  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
as  others,  thinking  of  its  triumphs  since  the 
youth  of  Bach,  have  assigned  that  place  to 
music.  Music  and  prose  literature  are,  in  one 
sense,  the  opposite  terms  of  art ;  the  art  of  lit- 
erature presenting  to  the  imagination,  through 
the  intelligence,  a  range  of  interests,  as  free 
and  various  as  those  which  music  presents  to 
it  through  sense.  And  certainly  the  tendency 
of  what  has  been  here  said  is  to  bring  literature 
too  under  those  conditions,  by  conformity  to 
which  music  takes  rank  as  the  typically  perfect 
art.  If  music  be  the  ideal  of  all  art  whatever, 
precisely  because  in  music  it  is  impossible  to 
distinguish  the  form  from  the  substance  or 
matter,  the  subject  from  the  expression,  then, 
literature,  by  finding  its  specific  excellence  in 
the  absolute  correspondence  of  the  term  to  its 
import,  will  be  but  fulfilling  the  condition  of 
all  artistic  quality  in  things  everywhere,  of  all 
good  art. 

Good  art,  but  not  necessarily  great  art;  the 
distinction  between  great  art  and  good  art 
depending  immediately,  as  regards  literature  at 
all  events,  not  on  its  form,  but  on  the  matter. 
Thackeray's  Esmond,  surely,  is  greater  art 
than  Vanity  Fair,  by  the  greater  dignity  of  its 
interests.  It  is  on  the  quality  of  the  matter 
it  informs  or  controls,  its  compass,  its  variety, 
its  alliance  to  great  ends,  or  the  depth  of  the 
note  of  revolt,  or  the  largeness  of  hope  in  it, 
that  the  greatness  of  literary  art  depends,  as 
The  Divine  Comedy,  Paradise  Lost,  Les  Mise- 
rables, The  English  Bible,  are  great  art.     Given 


502 


WALTER  PATER 


the  conditions  I  have  tried  to  explain  as  con- 
stituting good  art;  —  then,  if  it  be  devoted 
further  to  the  increase  of  men's  happiness,  to 
the  redemption  of  the  oppressed,  or  the  en- 
largement of  our  sympathies  with  each  other, 
or  to  such  presentment  of  new  or  old  truth 
about  ourselves  and  our  relation  to  the  vsrorld 
as  may  ennoble  and  fortify  us  in  our  sojourn 
here,  or  immediately,  as  with  Dante,  to  the 
glory  of  God,  it  will  be  also  great  art ;  if,  over 
and  above  those  qualities  I  summed  up  as 
mind  and  soul  —  that  colour  and  mystic  per- 
fume, and  that  reasonable  structure,  it  has 
something  of  the  soul  of  humanity  in  it,  and 
finds  its  logical,  its  architectural  place,  in  the 
great  structure  of  human  life. 

THE   CHILD   IN   THE   HOUSE 

As  Florian  Deleal  walked,  one  hot  after- 
noon, he  overtook  by  the  wayside  a  poor  aged 
man,  and,  as  he  seemed  weary  with  the  road, 
helped  him  on  with  the  burden  which  he 
carried,  a  certain  distance.  And  as  the  man 
told  his  story,  it  chanced  that  he  named  the 
place,  a  little  place  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a 
great  city,  where  Florian  had  passed  his  earliest 
years,  but  which  he  had  never  since  seen,  and, 
the  story  told,  went  forward  on  his  journey 
comforted.  And  that  night,  like  a  reward  for 
his  pity,  a  dream  of  that  place  came  to  Florian, 
a  dream  which  did  for  him  the  office  of  the 
finer  sort  of  memory,  bringing  its  object  to 
mind  with  a  great  clearness,  yet,  as  sometimes 
happens  in  dreams,  raised  a  little  above  itself, 
and  above  ordinary  retrospect.  The  true  as- 
pect of  the  place,  especially  of  the  house  there 
in  which  he  had  lived  as  a  child,  the  fashion 
of  its  doors,  its  hearths,  its  windows,  the  very 
scent  upon  the  air  of  it,  was  with  him  in  sleep 
for  a  season;  only,  with  tints  more  musically 
blent  on  wall  and  floor,  and  some  finer  light 
and  shadow  running  in  and  out  along  its 
curves  and  angles,  and  with  all  its  little  carv- 
ings daintier.  He  awoke  with  a  sigh  at  the 
thought  of  almost  thirty  years  which  lay  be- 
tween him  and  that  place,  yet  with  a  flutter 
of  pleasure  still  within  him  at  the  fair  light,  as 
if  it  were  a  smile,  upon  it.  And  it  happened 
that  this  accident  of  his  dream  was  just  the 
thing  needed  for  the  beginning  of  a  certain 
design  he  then  had  in  view,  the  noting,  namely, 
of  some  things  in  the  story  of  his  spirit  —  in 
that  process  of  brain -building  by  which  we 
are,  each  one  of  us,  what  we  are.  With  the 
image  of  the   place  so  clear  and  favourable 


upon  him,  he  fell  to  thinking  of  himself  therein, 
and  how  his  thoughts  had  grown  up  to  him. 
In  that  half-spiritualised  house  he  could 
watch  the  better,  over  again,  the  gradual 
expansion  of  the  soul  which  had  come  to  be 
there  —  of  which  indeed,  through  the  law 
which  makes  the  material  objects  about  them 
so  large  an  element  in  children's  lives,  it  had 
actually  become  a  part;  inward  and  outward 
being  woven  through  and  through  each  other 
into  one  inextricable  texture  —  half,  tint  and 
trace  and  accident  of  homely  colour  and  form, 
from  the  wood  and  the  bricks;  half,  mere 
soul-stuff,  floated  thither  from  who  knows  how 
far.  In  the  house  and  garden  of  his  dream 
he  saw  a  child  moving,  and  could  divide  the 
main  streams  at  least  of  the  winds  that  had 
played  on  him,  and  study  so  the  first  stage  in 
that  mental  journey. 

The  old  house,  as  when  Florian  talked  of  it 
afterwards  he  always  called  it  (as  all  children 
do,  who  can  recollect  a  change  of  home,  soon 
enough  but  not  too  soon  to  mark  a  period  in 
their  lives),  really  was  an  old  house;  and  an 
element  of  French  descent  in  its  inmates  — 
descent  from  Watteau,  the  old  court-painter, 
one  of  whose  gallant  pieces  still  hung  in  one 
of  the  rooms  —  might  explain,  together  with 
some  other  things,  a  noticeable  trimness  and 
comely  whiteness  about  everything  there  —  the 
curtains,  the  couches,  the  paint  on  the  walls 
with  which  the  light  and  shadow  played  so 
delicately;  might  explain  also  the  tolerance  of 
the  great  poplar  in  the  garden,  a  tree  most 
often  despised  by  English  people,  but  which 
French  people  love,  having  observed  a  certain 
fresh  way  its  leaves  have  of  dealing  with  the 
wind,  making  it  sound,  in  never  so  slight  a 
stirring  of  the  air,  like  running  water. 

The  old-fashioned,  low  wainscoting  went 
round  the  rooms,  and  up  the  staircase  with 
carved  balusters  and  shadowy  angles,  landing 
half-way  up  at  a  broad  window,  with  a  swallow's 
nest  below  the  sill,  and  the  blossom  of  an  old 
pear-tree  showing  across  it  in  late  April,  against 
the  blue,  below  which  the  perfumed  juice  of 
the  find  of  fallen  fruit  in  autumn  was  so  fresh. 
At  the  next  turning  came  the  closet  which 
held  on  its  deep  shelves  the  best  china.  Little 
angel  faces  and  reedy  flutings  stood  out  round 
the  fireplace  of  the  children's  room.  And  on 
the  top  of  the  house,  above  the  large  attic, 
where  the  white  mice  ran  in  the  twilight  —  an 
infinite,  unexplored  wonderland  of  childish 
treasures,  glass  beads,  empty  scent-bottles  still 
sweet,   thrums   of   coloured    silks,  among    its 


THE    CHILD    IN    THE    HOUSE 


503 


lumber  —  a  flat  space  of  roof,  railed  round, 
gave  a  view  of  the  neighbouring  steeples;  for 
the  house,  as  I  said,  stood  near  a  great  city, 
which  sent  up  heavenwards,  over  the  twisting 
weather-vanes,  not  seldom,  its  beds  of  rolling 
cloud  and  smoke,  touched  with  storm  or  sun- 
shine. But  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing 
did  not  hate  the  fog  because  of  the  crimson 
lights  which  fell  from  it  sometimes  upon  the 
chimneys,  and  the  whites  which  gleamed 
through  its  openings,  on  summer  mornings, 
on  turret  or  pavement.  For  it  is  false  to 
suppose  that  a  child's  sense  of  beauty  is  de- 
pendent on  any  choiceness  or  special  fineness, 
in  the  objects  which  present  themselves  to  it, 
though  this  indeed  comes  to  be  the  rule  with 
most  of  us  in  later  life;  earlier,  in  some  de- 
gree, we  see  inwardly;  and  the  child  finds 
for  itself,  and  with  unstinted  delight,  a  differ- 
ence for  the  sense,  in  those  whites  and  reds 
through  the  smoke  on  very  homely  buildings, 
and  in  the  gold  of  the  dandelions  at  the  road- 
side, just  beyond  the  houses,  where  not  a 
handful  of  earth  is  virgin  and  untouched,  in 
the  lack  of  better  ministries  to  its  desire  of 
beauty. 

This  house  then  stood  not  far  beyond  the 
gloom  and  rumours  of  the  town,  among  high 
garden-walls,  bright  all  summer-time  with 
Golden-rod,  and  brown-and-golden  Wall- 
flower—  Flos  Parietis,  as  the  children's  Latin- 
reading  father  taught  them  to  call  it,  while  he 
was  with  them.  Tracing  back  the  threads  of 
his  complex  spiritual  habit,  as  he  was  used  in 
after  years  to  do,  Florian  found  that  he  owed 
to  the  place  many  tones  of  sentiment  after- 
wards customary  with  him,  certain  inward 
lights  under  which  things  most  naturally  pre- 
sented themselves  to  him.  The  coming  and 
going  of  travellers  to  the  town  along  the  way, 
the  shadow  of  the  streets,  the  sudden  breath 
of  the  neighbouring  gardens,  the  singular 
brightness  of  bright  weather  there,  its  singu- 
lar darknesses  which  linked  themselves  in  his 
mind  to  certain  engraved  illustrations  in  the 
old  big  Bible  at  home,  the  coolness  of  the 
dark,  cavernous  shops  round  the  great  church, 
with  its  giddy  winding  stair  up  to  the  pigeons 
and  the  bells  —  a  citadel  of  peace  in  the  heart 
of  the  trouble  —  all  this  acted  on  his  childish 
fancy,  so  that  ever  afterwards  the  like  aspects 
and  incidents  never  failed  to  throw  him  into 
a  well-recognised  imaginative  mood,  seeming 
actually  to  have  become  a  part  of  the  texture 
of  his  mind.  Also,  Florian  could  trace  home 
to  this  point  a  pervading  preference  in  him- 


self for  a  kind  of  comeliness  and  dignity,  an 
urbanity  literally,  in  modes  of  life,  which  he 
connected  with  the  pale  people  of  towns,  and 
which  made  him  susceptible  to  a  kind  of  ex- 
quisite satisfaction  in  the  trimness  and  well- 
considered  grace  of  certain  things  and  per- 
sons he  afterwards  met  with,  here  and  there, 
in  his  way  through  the  world. 

So  the  child  of  whom  I  am  writing  lived  on 
there  quietly;  things  without  thus  ministering 
to  him,  as  he  sat  daily  at  the  window  with 
the  birdcage  hanging  below  it,  and  his  mother 
taught  him  to  read,  wondering  at  the  ease 
with  which  he  learned,  and  at  the  quickness 
of  his  memory.  The  perfume  of  the  little 
flowers  of  the  lime-tree  fell  through  the  air 
upon  them  like  rain;  while  time  seemed  to 
move  ever  more  slowly  to  the  murmur  of  the 
bees  in  it,  till  it  almost  stood  still  on  June 
afternoons.  How  insignificant,  at  the  moment, 
seem  the  influences  of  the  sensible  things  which 
are  tossed  and  fall  and  lie  about  us,  so,  or  so, 
in  the  environment  of  early  childhood.  How 
indelibly,  as  we  afterwards  discover,  they 
affect  us;  with  what  capricious  attractions 
and  associations  they  figure  themselves  on  the 
white  paper,  the  smooth  wax,  of  our  ingenuous 
souls,  as  "with  lead  in  the  rock  forever,"  giv- 
ing form  and  feature,  and  as  it  were  assigned 
house-room  in  our  memory,  to  early  experi- 
ences of  feeling  and  thought,  which  abide  with 
us  ever  afterwards,  thus,  and  not  otherwise. 
The  realities  and  passions,  the  rumours  of  the 
greater  world  without,  steal  in  upon  us,  each 
by  its  own  special  little  passage-way,  through 
the  wall  of  custom  about  us;  and  never  after- 
wards quite  detach  themselves  from  this  or 
that  accident,  or  trick,  in  the  mode  of  their 
first  entrance  to  us.  Our  susceptibilities,  the 
discovery  of  our  powers,  manifold  experiences 
—  our  various  experiences  of  the  coming  and 
going  of  bodily  pain,  for  instance  —  belong  to 
this  or  the  other  well-remembered  place  in  the 
material  habitation  —  that  little  white  room 
with  the  window  across  which  the  heavy 
blossoms  could  beat  so  peevishly  in  the  wind, 
with  just  that  particular  catch  or  throb,  such 
a  sense  of  teasing  in  it,  on  gusty  mornings; 
and  the  early  habitation  thus  gradually  be- 
comes a  sort  of  material  shrine  or  sanctuary 
of  sentiment;  a  system  of  visible  symbolism 
interweaves  itself  through  all  our  thoughts  and 
passions;  and  irresistibly,  little  shapes,  voices, 
accidents  —  the  angle  at  which  the  sun  in  the 
morning  fell  on  the  pillow  —  become  parts  of 
the  great  chain  wherewith  we  are  bound. 


504 


WALTER    PATER 


Thus  far,  for  Florian,  what  all  this  had 
determined  was  a  peculiarly  strong  sense  of 
home  —  so  forcible  a  motive  with  all  of  us  — 
prompting  to  us  our  customary  love  of  the 
earth,  and  the  larger  part  of  our  fear  of  death, 
that  revulsion  we  have  from  it,  as  from  some- 
thing strange,  untried,  unfriendly;  though 
lifelong  imprisonment,  they  tell  you,  and  final 
banishment  from  home  is  a  thing  bitterer  still; 
the  looking  forward  to  but  a  short  space,  a 
mere  childish  gouter  and  dessert  of  it,  before 
the  end,  being  so  great  a  resource  of  effort 
to  pilgrims  and  wayfarers,  and  the  soldier  in 
distant  quarters,  and  lending,  in  lack  of  that, 
some  power  of  solace  to  the  thought  of  sleep 
in  the  home  churchyard,  at  least  —  dead 
cheek  by  dead  cheek,  and  with  the  rain  soak- 
ing in  upon  one  from  above. 

So  powerful  is  this  instinct,  and  yet  acci- 
dents like  those  I  have  been  speaking  of  so 
mechanically  determine  it;  its  essence  being 
indeed  the  early  familiar,  as  constituting  our 
ideal,  or  typical  conception,  of  rest  and  security. 
Out  of  so  many  possible  conditions,  just  this 
for  you  and  that  for  me,  brings  ever  the  un- 
mistakable realisation  of  the  delightful  chcz 
soi;  this  for  the  Englishman,  for  me  and  you, 
with  the  closely-drawn  white  curtain  and  the 
shaded  lamp;  that,  quite  other,  for  the  wan- 
dering Arab,  who  folds  his  tent  every  morning, 
and  makes  his  sleeping-place  among  haunted 
ruins,  or  in  old  tombs. 

With  Florian  then  the  sense  of  home  be- 
came singularly  intense,  his  good  fortune  being 
that  the  special  character  of  his  home  was  in 
itself  so  essentially  home-like.  As  after  many 
wanderings  I  have  come  to  fancy  that  some 
parts  of  Surrey  and  Kent  are,  for  Englishmen, 
the  true  landscape,  true  home-countries,  by 
right,  partly,  of  a  certain  earthy  warmth  in  the 
yellow  of  the  sand  below  their  gorse-bushes, 
and  of  a  certain  gray-blue  mist  after  rain,  in 
the  hollows  of  the  hills  there,  welcome  to 
fatigued  eyes,  and  never  seen  farther  south; 
so  I  think  that  the  sort  of  house  I  have  de- 
scribed, with  precisely  those  proportions  of 
red-brick  and  green,  and  with  a  just  per- 
ceptible monotony  in  the  subdued  order  of  it, 
for  its  distinguishing  note,  is  for  Englishmen 
at  least  typically  home-like.  And  so  for 
Florian  that  general  human  instinct  was  rein- 
forced by  this  special  home-likeness  in  the 
place  his  wandering  soul  had  happened  to 
light  on,  as,  in  the  second  degree,  its  body 
and  earthly  tabernacle ;  the  sense  of  harmony 
between  his  soul  and  its  physical  environment 


became,  for  a  time  at  least,  like  perfectly 
played  music,  and  the  life  led  there  singularly 
tranquil  and  filled  with  a  curious  sense  of 
self-possession.  The  love  of  security,  of  an 
habitually  undisputed  standing-ground  or  sleep- 
ing-place, came  to  count  for  much  in  the 
generation  and  correcting  of  his  thoughts,  and 
afterwards  as  a  salutary  principle  of  restraint 
in  all  his  wanderings  of  spirit.  The  wistful 
yearning  towards  home,  in  absence  from  it, 
as  the  shadows  of  evening  deepened,  and  he 
followed  in  thought  what  was  doing  there 
from  hour  to  hour,  interpreted  to  him  much 
of  a  yearning  and  regret  he  experienced  af- 
terwards, towards  he  knew  not  what,  out  of 
strange  ways  of  feeling  and  thought  in  which, 
from  time  to  time,  his  spirit  found  itself  alone ; 
and  in  the  tears  shed  in  such  absences  there 
seemed  always  to  be  some  soul-subduing  fore- 
taste of  what  his  last  tears  might  be. 

And  the  sense  of  security  could  hardly  have 
been  deeper,  the  quiet  of  the  child's  soul  being 
one  with  the  quiet  of  its  home,  a  place  "en- 
closed" and  "sealed."  But  upon  this  assured 
place,  upon  the  child's  assured  soul  which 
resembled  it,  there  came  floating  in  from  the 
larger  world  without,  as  at  windows  left  ajar 
unknowingly,  or  over  the  high  garden  walls, 
two  streams  of  impressions,  the  sentiments  of 
beauty  and  pain  —  recognitions  of  the  visible, 
tangible,  audible  loveliness  of  things,  as  a  very 
real  and  somewhat  tyrannous  element  in  them 
—  and  of  the  sorrow  of  the  world,  of  grown 
people  and  children  and  animals,  as  a  thing 
not  to  be  put  by  in  them.  From  this  point 
he  could  trace  two  predominant  processes  of 
mental  change  in  him  —  the  growth  of  an 
almost  diseased  sensibility  to  the  spectacle  of 
suffering,  and,  parallel  with  this,  the  rapid 
growth  of  a  certain  capacity  of  fascination  by 
bright  colour  and  choice  form  —  the  sweet 
curvings,  for  instance,  of  the  lips  of  those 
who  seemed  to  him  comely  persons,  modu- 
lated in  such  delicate  unison  to  the  things 
they  said  or  sang,  —  marking  early  the  activity 
in  him  of  a  more  than  customary  sensuousness, 
"the  lust  of  the  eye,"  as  the  Preacher  says, 
which  might  lead  him,  one  day,  how  far! 
Could  he  have  foreseen  the  weariness  of  the 
way!  In  music  sometimes  the  two  sorts  of 
impressions  came  together,  and  he  would 
weep,  to  the  surprise  of  older  people.  Tears 
of  joy  too  the  child  knew,  also  to  older  people's 
surprise;  real  tears,  once,  of  relief  from  long- 
strung,  childish  expectation,  when  he  found 
returned   at   evening,   with   new   roses   in   her 


THE    CHILD    IN    THE    HOUSE 


505 


cheeks,  the  little  sister  who  had  been  to  a 
place  where  there  was  a  wood,  and  brought 
back  for  him  a  treasure  of  fallen  acorns,  and 
black  crow's  feathers,  and  his  peace  at  find- 
ing her  again  near  him  mingled  all  night  with 
some  intimate  sense  of  the  distant  forest,  the 
rumour  of  its  breezes,  with  the  glossy  black- 
birds aslant  and  the  branches  lifted  in  them, 
and  of  the  perfect  nicety  of  the  little  cups 
that  fell.  So  those  two  elementary  appre- 
hensions of  the  tenderness  and  of  the  colour 
in  things  grew  apace  in  him,  and  were  seen 
by  him  afterwards  to  send  their  roots  back 
into  the  beginnings  of  life. 

Let  me  note  first  some  of  the  occasions  of 
his  recognition  of  the  element  of  pain  in 
things  —  incidents,  now  and  again,  which 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  in  him  the  whole 
force  of  that  sentiment  which  Goethe  has 
called  the  Weltschmcrz,  and  in  which  the  con- 
centrated sorrow  of  the  world  seemed  suddenly 
to  lie  heavy  upon  him.  A  book  lay  in  an  old 
book-case,  of  which  he  cared  to  remember  one 
picture  —  a  woman  sitting,  with  hands  bound 
behind  her,  the  dress,  the  cap,  the  hair,  folded 
with  a  simplicity  which  touched  him  strangely, 
as  if  not  Ijy  her  own  hands,  but  with  some 
ambiguous  care  at  the  hands  of  others  — 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  on  her  way  to  exe- 
cution —  we  all  remember  David's  drawing, 
meant  merely  to  make  her  ridiculous.  The 
face  that  had  been  so  high  had  learned  to  be 
mute  and  resistless;  but  out  of  its  very  resist- 
lessness,  seemed  now  to  call  on  men  to  have 
pity,  and  forbear;  and  he  took  note  of  that, 
as  he  closed  the  book,  as"  a  thing  to  look  at 
again,  if  he  should  at  any  time  find  himself 
tempted  to  be  cruel.  Again  he  would  never 
quite  forget  the  appeal  in  the  small  sister's 
face,  in  the  garden  under  the  lilacs,  terrified  at 
a  spider  lighted  on  her  sleeve.  He  could  trace 
back  to  the  look  then  noted  a  certain  mercy 
conceived  always  for  people  in  fear,  even 
of  little  things,  which  seemed  to  make  him, 
though  but  for  a  moment,  capable  of  almost 
any  sacrifice  of  himself.  Impressible,  sus- 
ceptible persons,  indeed,  who  had  had  their 
sorrows,  lived  about  him;  and  this  sensibility 
was  due  in  part  to  the  tacit  influence  of  their 
presence,  enforcing  upon  him  habitually  the 
fact  that  there  are  those  who  pass  their  days, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  in  a  sort  of  "going 
quietly."  Most  poignantly  of  all  he  could  re- 
call, in  unfading  minutest  circumstance,  the 
cry  on  the  stair,  sounding  bitterly  through  the 
house,  and  struck  into  his  soul    forever,  of  an 


aged  woman,  his  father's  sister,  come  now  to 
announce  his  death  in  distant  India;  how  it 
seemed  to  make  the  aged  woman  like  a  child 
again;  and,  he  knew  not  why,  but  this  fancy 
was  full  of  pity  to  him.  There  were  the  little 
sorrows  of  the  dumb  animals  too  —  of  the 
white  angora,  with  a  dark  tail  like  an  ermine's, 
and  a  face  like  a  flower,  who  fell  into  a  linger- 
ing sickness,  and  became  quite  delicately  hu- 
man in  its  valetudinarianism,  and  came  to 
have  a  hundred  different  expressions  of  voice 
—  how  it  grew  worse  and  worse,  till  it  began 
to  feel  the  light  too  much  for  it,  and  at  last, 
after  one  wild  morning  of  pain,  the  little  soul 
flickered  away  from  the  body,  quite  worn  to 
death  already,  and  now  but  feebly  retaining  it. 

So  he  wanted  another  pet;  and  as  there 
were  starlings  about  the  place,  which  could  be 
taught  to  speak,  one  of  them  was  caught,  and 
he  meant  to  treat  it  kindly;  but  in  the  night 
its  young  ones  could  be  heard  crying  after 
it,  and  the  responsive  cry  of  the  mother-bird 
towards  them;  and  at  last,  with  the  first 
light,  though  not  till  after  some  debate  with 
himself,  he  went  down  and  opened  the  cage, 
and  saw  a  sharp  bound  of  the  prisoner  up  to 
her  nestlings;  and  therewith  came  the  sense  of 
remorse,  —  that  he  too  was  become  an  accom- 
plice in  moving,  to  the  limit  of  his  small  power, 
the  springs  and  handles  of  that  great  machine 
in  things,  constructed  so  ingeniously  to  play 
pain -fugues  on  the  delicate  nerve-work  of 
living  creatures. 

I  have  remarked  how,  in  the  process  of  our 
brain-building,  as  the  house  of  thought  in 
which  we  live  gets  itself  together,  like  some 
airy  bird's-nest;  of  floating  thistle-down  and 
chance  straws,  compact  at  last,  little  accidents 
have  their  consequence ;  and  thus  it  happened 
that,  as  he  walked  one  evening,  a  garden  gate, 
usually  closed,  stood  open ;  and  lo !  within,  a 
great  red  hawthorn  in  full  flower,  embossing 
heavily  the  bleached  and  twisted  trunk  and 
branches,  so  aged  that  there  were  but  few 
green  leaves  thereon  —  a  plumage  of  tender, 
crimson  fire  out  of  the  heart  of  the  dry  wood. 
The  perfume  of  the  tree  had  now  and  again 
reached  him,  in  the  currents  of  the  wind,  over 
the  wall,  and  he  had  wondered  what  might  be 
behind  it,  and  was  now  allowed  to  fill  his  arms 
with  the  flowers  —  flowers  enough  for  all  the 
old  blue-china  pots  along  the  chimney-piece, 
making  fete  in  the  children's  room.  Was  it 
some  periodic  moment  in  the  expansion  of  soul 
within  him,  or  mere  trick  of  heat  in  the  heavily- 
laden   summer  air?     But   the   beauty  of  the 


5o6 


WALTER    PATER 


thing  struck  home  to  him  feverishly;  and  in 
dreams  all  night  he  loitered  along  a  magic 
roadway  of  crimson  flowers,  which  seemed  to 
open  ruddily  in  thick,  fresh  masses  about  his 
feet,  and  fill  softly  all  the  little  hollows  in  the 
banks  on  either  side.  Always  afterwards, 
summer  by  summer,  as  the  flowers  came  on, 
the  blossom  of  the  red  hawthorn  still  seemed 
to  him  absolutely  the  reddest  of  all  things; 
and  the  goodly  crimson,  still  alive  in  the  works 
of  old  Venetian  masters  or  old  Flemish  tapes- 
tries, called  out  always  from  afar  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  flame  in  those  perishing  little  petals, 
as  it  pulsed  gradually  out  of  them,  kept  long 
in  the  drawers  of  an  old  cabinet.  Also  then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  seemed  to  experience  a 
passionateness  in  his  relation  to  fair  outward 
objects,  an  inexplicable  excitement  in  their 
presence,  w^hich  disturbed  him,  and  from  which 
he  half  longed  to  be  free.  A  touch  of  regret 
or  desire  mingled  all  night  with  the  remem- 
bered presence  of  the  red  flowers,  and  their 
perfume  in  the  darkness  about  him;  and  the 
longing  for  some  undivined,  entire  possession 
of  them  was  the  beginning  of  a  revelation  to 
him,  growing  ever  clearer,  with  the  coming  of 
the  gracious  summer  guise  of  fields  and  trees 
and  persons  in  each  succeeding  year,  of  a  cer- 
tain, at  times  seemingly  exclusive,  predominance 
in  his  interests,  of  beautiful  physical  things,  a 
kind  of  tyranny  of  the  senses  over  him. 

In  later  years  he  came  upon  philosophies 
which  occupied  him  much  in  the  estimate  of 
the  proportion  of  the  sensuous  and  the  ideal 
elements  in  human  knowledge,  the  relative 
parts  they  bear  in  it;  and,  in  his  intellectual 
scheme,  was  led  to  assign  very  little  to  the 
abstract  thought,  and  much  to  its  sensible 
vehicle  or  occasion.  Such  metaphysical  specu- 
lation did  but  reinforce  what  was  instinctive 
in  his  way  of  receiving  the  world,  and  for  him, 
everpvhere,  that  sensible  vehicle  or  occasion 
became,  perhaps  only  too  surely,  the  necessary 
concomitant  of  any  perception  of  things,  real 
enough  to  be  of  any  weight  or  reckoning,  in 
his  house  of  thought.  There  were  times  when 
he  could  think  of  the  necessity  he  was  under 
of  associating  all  thoughts  to  touch  and  sight, 
as  a  sympathetic  link  between  himself  and 
actual,  feeling,  living  objects;  a  protest  in 
favour  of  real  men  and  women  against  mere 
gray,  unreal  abstractions ;  and  he  remembered 
gratefully  how  the  Christian  religion,  hardly 
less  than  the  religion  of  the  ancient  Greeks, 
translating  so  much  of  its  spiritual  verity  into 
things  that  may  be  seen,  condescends  in  part 


to  sanction  this  infirmity,  if  so  it  be,  of  our 
human  existence,  wherein  the  world  of  sense 
is  so  much  with  us,  and  welcomed  this  thought 
as  a  kind  of  keeper  and  sentinel  over  his  soul 
therein.  But  certainly,  he  came  more  and 
more  to  be  unable  to  care  for,  or  think  of 
soul  but  as  in  an  actual  body,  or  of  any  world 
but  that  wherein  are  water  and  trees,  and 
where  men  and  women  look,  so  or  so,  and 
press  actual  hands.  It  was  the  trick  even 
his  pity  learned,  fastening  those  who  suffered 
in  anywise  to  his  affections  by  a  kind  of  sensible 
attachments.  He  would  think  of  Julian,  fallen 
into  incurable  sickness,  as  spoiled  in  the  sweet 
blossom  of  his  skin  like  pale  amber,  and  his 
honey-like  hair;  of  Cecil,  early  dead,  as  cut 
off  from  the  lilies,  from  golden  summer  days, 
from  women's  voices;  and  then  what  com- 
forted him  a  little  was  the  thought  of  the  turn- 
ing of  the  child's  flesh  to  violets  in  the  turf 
above  him.  And  thinking  of  the  very  poor, 
it  was  not  the  things  which  most  men  care 
most  for  that  he  yearned  to  give  them;  but 
fairer  roses,  perhaps,  and  power  to  taste  quite 
as  they  will,  at  their  ease  and  not  task-burdened, 
a  certain  desirable,  clear  light  in  the  new 
morning,  through  which  sometimes  he  had 
noticed  them,  quite  unconscious  of  it,  on  their 
way  to  their  early  toil. 

So  he  yielded  himself  to  these  things,  to  be 
played  upon  by  them  like  a  musical  instru- 
ment, and  began  to  note  with  deepening  watch- 
fulness, but  always  with  some  puzzled,  un- 
utterable longing  in  his  enjoyment,  the  phases 
of  the  seasons  and  of  the  growing  or  waning 
day,  down  even  to  the  shadowy  changes  wrought 
on  bare  wall  or  ceiling  —  the  light  cast  up 
from  the  snow,  bringing  out  their  darkest 
angles;  the  brown  light  in  the  cloud,  which 
meant  rain;  that  almost  too  austere  clearness, 
in  the  protracted  light  of  the  lengthening  day, 
before  warm  weather  began,  as  if  it  lingered 
but  to  make  a  severer  workday,  with  the 
school-books  opened  earlier  and  later;  that 
beam  of  June  sunshine,  at  last,  as  he  lay 
awake  before  the  time,  a  way  of  gold-dust 
across  the  darkness;  all  the  humming,  the 
freshness,  the  perfume  of  the  garden  seemed 
to  lie  upon  it  —  and  coming  in  one  afternoon 
in  September,  along  the  red  gravel  walk,  to 
look  for  a  basket  of  yellow  crab-apples  left  in 
the  cool,  old  parlour,  he  remembered  it  the 
more,  and  how  the  colours  struck  upon  him, 
because  a  wasp  on  one  bitten  apple  stung 
him,  and  he  felt  the  passion  of  sudden,  se- 
vere pain.     For  this  too  brought   its  curious 


THE    CHILD    IN    THE    HOUSE 


507 


reflections;  and,  in  relief  from  it,  he  would 
wonder  over  it  —  how  it  had  then  been  with 
him  —  puzzled  at  the  depth  of  the  charm  or 
spell  over  him,  which  lay,  for  a  little  while 
at  least,  in  the  mere  absence  of  pain ;  once, 
especially,  when  an  older  boy  taught  him  to 
make  flowers  of  sealing-wax,  and  he  had  burnt 
his  hand  badly  at  the  lighted  taper,  and  been 
unable  to  sleep.  He  remembered  that  also 
afterwards,  as  a  sort  of  typical  thing  —  a  white 
vision  of  heat  about  him,  clinging  closely, 
through  the  languid  scent  of  the  ointments 
put  upon  the  place  to  make  it  well. 

Also,  as  he  felt  this  pressure  upon  him  of 
the  sensible  world,  then,  as  often  afterwards, 
there  would  come  another  sort  of  curious 
questioning  how  the  last  impressions  of  eye 
and  ear  might  happen  to  him,  how  they  would 
find  him  —  the  scent  of  the  last  flower,  the 
soft  yellowness  of  the  last  morning,  the  last 
recognition  of  some  object  of  affection,  hand 
or  voice;  it  could  not  be  but  that  the  latest 
look  of  the  eyes,  before  their  final  closing, 
would  be  strangely  vivid;  one  would  go  with 
the  hot  tears,  the  cry,  the  touch  of  the  wistful 
bystander,  impressed  how  deeply  on  one !  or 
would  it  be,  perhaps,  a  mere  frail  retiring  of 
all  things,  great  or  little,  away  from  one,  into 
a  level  distance? 

For  with  this  desire  of  physical  beauty 
mingled  itself  early  the  fear  of  death  —  the 
fear  of  death  intensified  by  the  desire  of  beauty. 
Hitherto  he  had  never  gazed  upon  dead  faces, 
as  sometimes,  afterwards,  at  the  Morgue  in 
Paris,  or  in  that  fair  cemetery  at  Munich, 
where  all  the  dead  must  go  and  lie  in  state 
before  burial,  behind  glass  windows,  among 
the  flowers  and  incense  and  holy  candles  — 
the  aged  clergy  with  their  sacrecl  ornaments, 
the  young  men  in  their  dancing-shoes  and 
spotless  white  linen  —  after  which  visits,  those 
waxen,  resistless  faces  would  always  live  with 
him  for  many  days,  making  the  broadest  sun- 
shine sickly.  The  child  had  heard  indeed  of 
the  death  of  his  father,  and  how,  in  the  Indian 
station,  a  fever  had  taken  him,  so  that  though 
not  in  action  he  had  yet  died  as  a  soldier; 
and  hearing  of  the  "resurrection  of  the  just," 
he  could  think  of  him  as  still  abroad  in  the 
world,  somehow,  for  his  protection  —  a  grand, 
though  perhaps  rather  terrible  figure,  in  beauti- 
ful soldier's  things,  like  the  figure  in  the  picture 
of  Joshua's  Vision  in  the  Bible  —  and  of  that, 
round  which  the  mourners  moved  so  softly, 
and  afterwards  with  such  solemn  singing,  as 
but   a  worn-out   garment   left   at   a   deserted 


lodging.  So  it  was,  until  on  a  summer  day 
he  walked  with  his  mother  through  a  fair 
churchyard.  In  a  bright  dress  he  rambled 
among  the  graves,  in  the  gay  weather,  and  so 
came,  in  one  corner,  upon  an  open  grave  for 
a  child  —  a  dark  space  on  the  brilliant  grass 
—  the  black  mould  lying  heaped  up  round  it, 
weighing  down  the  little  jewelled  branches  of 
the  dwarf  rose-bushes  in  flow'er.  And  there- 
with came,  full-grown,  never  wholly  to  leave 
him,  with  the  certainty  that  even  children  do 
sometimes  die,  the  physical  horror  of  death, 
with  its  wholly  selfish  recoil  from  the  associa- 
tion of  lower  forms  of  life,  and  the  suffocating 
weight  above.  No  benign,  grave  figure  in 
beautiful  soldier's  things  any  longer  abroad  in 
the  world  for  his  protection !  only  a  few  poor, 
piteous  bones;  and  above  them,  possibly,  a 
certain  sort  of  figure  he  hoped  not  to  see. 
For  sitting  one  day  in  the  garden  below  an 
open  window,  he  heard  people  talking,  and 
could  not  but  listen,  how,  in  a  sleepless  hour, 
a  sick  woman  had  seen  one  of  the  dead  sitting 
beside  her,  come  to  call  her  hence;  and  from 
the  broken  talk  evolved  with  much  clearness 
the  notion  that  not  all  those  dead  people  had 
really  departed  to  the  churchyard,  nor  were 
quite  so  motionless  as  they  looked,  but  led  a 
secret,  half-fugitive  life  in  their  old  homes, 
quite  free  by  night,  though  sometimes  visible 
in  the  day,  dodging  from  room  to  room,  with 
no  great  goodwill  towards  those  who  shared 
the  place  with  them.  All  night  the  figure  sat 
beside  him  in  the  reveries  of  his  broken  sleep, 
and  was  not  quite  gone  in  the  morning  —  an 
odd,  irreconcilable  new  member  of  the  house- 
hold, making  the  sweet  familiar  chambers  un- 
friendly and  suspect  by  its  uncertain  presence. 
He  could  have  hated  the  dead  he  had  pitied 
so,  for  being  thus.  Afterwards  he  came  to 
think  of  those  poor,  home-returning  ghosts, 
which  all  men  have  fancied  to  themselves  — 
the  revenants  —  pathetically,  as  crying,  or 
beating  with  vain  hands  at  the  doors,  as  the 
wind  came,  their  cries  distinguishable  in  it  as 
a  wilder  inner  note.  But,  always  making 
death  more  unfamiliar  still,  that  old  experi- 
ence would  ever,  from  time  to  time,  return  to 
him;  even  in  the  living  he  sometimes  caught 
its  likeness;  at  any  time  or  place,  in  a  moment, 
the  faint  atmosphere  of  the  chamber  of  death 
would  be  breathed  around  him,  and  the  image 
with  the  bound  chin,  the  quaint  smile,  the 
straight,  stiff  feet,  shed  itself  across  the  air 
upon  the  bright  carpet,  amid  the  gayest  com- 
pany, or  happiest  communing  with  himself. 


5o8 


WALTER   PATER 


To  most  children  the  sombre  questionings 
to  which  impressions  like  these  attach  them- 
selves, if  they  come  at  all,  are  actually  sug- 
gested by  religious  books,  which  therefore  they 
often  regard  with  much  secret  distaste,  and 
dismiss,  as  far  as  possible,  from  their  habitual 
thoughts  as  a  too  depressing  element  in  life. 
To  Florian  such  impressions,  these  misgivings 
as  to  the  ultimate  tendency  of  the  years,  of  the 
relationship  between  life  and  death,  had  been 
suggested  spontaneously  in  the  natural  course 
of  his  mental  growth  by  a  strong  innate  sense 
for  the  soberer  tones  in  things,  further  strength- 
ened by  actual  circumstances;  and  religious 
sentiment,  that  system  of  biblical  ideas  in 
which  he  had  been  brought  up,  presented  itself 
to  him  as  a  thing  that  might  soften  and  dignify, 
and  light  up  as  with  a  "lively  hope,"  a  melan- 
choly already  deeply  settled  in  him.  So  he 
yielded  himself  easily  to  religious  impressions, 
and  with  a  kind  of  mystical  appetite  for  sacred 
things;  the  more  as  they  came  to  him  through 
a  saintly  person  w^ho  loved  him  tenderly,  and 
believed  that  this  early  pre-occupation  with 
them  already  marked  the  child  out  for  a  saint. 
He  began  to  love,  for  their  own  sakes,  church 
lights,  holy  days,  all  that  belonged  to  the 
comely  order  of  the  sanctuary,  the  secrets  of 
its  white  linen,  and  holy  vessels,  and  fonts  of 
pure  water;  and  its  hieratic  purity  and  sim- 
plicity became  the  type  of  something  he 
desired  always  to  have  about  him  in  actual 
life.  He  pored  over  the  pictures  in  religious 
books,  and  knew  by  heart  the  exact  mode  in 
which  the  wrestling  angel  grasped  Jacob,  how 
Jacob  looked  in  his  mj-sterious  sleep,  how  the 
bells  and  pomegranates  were  attached  to  the 
hem  of  Aaron's  vestment,  sounding  sweetly  as 
he  glided  over  the  turf  of  the  holy  place.  His 
way  of  conceiving  religion  came  then  to  be  in 
effect  what  it  ever  afterwards  remained  —  a 
sacred  history  indeed,  but  still  more  a  sacred 
ideal,  a  transcendent  version  or  representation, 
under  intenser  and  more  expressive  light  and 
shade,  of  human  life  and  its  familiar  or  excep- 
tional incidents,  birth,  death,  marriage,  youth, 
age,  tears,  joy,  rest,  sleep,  waking  —  a  mirror, 
towards  which  men  might  turn  away  their 
eyes  from  vanity  and  dulness,  and  see  them- 
selves therein  as  angels,  with  their  daily  meat 
and  drink,  even,  become  a  kind  of  sacred 
transaction  —  a  complementary  strain  or  bur- 
den, applied  to  our  everyday  existence,  whereby 
the  stray  snatches  of  music  in  it  reset  them- 
selves, and  fall  into  the  scheme  of  some 
higher  and  more  consistent  harmony.     A  place 


adumbrated  itself  in  his  thoughts,  wherein 
those  sacred  personalities,  which  are  at  once 
the  reflex  and  the  pattern  of  our  nobler  phases 
of  life,  housed  themselves;  and  this  region  in 
his  intellectual  scheme  all  subsequent  experi- 
ence did  but  tend  still  further  to  realise  and 
define.  Some  ideal,  hieratic  persons  he  would 
always  need  to  occupy  it  and  keep  a  warmth 
there.  And  he  could  hardly  understand  those 
who  felt  no  such  need  at  all,  finding  themselves 
quite  happy  without  such  heavenly  companion- 
ship, and  sacred  double  of  their  life,  beside 
them. 

Thus  a  constant  substitution  of  the  typical 
for  the  actual  took  place  in  his  thoughts. 
Angels  might  be  met  by  the  way,  under 
English  elm  or  beech-tree;  mere  messengers 
seemed  like  angels,  bound  on  celestial  errands; 
a  deep  mysticity  brooded  over  real  meetings 
and  partings;  marriages  were  made  in  heaven; 
and  deaths  also,  with  hands  of  angels  there- 
upon, to  bear  soul  and  body  quietly  asunder, 
each  to  its  appointed  rest.  All  the  acts  and 
accidents  of  daily  life  borrowed  a  sacred 
colour  and  significance;  the  very  colours  of 
things  became  themselves  weighty  with  mean- 
ings like  the  sacred  stuffs  of  Moses'  tabernacle, 
full  of  penitence  or  peace.  Sentiment,  con- 
gruous in  the  first  instance  only  with  those 
divine  transactions,  the  deep,  effusive  unction 
of  the  House  of  Bethany,  was  assumed  as  the 
due  attitude  for  the  reception  of  our  every- 
day existence;  and  for  a  time  he  w-alked 
through  the  world  in  a  sustained,  not  un- 
pleasurable  awe,  generated  by  the  habitual 
recognition,  beside  ever}^  circumstance  and 
event   of  life,  of  its  celestial  correspondent. 

Sensibility  —  the  desire  of  physical  beauty  — 
a  strange  biblical  awe,  which  made  any  refer- 
ence to  the  unseen  act  on  him  like  solemn 
music  —  these  qualities  the  child  took  away 
with  him,  when,  at  about  the  age  of  twelve 
years,  he  left  the  old  house,  and  was  taken 
to  live  in  another  place.  He  had  never  left 
home  before,  and,  anticipating  much  from 
this  change,  had  long  dreamed  over  it,  jealously 
counting  the  days  till  the  time  fLxed  for  de- 
parture should  come;  had  been  a  little  careless 
about  others  even,  in  his  strong  desire  for  it 
—  when  Lewis  fell  sick,  for  instance,  and  they 
must  wait  still  two  days  longer.  At  last  the 
morning  came,  very  fine ;  and  all  things  — 
the  very  pavement  with  its  dust,  at  the  road- 
side —  seemed  to  have  a  white,  pearl-like 
lustre  in  them.  They  w^ere  to  travel  by  a 
favourite  road  on  which  he  had  often  walked 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


509 


a  certain  distance,  and  on  one  of  those  two 
prisoner  days,  when  Lewis  was  sick,  had 
walked  farther  than  ever  before,  in  his  great 
desire  to  reach  the  new  place.  They  had 
started  and  gone  a  little  way  when  a  fx;t  bird 
was  found  to  have  been  left  behind,  and  must 
even  now  —  so  it  presented  itself  to  him  — 
have  already  all  the  appealing  fierceness  and 
wild  self-pity  at  heart  of  one  left  by  others  to 
perish  of  hunger  in  a  closed  house;  and  he 
returned  to  fetch  it,  himself  in  hardly  less 
stormy  distress.  But  as  he  passed  in  search 
of  it  from  room  to  room,  lying  so  pale,  with  a 
look  of  meekness  in  their  denudation,  and  at 
last  through  that  little,  stripped  white  room, 
the  aspect  of  the  place  touched  him  like  the 
face  of  one  dead;  and  a  clinging  back  towards 
it  came  over  him,  so  intense  that  he  knew  it 
would  last  long,  and  spoiling  all  his  pleasure 
in  the  realisation  of  a  thing  so  eagerly  antici- 
pated. And  so,  with  the  bird  found,  but  him- 
self in  an  agony  of  home-sickness,  thus  capri- 
ciously sprung  up  within  him,  he  was  driven 
quickly  away,  far  into  the  rural  distance,  so 
fondly  speculated  on,  of  that  favourite  country- 
road. 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 

(1850-1894) 

FRANCOIS    VILLON,     STUDENT,     POET, 
AND   HOUSEBREAKER 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  revolutions 
in  literary  histor}'  is  the  sudden  bull's-eye  light 
cast  by  M.  Longnon  on  the  obscure  existence 
of  Frangois  Villon.  His  book  is  not  remark- 
able merely  as  a  chapter  of  biography  exhumed 
after  four  centuries.  To  readers  of  the  poet  it 
will  recall,  with  a  flavour  of  satire,  that  char- 
acteristic passage  in  which  he  bequeaths  his 
spectacles  —  with  a  humorous  reservation  of 
the  case  —  to  the  hospital  for  blind  paupers 
known  as  the  Fifteen-Score.  Thus  equipped, 
let  the  blind  paupers  go  and  separate  the  good 
from  the  bad  in  the  cemeter}-  of  the  Innocents ! 
For  his  own  part  the  poet  can  see  no  distinc- 
tion. Much  have  the  dead  people  made  of 
their  advantages.  What  does  it  matter  now 
that  they  have  lain  in  state  beds  and  nourished 
portly  bodies  upon  cakes  and  cream !  Here 
they  all  lie,  to  be  trodden  in  the  mud;  the  large 
estate  and  the  small,  sounding  virtue  and 
adroit  or  powerful  vice,  in  very  much  the 
same  condition;    and  a  bishop  not  to  be  dis- 


tinguished from  a  lamplighter  with  even    the 
strongest  spectacles. 

Such  was  Villon's  cynical  philosophy.  Four 
hundred  years  after  his  death,  when  surely  all 
danger  might  be  considered  at  an  end,  a  pair 
of  critical  spectacles  have  been  applied  to  his 
own  remains;  and  though  he  left  behind  him 
a  suflkiently  ragged  reputation  from  the  first, 
it  is  only  after  these  four  hundred  years  that 
his  delinquencies  have  been  finally  tracked 
home,  and  we  can  assign  him  to  his  proper 
place  among  the  good  or  wicked.  It  is  a 
staggering  thought,  and  one  that  affords  a  fine 
figure  of  the  imperishability  of  men's  acts,  that 
the  stealth  of  the  private  inquiry  oflke  can  be 
carried  so  far  back  into  the  dead  and  dusty 
past.  We  are  not  so  soon  quit  of  our  con- 
cerns as  Villon  fancied.  In  the  extreme  of 
dissolution,  when  not  so  much  as  a  man's 
name  is  remembered,  when  his  dust  is  scattered 
to  the  four  winds,  and  perhaps  the  very  grave 
and  the  ver}'  graveyard  where  he  was  laid  to 
rest  have  been  forgotten,  desecrated,  and  buried 
under  populous  towns,  —  even  in  this  extreme 
let  an  antiquary  fall  across  a  sheet  of  manu- 
script, and  the  name  will  be  recalled,  the  old 
infamy  will  pop  out  into  daylight  like  a  toad 
out  of  a  fissure  in  the  rock,  and  the  shadow 
of  the  shade  of  what  was  once  a  man  will  be 
heartily  pilloried  by  his  descendants.  A  little 
while  ago  and  Villon  was  almost  totally  for- 
gotten; then  he  was  revived  for  the  sake  of 
his  verses;  and  now  he  is  being  revived  with  a 
vengeance  in  the  detection  of  his  misdemeanours. 
How  unsubstantial  is  this  projection  of  a  man's 
existence,  which  can  lie  in  abeyance  for  cen- 
turies and  then  be  brushed  up  again  and  set 
forth  for  the  consideration  of  posterity  by  a 
few  dips  in  an  antiquary's  inkpot  I  This  pre- 
carious tenure  of  fame  goes  a  long  way  to 
justify  those  (and  they  are  not  few)  who  prefer 
cakes  and  cream  in  the  immediate  present. 


A   Wild  Youth 

Francois  de  Montcorbier,  alias  Francois  des 
Loges,  alias  Francois  Villon,  alias  Michel 
ISIouton,  blaster  of  Arts  in  the  University  of 
Paris,  was  born  in  that  city  in  the  summer  of 
143 1.  It  was  a  memorable  year  for  France 
on  other  and  higher  considerations.  A  great- 
hearted girl  and  a  poor-hearted  boy  made, 
the  one  her  last,  the  other  his  first  appearance 
on  the  public  stage  of  that  unhappy  country. 
On  the  30th  of  May  the  ashes  of  Joan  of  Arc 


5IO 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


were  thrown  into  the  Seine,  and  on  the  2d  of 
December  our  Henry  Sixth  made  his  Joyous 
Entry  dismally  enough  into  disaffected  and 
depopulating  Paris.  Sword  and  fire  still 
ravaged  the  open  country.  On  a  single  April 
Saturday  twelve  hundred  persons,  besides 
children,  made  their  escape  out  of  the  starv- 
ing capital.  The  hangman,  as  is  not  unin- 
teresting to  note  in  connection  with  Master 
Francis,  was  kept  hard  at  work  in  143 1;  on 
the  last  of  April  and  on  the  4th  of  May  alone, 
sixty-two  bandits  swung  from  Paris  gibbets. 
A  more  confused  or  troublous  time  it  w^ould 
have  been  dfficult  to  select  for  a  start  in  life. 
Not  even  a  man's  nationality  was  certain;  for 
the  people  of  Paris  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  a  Frenchman.  The  English  were  the  Eng- 
lish indeed,  but  the  French  were  only  the 
Armagnacs,  whom,  with  Joan  of  Arc  at  their 
head,  they  had  beaten  back  from  under  their 
ramparts  not  two  years  before.  Such  public 
sentiment  as  they  had  centred  about  their  dear 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  the  dear  Duke  had 
no  more  urgent  business  than  to  keep  out 
of  their  neighbourhood.  ...  At  least,  and 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  our  disreputable 
troubadour  was  tubbed  and  swaddled  as  a  sub- 
ject of  the  English  crown. 

We  hear  nothing  of  Villon's  father  except 
that  he  was  poor  and  of  mean  extraction.  His 
mother  was  given  piously,  which  does  not 
imply  very  much  in  an  old  Frenchwoman, 
and  quite  uneducated.  He  had  an  uncle,  a 
monk  in  an  abbey  at  Angers,  who  must  have 
prospered  beyond 'the  family  average,  and  was 
reported  to  be  worth  five  or  six  hundred 
crowns.  Of  this  uncle  and  his  money-box 
the  reader  will  hear  once  more.  In  1448 
Francis  became  a  student  of  the  University  of 
Paris;  in  1450  he  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor, 
and  in  1452  that  of  Master  of  Arts.  His 
bourse,  or  the  sum  paid  weekly  for  his  board, 
was  of  the  amount  of  two  sous.  Now  two 
sous  was  about  the  price  of  a  pound  of  salt 
butter  in  the  bad  times  of  141 7;  it  was  the 
price  of  half-a-pound  in  the  worse  times  of 
I4i9;_and  in  1444,  just  four  years  before  Vil- 
lon joined  the  University,  it  seems  to  have  been 
taken  as  the  average  wage  for  a  day's  manual 
labour.  In  short,  it  cannot  have  been  a  very 
profuse  allowance  to  keep  a  sharp-set  lad  in 
breakfast  and  supper  for  seven  mortal  days; 
and  Villon's  share  of  the  cakes  and  pastry 
and  general  good  cheer,  to  which  he  is  never 
weary  of  referring,  must  have  been  slender 
from  the  first. 


The  educational  arrangements  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Paris  were,  to  our  way  of  thinking, 
somewhat  incomplete.  Worldly  and  monkish 
elements  were  presented  in  a  curious  confusion, 
which  the  youth  might  disentangle  for  him- 
self. If  he  had  an  opportunity,  on  the  one 
hand,  of  acquiring  much  hair-drawn  divinity 
and  a  taste  for  formal  disputation,  he  was  put 
in  the  way  of  much  gross  and  flaunting  vice 
upon  the  other.  The  lecture  room  of  a 
scholastic  doctor  was  sometimes  under  the 
same  roof  with  establishments  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent and  peculiarly  unedifying  order.  The 
students  had  extraordinary  privileges,  which 
by  all  accounts  they  abused  extraordinarily. 
And  while  some  condemned  themselves  to  an 
almost  sepulchral  regularity  and  seclusion, 
others  fled  the  schools,  swaggered  in  the  street 
"with  their  thumbs  in  their  girdle,"  passed 
the  night  in  riot,  and  behaved  themselves  as 
the  worthy  forerunners  of  Jehan  Frollo  in  the 
romance  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris.  Villon  tells 
us  himself  that  he  was  among  the  truants, 
but  we  hardly  needed  his  avowal.  The  bur- 
lesque erudition  in  which  he  sometimes  in- 
dulged implies  no  more  than  the  merest 
smattering  of  knowledge;  whereas  his  ac- 
quaintance with  blackguard  haunts  and  in- 
dustries could  only  have  been  acquired  by  early 
and  consistent  impiety  and  idleness.  He 
passed  his  degrees,  it  is  true;  but  some  of 
us  who  have  been  to  modern  universities  will 
make  their  own  reflections  on  the  value  of  the 
test.  As  for  his  three  pupils,  Colin  Laurent, 
Girard  Gossouyn,  and  Jehan  Marceau  —  if 
they  were  really  his  pupils  in  any  serious 
sense  —  what  can  we  say  but  God  help  them  ! 
And  sure  enough,  by  his  own  description, 
they  turned  out  as  ragged,  rowdy,  and  ignorant 
as  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the  views  and 
manners  of  their  rare  preceptor. 

At  some  time  or  other,  before  or  during  his 
university  career,  the  poet  was  adopted  by 
Master  Guillaume  de  Villon,  chaplain  of  Saint 
Benoit-le-Betourne  near  the  Sorbonne.  From 
him  he  borrowed  the  surname  by  which  he  is 
known  to  posterity.  It  was  most  likely  from 
his  house,  called  the  Porte  Rouge,  and  situated 
in  a  garden  in  the  cloister  of  Saint  Benoit, 
that  blaster  Francis  heard  the  bell  of  the  Sor- 
bonne ring  out  the  Angelus  while  he  was  fin- 
ishing his  Small  Testament  at  Christmastide 
in  1446.  Toward  this  benefactor  he  usually 
gets  credit  for  a  respectable  display  of  grati- 
tude. But  with  his  trap  and  pitfall  style  of 
writing,    it   is   easy   to   make   too   sure.     His 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


511 


sentiments  are  about  as  much  to  be  relied  on 
as  those  of  a  professional  beggar;  and  in  this, 
as  in  so  many  other  matters,  he  comes  toward 
us  whining  and  piping  the  eye,  and  goes  off 
again  with  a  whoop  and  his  finger  to  his  nose. 
Thus,  he  calls  Guillaume  de  Villon  his  "more 
than  father,"  thanks  him  with  a  great  show  of 
sincerity  for  having  helped  him  out  of  many 
scrapes,  and  bequeaths  him  his  portion  of 
renown.  But  the  portion  of  renown  which 
belonged  to  a  young  thief,  distinguished  (if,  at 
the  period  when  he  wrote  this  legacy,  he  was 
distinguished  at  all)  for  having  written  some 
more  or  less  obscene  and  scurrilous  ballads, 
must  have  been  little  fitted  to  gratify  the  self- 
respect  or  increase  the  reputation  of  a  benevo- 
lent ecclesiastic.  The  same  remark  applies  to 
a  subsequent  legacy  of  the  poet's  library,  with 
specification  of  one  work  which  was  plainly 
neither  decent  nor  devout.  We  are  thus  left 
on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  If  the  chaplain 
was  a  godly,  philanthropic  personage,  who  had 
tried  to  graft  good  principles  and  good  be- 
haviour on  this  wild  slip  of  an  adopted  son, 
these  jesting  legacies  would  obviously  cut  him 
to  the  heart.  The  position  of  an  adopted  son 
toward  his  adoptive  father  is  one  full  of  delicacy; 
where  a  man  lends  his  name  he  looks  for  great 
consideration.  And  this  legacy  of  Villon's 
portion  of  renown  may  be  taken  as  the  mere 
fling  of  an  unregenerate  scapegrace  who  has 
wit  enough  to  recognise  in  his  own  shame  the 
readiest  weapon  of  offence  against  a  prosy 
benefactor's  feelings.  The  gratitude  of  Master 
Francis  figures,  on  this  reading,  as  a  frightful 
minus  quantity.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  those 
jests  were  given  and  taken  in  good  humour, 
the  whole  relation  between  the  pair  degenerates 
into  the  unedifying  complicity  of  a  debauched 
old  chaplain  and  a  witty  and  dissolute  young 
scholar.  At  this  rate  the  house  with  the  red 
door  may  have  rung  with  the  most  mundane 
minstrelsy;  and  it  may  have  been  below  its 
roof  that  Villon,  through  a  hole  in  the  plaster, 
studied,  as  he  tells  us,  the  leisures  of  a  rich 
ecclesiastic. 

It  was,  perhaps,  of  some  moment  in  the 
poet's  life  that  he  should  have  inhabited  the 
cloister  of  Saint  Benoit.  Three  of  the  most 
remarkable  among  his  early  acquaintances 
are  Catherine  de  Vauselles,  for  whom  he  enter- 
tained a  short-lived  affection  and  an  endur- 
ing and  most  unmanly  resentment;  Regnier  de 
Montigny,  a  young  blackguard  of  good  birth; 
and  Colin  de  Cayeux,  a  fellow  with  a  marked 
aptitude   for   picking  locks.     Now  we   are  on 


a  foundation  of  mere  conjecture,  but  it  is  at 
least  curious  to  find  that  two  of  the  canons 
of  Saint  Benoit  answered  respectively  to  the 
names  of  Pierre  de  Vaucel  and  Etienne  de 
Montigny,  and  that  there  was  a  householder 
called  Nicolas  de  Cayeux  in  a  street  —  the 
Rue  des  Poirees  —  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  cloister.  M.  Longnon  is 
almost  ready  to  identify  Catherine  as  the 
niece  of  Pierre;  Regnier  as  the  nephew  of 
Etienne,  and  Colin  as  the  son  of  Nicolas. 
Without  going  so  far,  it  must  be  owned  that 
the  approximation  of  names  is  significant.  As 
we  go  on  to  see  the  part  played  by  each  of 
these  persons  in  the  sordid  melodrama  of  the 
poet's  life,  we  shall  come  to  regard  it  as  even 
more  notable.  Is  it  not  Clough  who  has  re- 
marked that,  after  all,  everything  lies  in  jux- 
taposition? Many  a  man's  destiny  has  been 
settled  by  nothing  apparently  more  grave  than 
a  pretty  face  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
and  a  couple  of  bad  companions  round  the 
corner. 

Catherine  de  Vauselles  (or  de  Vaucel  —  the 
change  is  within  the  limits  of  Villon's  license) 
had  plainly  delighted  in  the  poet's  conversa- 
tion; near  neighbours  or  not,  they  were  much 
together;  and  Villon  made  no  secret  of  his 
court,  and  suffered  himself  to  believe  that  his 
feeling  was  repaid  in  kind.  This  may  have 
been  an  error  from  the  first,  or  he  may  have 
estranged  her  by  subsequent  misconduct  or 
temerity.  One  can  easily  imagine  Villon  an 
impatient  wooer.  One  thing,  at  least,  is  sure: 
that  the  affair  terminated  in  a  manner  bitterly 
humiliating  to  Master  Francis.  In  presence 
of  his  lady-love,  perhaps  under  her  window 
and  certainly  with  her  connivance,  he  was  un- 
mercifully thrashed  by  one  Noe  le  Joly  — 
beaten,  as  he  says  himself,  like  dirty  linen 
on  the  washing-board.  It  is  characteristic  that 
his  malice  had  notably  increased  between  the 
time  when  he  wrote  the  SfJiall  Testament  im- 
mediately on  the  back  of  the  occurrence,  and 
the  time  when  he  wrote  the  Large  Testament 
five  years  after.  On  the  latter  occasion  noth- 
ing is  too  bad  for  his  "damsel  with  the  twisted 
nose,"  as  he  calls  her.  She  is  spared  neither 
hint  nor  accusation,  and  he  tells  his  messenger 
to  accost  her  with  the  vilest  insults.  Villon, 
it  is  thought,  was  out  of  Paris  when  these 
amenities  escaped  his  pen;  or  perhaps  the 
strong  arm  of  Noe  le  Joly  would  have  been 
again  in  requisition.  So  ends  the  love  story, 
if  love  story  it  may  properly  be  called.  Poets 
are  not  necessarily  fortunate  in  love;    but  they 


512 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


usually  fall  among  more  romantic  circum- 
stance's and  bear  their  disappointment  with  a 
better  grace. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Regnier  de  Montigny 
and  Colin  de  Cayeux  was  probably  more  in- 
fluential on  his  after  life  than  the  contempt  of 
Catherine.  For  a  man  who  is  greedy  of  all 
pleasures,  and  provided  with  little  money  and 
less  dignity  of  character,  we  may  prophesy  a 
safe  and  speedy  voyage  downward.  Humble 
or  even  truckling  virtue  may  walk  unspotted 
in  this  life.  But  only  those  who  despise  the 
pleasures  can  afford  to  despise  the  opinion  of 
the  world.  A  man  of  a  strong,  heady  tem- 
perament, like  Villon,  is  very  differently 
tempted.  His  eyes  lay  hold  on  all  provoca- 
tions greedily,  and  his  heart  flames  up  at  a 
look  into  imperious  desire;  he  is  snared  and 
broached  to  by  anything  and  everything,  from 
a  pretty  face  to  a  piece  of  pastry  in  a  cook- 
shop  window;  he  will  drink  the  rinsing  of  the 
wine  cup,  stay  the  latest  at  the  tavern  party; 
tap  at  the  lit  windows,  follow  the  sound  of 
singing,  and  beat  the  whole  neighbourhood  for 
another  reveller,  as  he  goes  reluctantly  home- 
ward; and  grudge  himself  every  hour  of  sleep 
as  a  black  empty  period  in  which  he  cannot 
follow  after  pleasure.  Such  a  person  is  lost 
if  he  have  not  dignity,  or,  failing  that,  at  least 
pride,  which  is  its  shadow  and  in  many  ways 
its  substitute.  Master  Francis,  I  fancy,  would 
follow  his  own  eager  instincts  without  much 
spiritual  struggle.  And  we  soon  find  him 
fallen  among  thieves  in  sober,  literal  earnest, 
and  counting  as  acquaintances  the  most  dis- 
reputable people  he  could  lay  his  hands  on: 
fellows  who  stole  ducks  in  Paris  Moat;  ser- 
geants of  the  criminal  court,  and  archers  of 
the  watch;  blackguards  who  slept  at  night 
under  the  butchers'  stalls,  and  for  whom  the 
aforesaid  archers  peered  about  carefully  with 
lanterns;  Regnier  de  Montigny,  Colin  de 
Cayeux,  and  their  crew,  all  bound  on  a  favour- 
ing breeze  toward  the  gallows;  the  disorderly 
abbess  of  Port  Royal,  who  went  about  at  fair 
time  with  soldiers  and  thieves,  and  conducted 
her  abbey  on  the  queerest  principles;  and 
most  likely  Perette  Mauger,  the  great  Paris 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  not  yet  dreaming, 
poor  woman!  of  the  last  scene  of  her  career 
when  Henry  Cousin,  executor  of  the  high 
justice,  shall  bury  her,  alive  and  most  reluctant, 
in  front  of  the  new  Montigny  gibbet.  Nay, 
our  friend  soon  began  to  take  a  foremost  rank 
in  this_  society.  He  could  string  off  verses, 
which  is  always  an  agreeable  talent;    and  he 


could  make  himself  useful  in  many  other  ways. 
The  whole  ragged  army  of  Bohemia,  and  who- 
soever loved  good  cheer  without  at  all  loving 
to  work  and  pay  for  it,  are  addressed  in  con- 
temporary verses  as  the  "Subjects  of  Frangois 
Villon."  He  was  a  good  genius  to  all  hungry 
and  unscrupulous  persons;  and  became  the 
hero  of  a  whole  legendary  cycle  of  tavern 
tricks  and  cheateries.  At  best,  these  were 
doubtful  levities,  rather  too  thievish  for  a 
schoolboy,  rather  too  gamesome  for  a  thief. 
But  he  would  not  linger  long  in  this  equivocal 
border  land.  He  must  soon  have  complied 
with  his  surroundings.  He  was  one  who 
would  go  where  the  cannikin  clinked,  not  car- 
ing who  should  pay;  and  from  supping  in  the 
wolves'  den,  there  is  but  a  step  to  hunting 
with  the  pack.  And  here,  as  I  am  on  the 
chapter  of  his  degradation,  I  shall  say  all  I 
mean  to  say  about  its  darkest  expression,  and 
be  done  with  it  for  good.  Some  charitable 
critics  see  no  more  than  a  jeu  d' esprit,  a  graceful 
and  trifling  exercise  of  the  imagination,  in  the 
grimy  ballad  of  Fat  Peg  {Grosse  Mar  got).  I 
am  not  able  to  follow  these  gentlemen  to  this 
polite  extreme.  Out  of  all  Villon's  w^orks  that 
ballad  stands  forth  in  flaring  reality,  gross  and 
ghastly,  as  a  thing  written  in  a  contraction  of 
disgust.  M.  Longnon  shows  us  more  and 
more  clearly  at  every  page  that  we  are  to  read 
our  poet  literally,  that  his  names  are  the  names 
of  real  persons,  and  the  events  he  chronicles 
were  actual  events.  But  even  if  the  tendency 
of  criticism  had  run  the  other  way,  this  ballad 
would  have  gone  far  to  prove  itself.  I  can 
well  understand  the  reluctance  of  worthy  per- 
sons in  this  matter;  for  of  course  it  is  un- 
pleasant to  think  of  a  man  of  genius  as  one 
who  held,  in  the  words  of  ISIarina  to  Boult  — 

"  A  place,  for  which  the  pained'st  fiend 
Of  hell  would  not  in  reputation  change." 

But  beyond  this  natural  unwillingness,  the 
whole  difliculty  of  the  case  springs  from  a 
highly  virtuous  ignorance  of  life.  Paris  now 
is  not  so  different  from  the  Paris  of  then; 
and  the  whole  of  the  doings  of  Bohemia  are 
not  written  in  the  sugar-candy  pastorals  of 
Murger.  It  is  really  not  at  all  surprising  that 
a  young  man  of  the  fifteenth  centur\',  with  a 
knack  of  making  verses,  should  accept  his 
bread  upon  disgraceful  terms.  The  race  of 
those  who  do  is  not  extinct ;  and  some  of  them 
to  this  day  write  the  prettiest  verses  imagi- 
nable. .  .  .     After  this,  it  were  impossible  for 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


51. 


Master  Francis  to  fall  lower:  to  go  and  steal 
for  himself  would  be  an  admirable  advance 
from  every  point  of  view,  divine  or  human. 

And  yet  it  is  not  as  a  thief,  but  as  a  homi- 
cide, that  he  makes  his  first  appearance  before 
angry  justice.  On  June  5,  1455,  when  he  was 
about  twenty-four,  and  had  been  Master  of 
Arts  for  a  matter  of  three  years,  we  behold 
him  for  the  first  time  quite  definitely.  Angry 
justice  had,  as  it  were,  photographed  him  in 
the  act  of  his  homicide;  and  M.  Longnon, 
rummaging  among  old  deeds,  has  turned  up 
the  negative  and  printed  it  off  for  our  instruc- 
tion. Villon  had  been  supping  —  copiously 
we  may  believe  —  and  sat  on  a  stone  bench 
in  front  of  the  Church  of  Saint  Benoit,  in  com- 
pany with  a  priest  called  Gilles  and  a  woman 
of  the  name  of  Isabeau.  It  was  nine  o'clock, 
a  mighty  late  hour  for  the  period,  and  evi- 
dently a  fine  summer's  night.  Master  Francis 
carried  a  mantle,  like  a  prudent  man,  to  keep 
him  from  the  dews  (scrain),  and  had  a  sword 
below  it  dangling  from  his  girdle.  So  these 
three  dallied  in  front  of  St.  Benoit,  taking  their 
pleasure  {pour  soy  esbatre).  Suddenly  there 
arrived  upon  the  scene  a  priest,  Philippe 
Chermoye  or  Sermaise,  also  with  sword  and 
cloak,  and  accompanied  by  one  Master  Jehan 
le  Mardi.  Sermaise,  according  to  Villon's 
account,  which  is  all  we  have  to  go  upon, 
came  up  blustering  and  denying  God;  as 
Villon  rose  to  make  room  for  him  upon  the 
bench,  thrust  him  rudely  back  into  his  place; 
and  finally  drew  his  sword  and  cut  open  his 
lower  lip,  by  what  I  should  imagine  was  a  very 
clumsy  stroke.  Up  to  this  point,  Villon  pro- 
fesses to  have  been  a  model  of  courtesy,  even 
of  feebleness;  and  the  brawl,  in  his  version, 
reads  like  the  fable  of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb. 
But  now  the  lamb  was  roused;  he  drew  his 
sword,  stabbed  Sermaise  in  the  groin,  knocked 
him  on  the  head  with  a  big  stone,  and  then, 
leaving  him  to  his  fate,  went  away  to  have  his 
own  lip  doctored  by  a  barber  of  the  name  of 
Fouquet.  In  one  version,  he  says  that  Gilles, 
Isabeau,  and  Le  Mardi  ran  away  at  the  first 
high  words,  and  that  he  and  Sermaise  had  it 
out  alone;  in  another,  Le  Mardi  is  represented 
as  returning  and  wresting  Villon's  sword  from 
him:  the  reader  may  please  himself.  Ser- 
maise was  picked  up,  lay  all  that  night  in  the 
prison  of  Saint  Benoit,  where  he  was  examined 
by  an  official  of  the  Chatelet  and  expressly 
pardoned  Villon,  and  died  on  the  following 
Saturday  in  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  in  June.     Not  be- 


fore January  of  the  next  year  could  Villon 
extract  a  pardon  from  the  king;  but  while  his 
hand  was  in,  he  got  two.  One  is  for  "Francois 
des  Loges,  alias  (anlremcnt  dit)  de  Villon"; 
and  the  other  runs  in  the  name  of  Francois 
de  Montcorbier.  Nay,  it  appears  there  was  a 
further  complication;  for  in  the  narrative  of 
the  first  of  these  documents,  it  is  mentioned 
that  he  passed  himself  off"  upon  Foucjuet,  the 
barber-surgeon,  as  one  Michel  Mouton.  M. 
Longnon  has  a  theory  that  this  unhappy  acci- 
dent with  Sermaise  was  the  cause  of  Villon's 
subsequent  irregularities;  and  that  up  to  that 
moment  he  had  been  the  pink  of  good  be- 
haviour. But  the  matter  has  to  my  eyes  a 
more  dubious  air.  A  pardon  necessary  for 
Des  Loges  and  another  for  Montcorbier?  and 
these  two  the  same  person  ?  and  one  or  both 
of  them  known  by  the  alias  of  Villon,  how- 
ever honestly  come  by  ?  and  lastly,  in  the  heat 
of  the  moment,  a  fourth  name  thrown  out 
with  an  assured  countenance?  A  ship  is  not 
to  be  trusted  that  sails  under  so  many  colours. 
This  is  not  the  simple  bearing  of  innocence. 
No  —  the  young  master  was  already  treading 
crooked  paths;  already,  he  would  start  and 
blench  at  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  with  the 
look  we  know  so  well  in  the  face  of  Hogarth's 
Idle  Apprentice;  already,  in  the  blue  devils, 
he  would  see  Henry  Cousin,  the  executor  of 
high  justice,  going  in  dolorous  procession 
toward  Montfaucon,  and  hear  the  wind  and 
the  birds  crying  around  Paris  gibbet. 

A  Gang  of  Thieves 

In  spite  of  the  prodigious  number  of  peo- 
ple who  managed  to  get  hanged,  the  fifteenth 
century  was  by  no  means  a  bad  time  for  crim- 
inals. A  great  confusion  of  parties  and  great 
dust  of  fighting  favoured  the  escape  of  private 
housebreakers  and  quiet  fellows  who  stole  ducks 
in  Paris  Moat.  Prisons  were  leaky;  and  as 
we  shall  see,  a  man  with  a  few  crowns  in  his 
pocket  and  perhaps  some  acquaintance  among 
the  officials,  could  easily  slip  out  and  become 
once  more  a  free  marauder.  There  was  no 
want  of  a  sanctuary  where  he  might  harbour 
until  troubles  blew  by;  and  accomplices  helped 
each  other  with  more  or  less  good  faith.  Clerks, 
above  all,  had  remarkable  facilities  for  a  crimi- 
nal way  of  life ;  for  they  were  privileged,  except 
in  cases  of  notorious  incorrigibility,  to  be 
plucked  from  the  hands  of  rude  secular  justice 
and  tried  by  a  tribunal  of  their  own.  In  1402,  a 
couple  of  thieves,  both  clerks  of  the  University, 


514 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


sity,  were  condemned  to  death  by  the  Provost 
of  Paris.  As  they  were  taken  to  Montfaucon, 
they  kept  crying  "high  and  clearly"  for  their 
benefit  of  clergy,  but  were  none  the  less  piti- 
lessly hanged  and  gibbeted.  Indignant  Alma 
Mater  interfered  before  the  king;  and  the 
Provost  was  deprived  of  all  royal  ofifices,  and 
condemned  to  return  the  bodies  and  erect  a 
great  stone  cross,  on  the  road  from  Paris  to  the 
gibbet,  graven  with  the  efl&gies  of  these  two  holy 
martyrs.  We  shall  hear  more  of  the  benefit 
of  clergy;  for  after  this  the  reader  will  not  be 
surprised  to  meet  with  thieves  in  the  shape  of 
tonsured  clerks,  or  even  priests  and  monks. 

To  a  knot  of  such  learned  pilferers  our  poet 
certainly  belonged ;  and  by  turning  over  a  few 
more  of  M.  Longnon's  negatives,  we  shall  get  a 
clear  idea  of  their  character  and  doings.  Mon- 
tigny  and  De  Cayeux  are  names  already  known ; 
Guy  Tabary,  Petit-Jehan,  Dom  Nicolas,  little 
Thibault,  who  was  both  clerk  and  goldsmith, 
and  who  made  picklocks  and  melted  plate  for 
himself  and  his  companions  —  with  these  the 
reader  has  still  to  become  acquainted.  Petit- 
Jehan  and  De  Cayeux  were  handy  fellows  and 
enjoyed  a  useful  preeminence  in  honour  of  their 
doings  with  the  picklock.  "Diciiis  dcs  Cahyeus 
est  forlis  operator  crocheiorum,^'  says  Tabary's 
interrogation,  "sed  dictiis  Petit-Jehan,  ejus  so- 
cius,  est  forcius  operator^  But  the  flower  of 
the  flock  was  little  Thibault;  it  was  reported 
that  no  lock  could  stand  before  him;  he  had  a 
persuasive  hand;  let  us  salute  capacity  wher- 
ever we  may  find  it.  Perhaps  the  term  gatig  is 
not  quite  properly  applied  to  the  persons  whose 
fortunes  we  are  now  about  to  follow;  rather 
they  were  independent  malefactors,  socially 
intimate,  and  occasionally  joining  together  for 
some  serious  operation,  just  as  modern  stock- 
jobbers form  a  syndicate  for  an  important  loan. 
Nor  were  they  at  all  particular  to  any  branch  of 
misdoing.  They  did  not  scrupulously  confine 
themselves  to  a  single  sort  of  theft,  as  I  hear  is 
common  among  modem  thieves.  They  were 
ready  for  anything,  from  pitch-and-toss  to 
manslaughter.  Montigny,  for  instance,  had 
neglected  neither  of  these  extremes,  and  we 
find  him  accused  of  cheating  at  games  of  haz- 
ard on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  of  the 
murder  of  one  Thevenin  Pensete  in  a  house  by 
the  Cemetery  of  St.  John.  If  time  had  only 
spared  us  some  particulars,  might  not  this  last 
have  furnished  us  with  the  matter  of  a  grisly 
winter's  tale? 

At  Christmas-time  in  1446,  readers  of  Villon 
will  remember  that  he  was  engaged  on  the 


Small  Testament.  About  the  same  period, 
circa  festum  nativitatis  Domini,  he  took  part 
in  a  memorable  supper  at  the  Mule  Tavern, 
in  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mathurin. 
Tabary,  who  seems  to  have  been  very  much 
Villon's  creature,  had  ordered  the  supper  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon.  He  was  a  man  who 
had  had  troubles  in  his  time  and  languished  in 
the  Bishop  of  Paris's  prisons  on  a  suspicion  of 
picking  locks;  confiding,  convivial,  not  very 
astute  —  who  had  copied  out  a  whole  im- 
proper romance  with  his  own  right  hand. 
This  supper-party  was  to  be  his  first  intro- 
duction to  De  Cayeux  and  Petit-Jehan,  which 
was  probably  a  matter  of  some  concern  to  the 
poor  man's  muddy  \vits;  in  the  sequel,  at 
least,  he  speaks  of  both  with  an  undisguised 
respect,  based  on  professional  inferiority  in  the 
matter  of  picklocks.  Dom  Nicolas,  a  Picardy 
monk,  v/as  the  fifth  and  last  at  table.  When 
supper  had  been  despatched  and  fairly  washed 
down,  we  may  suppose,  with  white  Baigneux  or 
red  Beaune,  which  were  favourite  wines  among 
the  fellowship,  Tabary  was  solemnly  sworn 
over  to  secrecy  on  the  night's  performances; 
and  the  party  left  the  Mule  and  proceeded  to  an 
unoccupied  house  belonging  to  Robert  de  Saint- 
Simon.  This,  over  a  low  wall,  they  entered 
without  diflficulty.  All  but  Tabary  took  off  their 
upper  garments;  a  ladder  was  found  and  ap- 
plied to  the  high  wall  which  separated  Saint- 
Simon's  house  from  the  court  of  the  College 
of  Navarre;  the  four  fellows  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves (as  we  might  say)  clambered  over  in  a 
twinkling;  and  Master  Guy  Tabary  remained 
alone  beside  the  overcoats.  From  the  court  the 
burglars  made  their  way  into  the  vestr}'  of  the 
chapel,  where  they  found  a  large  chest,  strength- 
ened with  iron  bands  and  closed  with  four 
locks.  One  of  these  locks  they  picked,  and 
then,  by  levering  up  the  corner,  forced  the 
other  three.  Inside  w-as  a  small  coffer,  of 
walnut  wood,  also  barred  with  iron,  but  fastened 
with  only  three  locks,  which  were  all  com- 
fortably picked  by  way  of  the  keyhole.  In  the 
walnut  coffer  —  a  joyous  sight  by  our  thieves' 
lantern  —  were  five  hundred  crowns  of  gold. 
There  was  some  talk  of  opening  the  aumries, 
where,  if  they  had  only  known,  a  booty  eight 
or  nine  times  greater  lay  ready  to  their  hand; 
but  one  of  the  party  (I  have  a  humorous  sus- 
picion it  was  Dom  Nicolas,  the  Picardy  monk) 
hurried  them  away.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when 
they  mounted  the  ladder;  it  was  about  mid- 
night before  Tabary  beheld  them  coming  back. 
To  him  they  gave  ten  crowns,  and  promised  a 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


515 


share  of  a  two-crown  dinner  on  the  morrow; 
whereat  we  may  suppose  his  mouth  watered. 
In  course  of  time,  he  got  wind  of  the  real  amount 
of  their  booty  and  understood  how  scurvily  he 
had  been  used ;  but  he  seems  to  have  borne  no 
maHce.  How  could  he,  against  such  superb 
operators  as  Pctit-Jehan  and  De  Cayeux;  or 
a  person  like  Villon,  who  could  have  made  a 
new  improper  romance  out  of  his  own  head, 
instead  of  merely  copying  an  old  one  with 
mechanical  right  hand? 

The  rest  of  the  winter  was  not  uneventful 
for  the  gang.  First  they  made  a  demon- 
stration against  the  Church  of  St.  Mathurin 
after  chalices,  and  were  ignominiously  chased 
away  by  barking  dogs.  Then  Tabary  fell  out 
with  Casin  ChoUet,  one  of  the  fellows  who 
stole  ducks  in  Paris  Moat,  who  subsequently 
became  a  sergeant  of  the  Chatelet  and  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  misconduct,  followed  by 
imprisonment  and  public  castigation,  during 
the  wars  of  Louis  Eleventh.  The  quarrel  was 
not  conducted  with  a  proper  regard  to  the  king's 
peace,  and  the  pair  publicly  belaboured  each 
other  until  the  police  stepped  in,  and  Master 
Tabary  was  cast  once  more  into  the  prisons  of 
the  Bishop.  While  he  still  lay  in  durance,  another 
job  was  cleverly  executed  liy  the  band  in  broad 
daylight,  at  the  Augustine  Monastery.  Brother 
Guillaume  CoifiTicr  was  beguiled  by  an  accom- 
plice to  St.  Mathurin  to  say  mass;  and  during 
his  absence,  his  chamber  was  entered  and  five  or 
six  hundred  crowns  in  money  and  some  silver- 
plate  successfully  abstracted.  A  melancholy 
man  was  Coiflier  on  his  return  !  Eight  crowns 
from  this  adventure  were  forwarded  by  little 
Thibault  to  the  incarcerated  Tabary;  and  with 
these  he  bribed  the  jailer  and  reappeared  in 
Paris  taverns.  Some  time  before  or  shortly 
after  this,  Villon  set  out  for  Angers,  as  he  had 
promised  in  the  Small  Testament.  The  object 
of  this  excursion  was  not  merely  to  avoid  the 
presence  of  his  cruel  mistress  or  the  strong  ami 
of  Noe  le  Joly,  but  to  plan  a  deliberate  robbery 
on  his  uncle  the  monk.  As  soon  as  he  had 
properly  studied  the  ground,  the  others  were 
to  go  over  in  force  from  Paris  —  picklocks  and 
all  —  and  away  with  my  uncle's  strongbox ! 
This  throws  a  comical  sidelight  on  his  own 
accusation  against  his  relatives,  that  they  had 
"forgotten  natural  duty"  and  disowned  him 
because  he  was  poor.  A  poor  relation  is  a  dis- 
tasteful circumstance  at  the  best,  but  a  poor 
relation  who  plans  deliberate  roljberies  against 
those  of  his  blood,  and  trudges  hundreds  of 
weary  leagues  to  put  them  into  execution,  is 


surely  a  little  on  the  wrong  side  of  toleration. 
The  uncle  at  Angers  may  have  been  monstrously 
undutiful;  but  the  nephew  from  Paris  was 
upsides  with  him. 

On  the  23d  April,  that  venerable  and  dis- 
creet person,  Master  Pierre  Marchand,  Curate 
and  Prior  of  Paray-le-Monial,  in  the  diocese 
of  Chartres,  arrived  in  Paris  and  put  up  at  the 
sign  of  the  Three  Chandeliers,  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Huchette.  Next  day,  or  the  day  after,  as  he 
was  breakfasting  at  the  sign  of  the  Arm-chair, 
he  fell  into  talk  with  two  customers,  one  of 
whom  was  a  priest  and  the  other  our  friend 
Tabary.  The  idiotic  Tabary  became  mighty 
confidential  as  to  his  past  life.  Pierre  Mar- 
chand, who  was  an  acquaintance  of  Guillaume 
Coil^ier's  and  had  sympathised  with  him  over 
his  loss,  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  mention  of 
picklocks,  and  led  on  the  transcriber  of  im- 
proper romances  from  one  thing  to  another, 
until  they  were  fa.st  friends.  For  picklocks 
the  Prior  of  Paray  professed  a  keen  curiosity; 
but  Tabary,  upon  some  late  alarm,  had  thrown 
all  his  into  the  Seine.  Let  that  be  no  difficulty, 
however,  for  was  there  not  little  Thibault, 
who  could  make  them  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
and  to  whom  Tabary,  smelling  an  accomplice, 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  introduce  his  new 
acquaintance?  On  the  morrow,  accordingly, 
they  met;  and  Tabary,  after  having  first  wet 
his  whistle  at  the  Prior's  expense,  led  him 
to  Notre  Dame  and  presented  him  to  four  or 
five  "young  companions,"  who  were  keeping 
sanctuary  in  the  church.  They  were  all  clerks, 
recently  escaped,  like  Tabary  himself,  from  the 
episcopal  prisons.  Among  these  we  may  notice 
Thibault,  the  operator,  a  little  fellow  of  twenty- 
six,  wearing  long  hair  behind.  The  Prior  ex- 
pressed, through  Tabary,  his  anxiety  to  be- 
come their  accomplice  and  altogether  such  as 
they  were  {dc  Icur  sortc  ct  de  leitrs  complices). 
Mighty  polite  they  showed  themselves,  and  made 
him  many  fine  speeches  in  return.  But  for  all 
that,  perhaps  because  they  had  longer  heads 
than  Tabary,  perhaps  because  it  is  less  easy  to 
wheedle  men  in  a  l>ody,  they  kept  obstinately 
to  generalities  and  gave  him  no  information 
as  to  their  exploits,  past,  present,  or  to  come. 
I  suppose  Tabary  groaned  under  this  reserve ; 
for  no  sooner  were  he  and  the  Prior  out  of  the 
church  than  he  fairly  emptied  his  heart  to  him, 
gave  him  full  details  of  many  hanging  matters 
in  the  past,  and  explained  the  future  intentions 
of  the  band.  The  scheme  of  the  hour  was  to 
rob  another  Augustine  monk,  Robert  de  la 
Porte,  and  in  this  the  Prior  agreed  to  take  a  hand 


5i6 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


with  simulated  greed.  Thus,  in  the  course  of 
two  days,  he  had  turned  this  wineskin  of  a 
Tabary  inside  out.  For  a  while  longer  the 
farce  was  carried  on ;  the  Prior  was  introduced 
to  Petit-Jehan,  whom  he  describes  as  a  little, 
very  smart  man  of  thirty,  with  a  black  beard 
and  a  short  jacket ;  an  appointment  was  made 
and  broken  in  the  de  la  Porte  affair;  Tabary 
had  some  breakfast  at  the  Prior's  charge  and 
leaked  out  more  secrets  under  the  influence  of 
wine  and  friendship;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden, 
on  the  17th  of  May,  an  alarm  sprang  up,  the 
Prior  picked  up  his  skirts  and  walked  quietly 
over  to  the  Chatclet  to  make  a  deposition,  and 
the  whole  band  took  to  their  heels  and  vanished 
out  of  Paris  and  the  sight  of  the  police. 

Vanish  as  they  like,  they  all  go  with  a  clog 
about  their  feet.  Sooner  or  later,  here  or  there, 
they  will  be  caught  in  the  fact,  and  ignomini- 
ously  sent  home.  From  our  vantage  of  four 
centuries  afterward,  it  is  odd  and  pitiful  to 
watch  the  order  in  which  the  fugitives  are 
captured  and  dragged  in. 

Montigny  was  the  first.  In  August  of  that 
same  year,  he  was  laid  by  the  heels  on  many 
grievous  counts ;  sacrilegious  robberies,  frauds, 
incorrigibility,  and  that  bad  business  aliout 
Thevenin  Pensete  in  the  house  by  the  Cemetery 
of  St.  John.  He  was  reclaimed  by  the  eccle- 
siastical authorities  as  a  clerk;  but  the  claim 
was  rebutted  on  the  score  of  incorrigibility, 
and  ultimately  fell  to  the  ground ;  and  he  was 
condemned  to  death  by  the  Provost  of  Paris. 
It  was  a  very  rude  hour  for  Montigny,  but  hope 
was  not  yet  over.  He  was  a  fellow  of  some 
birth;  his  father  had  been  king's  pantler;  his 
sister,  probably  married  to  some  one  about  the 
Court,  was  in  the  family  way,  and  her  health 
would  be  endangered  if  the  execution  was 
proceeded  with.  So  down  comes  Charles  the 
Seventh  with  letters  of  mercy,  commuting  the 
penalty  to  a  year  in  a  dungeon  on  bread  and 
water,  and  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St. 
James  in  Galicia.  Alas!  the  document  was 
incomplete;  it  did  not  contain  the  full  tale  of 
Montigny's  enormities;  it  did  not  recite  that  he 
had  been  denied  benefit  of  clergy,  and  it  said 
nothing  about  Thevenin  Pensete.  Montigny's 
hour  was  at  hand.  Benefit  of  clergy,  honourable 
descent  from  king's  pantler,  sister  in  the  family 
way,  royal  letters  of  commutation  —  all  were  of 
no  avail.  He  had  been  in  prison  in  Rouen,  in 
Tours,  in  Bordeaux,  and  four  times  already  in 
Paris;  and  out  of  all  these  he  had  come  scath- 
less;  but  now  he  must  make  a  little  excursion 
as   far   as   Montfaucon   with    Henry    Cousin, 


executor  of  high  justice.  There  let  him  swing 
among  the  carrion  crows. 

About  a  year  later,  in  July,  1458,  the  police 
laid  hands  on  Tabary.  Before  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal commissary  he  was  twice  examined,  and,  on 
the  latter  occasion,  put  to  the  question  ordinary 
and  extraordinary.  What  a  dismal  change  from 
pleasant  suppers  at  the  Mule,  where  he  sat  in 
triumph  with  expert  operators  and  great  wits! 
He  is  at  the  lees  of  life,  poor  rogue;  and  those 
fingers  which  once  transcribed  improper 
romances  are  now  agonisingly  stretched  upon 
the  rack.  We  have  no  sure  knowledge,  but 
we  may  have  a  shrewd  guess  of  the  conclusion. 
Tabary,  the  admirer,  would  go  the  same  way 
as  those  whom  he  admired. 

The  last  we  hear  of  is  Colin  de  Cayeux. 
He  was  caught  in  autumn  1460,  in  the  great 
Church  of  St.  Leu  d'Esserens,  which  makes  so 
fine  a  figure  in  the  pleasant  Oise  valley  between 
Creil  and  Beaumont.  He  was  reclaimed  by  no 
less  than  two  bishops;  but  the  Procureur  for 
the  Provost  held  fast  by  incorrigible  Colin. 
1460  was  an  ill-starred  year:  for  justice  was 
making  a  clean  sweep  of  "poor  and  indigent 
persons,  thieves,  cheats,  and  lockpickers," 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris;  and  Colin  de 
Cayeux,  with  many  others,  was  condemned  to 
death  and  hanged. 

Villon  and  the  Gallows 

Villon  was  still  absent  on  the  Angers  expedi- 
tion when  the  Prior  of  Paray  sent  such  a  bomb- 
shell among  his  accomplices;  and  the  dates  of 
his  return  and  arrest  remain  undiscoverable. 
M.  Campaux  plausibly  enough  opined  for  the 
autumn  of  1457,  which  would  make  him  closely 
follow  on  Montigny,  and  the  first  of  those  de- 
nounced by  the  Prior  to  fall  into  the  toils.  We 
may  suppose,  at  least,  that  it  was  not  long 
thereafter;  we  may  suppose  him  competed  for 
between  lay  and  clerical  Courts;  and  we  may 
suppose  him  alternately  pert  and  impudent, 
humble  and  fawning,  in  his  defence.  But  at 
the  end  of  all  supposing,  we  come  upon  some 
nuggets  of  fact.  For  first,  he  was  put  to  the 
question  by  water.  He  who  had  tossed  off  so 
many  cups  of  white  Baigneux  or  red  Beaune, 
now  drank  water  through  linen  folds,  until  his 
bowels  were  flooded  and  his  heart  stood  still. 
After  so  much  raising  of  the  elbow,  so  much 
outcry  of  fictitious  thirst,  here  at  last  was 
enough  drinking  for  a  lifetime.  Truly,  of  our 
pleasant  vices,  the  gods  make  whips  to  scourge 
us.     And  secondly  he  was  condemned  to  be 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


517 


hanged.  A  man  may  have  l)een  expecting  a 
catastrophe  for  years,  and  yet  find  himself  un- 
prepared when  it  arrives.  Certainly,  Villon 
found,  in  this  legitimate  issue  of  his  career, 
a  very  staggering  and  grave  consideration. 
Every  beast,  as  he  says,  clings  bitterly  to  a  whole 
skin.  If  everything  is  lost,  and  even  honour, 
life  still  remains;  nay,  and  it  becomes, like  the 
ewe  lamb  in  Nathan's  parable,  as  dear  as  all 
the  rest.  "Do  you  fancy,"  he  a.sks,  in  a  lively 
ballad,  "that  I  had  not  enough  philosophy  un- 
der my  hood  to  cry  out :  'I  appeal '  ?  If  I  had 
made  any  bones  aljout  the  matter,  I  should  have 
been  planted  upright  in  the  fields,  by  the  St. 
Denis  Road"  —  Montfaucon  being  on  the  way 
to  St.  Denis.  An  appeal  to  Parliament,  as  we 
saw  in  the  case  of  Colin  de  Cayeux,  did  not 
necessarily  lead  to  an  acquittal  or  a  commuta- 
tion ;  and  while  the  matter  was  pending,  our 
poet  had  ample  opportunity  to  reflect  on  his 
position.  Hanging  is  a  sharp  argument,  and 
to  swing  with  many  others  on  the  gibbet  adds 
a  horrible  corollary  for  the  imagination.  With 
the  aspect  of  Montfaucon  he  was  well  acquainted ; 
indeed,  as  the  neighbourhood  appears  to  have 
been  sacred  to  junketing  and  nocturnal  picnics 
of  wild  3'oungmen  and  women,  he  had  proba- 
bly studied  it  under  all  varieties  of  hour  and 
weather.  And  now,  as  he  lay  in  prison  waiting 
the  mortal  push,  these  different  aspects  crowded 
back  on  his  imagination  with  a  new  and  startling 
significance;  and  he  wrote  a  ballad,  by  way  of 
epitaph  for  himself  and  his  companions,  which 
remains  unique  in  the  annals  of  mankind.  It  is, 
in  the  highest  sense,  a  piece  of  his  biography :  — 

"  La  pluye  nous  a  debuez  et  lavez, 
Et  le  soleil  dessechez  et  noirciz; 
Pies,  corbeaulx,  nous  ont  les  yeux  cavez, 
Et  arrachez  la  barbe  et  les  sourcilz. 
Jamais,  nul  temps,  nous  ne  sommes  rassis; 
Puis  5a,  puis  la,  comma  le  vent  varie, 
A  son  plaisir  sans  cesser  nous  charic. 
Plus  becquetez  d'oiseauLx  que  dez  a  couldrc. 
Ne  soyez  done  de  nostre  confrairic, 
Mais  priez  Dieu  que  tous  nous  vucille  absouldre." 

Here '  is  some  genuine  thieves'  literature 
after  so  much  that  was  spurious;  sharp  as  an 
etching,  written  with  a  shuddering  soul.  There 
is  an  intensity  of  consideration  in  the  piece  that 
shows  it  to  be  the  transcript  of  familiar  thoughts. 
It  is  the  quintessence  of  many  a  doleful  night- 
mare on  the  straw,  when  he  felt  himself  swing 
helpless  in  the  wind,  and  saw  the  birds  turn 
about  him,  screaming  and  menacing  his  eyes. 

And,  after  all,  the  Parliament  changed  his 


sentence  into  one  of  banishment;  and  to 
Roussillon,  in  Dauphiny,  our  poet  must  carry 
his  woes  without  delay.  Travellers  between 
Lyons  and  Marseilles  may  remember  a  station 
on  the  line,  some  way  below  Vienne,  where  the 
Rhone  fleets  seaward  between  vine-clad  hills. 
This  was  Villon's  Siberia.  It  would  be  a  little 
warm  in  summer  perhaps,  and  a  little  cold  in 
winter  in  that  draughty  valley  between  two 
great  mountain  fields;  but  what  with  the  hills, 
and  the  racing  river,  and  the  fiery  Rhone 
wines,  he  was  little  to  be  pitied  on  the  conditions 
of  his  exile.  Villon,  in  a  remarkably  bad  ballad, 
written  in  a  breath,  heartily  thanked  and  ful- 
somely  belauded  the  Parliament;  the  envoi, 
like  the  proverbial  postscript  of  a  lady's  letter, 
containing  the  pith  of  his  performance  in  a 
request  for  three  days'  delay  to  settle  his  affairs 
and  bid  his  friends  farewell.  He  was  probably 
not  followed  out  of  Paris,  like  Antoine  Fradin, 
the  popular  preacher,  another  exile  of  a  few 
years  later,  by  weeping  multitudes;  but  I  dare 
say  one  or  two  rogues  of  his  acquaintance  would 
keep  him  company  for  a  mile  or  so  on  the  south 
road,  and  drink  a  bottle  with  him  before  they 
turned.  For  banished  people,  in  those  days, 
seem  to  have  set  out  on  their  own  responsibility, 
in  their  own  guard,  and  at  their  own  expense. 
It  was  no  joke  to  make  one's  way  from  Paris  to 
Roussillon  alone  and  penniless  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  Villon  says  he  left  a  rag  of  his  tails 
on  every  bush.  Indeed,  he  must  have  had 
many  a  weary  tramp,  many  a  slender  meal, 
and  many  a  to-do  with  blustering  captains  of 
the  Ordonnance.  But  with  one  of  his  light  fin- 
gers, we  may  fancy  that  he  took  as  good  as  he 
gave ;  for  every  rag  of  his  tail,  he  would  manage 
to  indemnify  himself  upon  the  population  in  the 
shape  of  food,  or  wine,  or  ringing  money;  and 
his  route  would  be  traceable  across  France 
and  Burgundy  by  housewives  and  inn-keepers 
lamenting  over  petty  thefts,  like  the  track  of  a 
single  human  locust.  A  strange  figure  he  must 
have  cut  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  country  people: 
this  ragged,  blackguard  city  poet,  with  a  smack 
of  the  Paris  student,  and  a  smack  of  the  Paris 
street  arab,  posting  along  the  highways,  in 
rain  or  sun,  among  the  green  fields  and  vine- 
yards. For  himself,  he  had  no  taste  for  rural 
loveliness;  green  fields  and  vineyards  would 
be  mighty  indiflerenl  to  Master  Francis;  but 
he  woulrl  often  have  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  at 
the  simplicity  of  rustic  dupes,  and  often,  at 
citv  gates,  he  might  stop  to  contemplate  the 
gibbet  with  its  swinging  bodies,  and  hug  him- 
self on  his  escape. 


5i8 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


How  long  he  stayed  at  Roussillon,  how  far  he 
became  the  protege  of  the  Bourbons,  to  whom 
that  town  belonged,  or  when  it  was  that  he 
took  part,  under  the  auspices  of  Charles  of 
Orleans,  in  a  rhyming  tournament  to  be  referred 
to  once  again  in  the  pages  of  the  present  volume, 
are  matters  that  still  remain  in  darkness, 
in  spite  of  ISI.  Longnon's  diligent  rummaging 
among  archives.  When  we  next  find  him,  in 
summer  1461,  alas!  he  is  once  more  in 
durance:  this  time  at  Meun-sur-Loire,  in  the 
prisons  of  Thibault  d'Aussigny,  Bishop  of 
Orleans.  He  had  been  lowered  in  a  basket 
into  a  noisome  pit,  where  he  lay,  all  summer, 
gnawing  hard  crusts  and  railing  upon  fate. 
His  teeth,  he  says,  were  like  the  teeth  of  a 
rake:  a  touch  of  haggard  portraiture  all  the 
more  real  for  being  excessive  and  burlesque, 
and  all  the  more  proper  to  the  man  for  being  a 
caricature  of  his  own  misery.  His  eyes  were 
"bandaged  with  thick  walls."  It  might  blow 
hurricanes  overhead;  the  lightning  might  leap 
in  high  heaven;  but  no  word  of  all  this  reached 
him  in  his  noisome  pit.  "II  n'entre,  ou  gist, 
n'escler  ni  tourbillon."  Above  all,  he  was 
fevered  with  envy  and  anger  at  the  freedom 
of  others;  and  his  heart  flowed  over  into 
curses  as  he  thought  of  Thibault  d'Aussigny, 
walking  the  streets  in  God's  sunlight,  and  bless- 
ing people  with  extended  fingers.  So  much  we 
find  sharply  lined  in  his  own  poems.  Why  he 
was  cast  again  into  prison  —  how  he  had  again 
managed  to  shave  the  gallows  —  this  we  know 
not,  nor,  from  the  destruction  of  authorities, 
are  we  ever  likely  to  learn.  But  on  October 
2d,  1461,  or  some  day  immediately  preceding, 
the  new  King,  Louis  Eleventh,  made  his  joyous 
entry  into  Meun.  Now  it  was  a  part  of  the 
formality  on  such  occasions  for  the  new  King 
to  liberate  certain  prisoners;  and  so  the  basket 
was  let  down  into  Villon's  pit,  and  hastily  did 
Master  Francis  scramble  in,  and  was  most 
joyfully  hauled  up,  and  shot  out,  blinking  and 
tottering,  but  once  more  a  free  man,  into  the 
blessed  sun  and  wind.  Now  or  never  is  the 
time  for  verses!  Such  a  happy  revolution 
would  turn  the  head  of  a  stocking-weaver, 
and  set  him  jingling  rh3'mes.  And  so  — 
after  a  voyage  to  Paris,  where  he  finds  ISIon- 
tigny  and  De  Cayeux  clattering  their  bones 
upon  the  gibbet,  and  his  three  pupils  royster- 
ing  in  Paris  streets,  "with  their  thumbs 
under  their  girdles,"—  down  sits  Master  Fran- 
cis to  write  his  Large  Testament,  and  per- 
petuate his  name  in  a  sort  of  glorious 
ignominy. 


The  Large  Testament 

Of  this  capital  achievement  and,  with  it, 
of  Villon's  style  in  general,  it  is  here  the  place 
to  speak.  The  Large  Testament  is  a  hurly- 
burly  of  cynical  and  sentimental  reflections 
about  life,  jesting  legacies  to  friends  and  en- 
emies, and,  interspersed  among  these  many 
admirable  ballades,  both  serious  and  absurd. 
\\'ith  so  free  a  design,  no  thought  that  occurred 
to  him  would  need  to  be  dismissed  without 
expression;  and  he  could  draw  at  full  length 
the  portrait  of  his  own  bedevilled  soul,  and  of 
the  bleak  and  blackguardly  world  which  was 
the  theatre  of  his  exploits  and  sufferings.  If  the 
reader  can  conceive  something  between  the 
slap-dash  inconsequence  of  Byron's  Don  Juan 
and  the  racy  humorous  gravity  and  brief  noble 
touches  that  distinguish  the  vernacular  poems 
of  Burns,  he  will  have  formed  some  idea  of 
Villon's  style.  To  the  latter  writer  —  except 
in  the  ballades,  which  are  quite  his  own,  and 
can  be  paralleled  from  no  other  language 
known  to  me  —  he  bears  a  particular  resem- 
blance. In  common  with  Burns  he  has  a  certain 
rugged  compression,  a  brutal  vivacity  of  epithet, 
a  homely  vigour,  a  delight  in  local  personalities, 
and  an  interest  in  many  sides  of  life,  that  are 
often  despised  and  passed  over  by  more  effete 
and  cultured  poets.  Both  also,  in  their  strong, 
easy,  colloquial  way,  tend  to  become  dilTicult 
and  obscure;  the  obscurity  in  the  case  of 
Villon  passing  at  times  into  the  absolute  dark- 
ness of  cant  language.  They  arc  perhaps  the 
only  two  great  masters  of  expression  who  keep 
sending  their  readers  to  a  glossary. 

"Shall  we  not  dare  to  say  of  a  thief,"  asks 
ISIontaigne,  "that  he  has  a  handsome  leg"? 
It  is  a  far  more  serious  claim  that  we  have  to 
put  forward  in  behalf  of  Villon.  Beside  that 
of  his  contemporaries,  his  writing,  so  full  of 
colour,  so  eloquent,  so  picturesque,  stands  out 
in  an  almost  miraculous  isolation.  If  only  one 
or  two  of  the  chroniclers  could  have  taken  a 
leaf  out  of  his  book,  history  would  have  been  a 
pastime,  and  the  fifteenth  century  as  present 
to  our  minds  as  the  age  of  Charles  "Second. 
This  gallows-bird  was  the  one  great  writer  of 
his  age  and  country,  and  initiated  modern 
literature  for  France.  Boileau,  long  ago, 
in  the  period  of  perukes  and  snuff-boxes,  rec- 
ognised him  as  the  first  articulate  p<iet  in  the 
language;  and  if  we  measure  him,  not  by  pri- 
ority of  merit,  but  living  duration  of  influence, 
not  on  a  comparison  with  obscure  forerunners, 
but  with  great  and  famous  successors,  we  shall 


FRANCOIS    VILLON 


519 


install  this  ragged  and  disreputable  figure  in  a 
far  higher  niche  in  glory's  temple  than  was  ever 
dreamed  of  by  the  critic.  It  is,  in  itself,  a 
memorable  fact  that,  before  1542,  in  the  very 
dawn  of  printing,  and  while  modern  France  was 
in  the  making,  the  works  of  Villon  ran  through 
seven  different  editions.  Out  of  him  flows  much 
of  Rabelais;  and  through  Rabelais,  directly  and 
indirectly,  a  deep,  permanent,  and  growing  in- 
spiration. Not  only  his  style,  but  his  callous 
pertinent  way  of  looking  upon  the  sordid  and 
ugly  sides  of  life,  becomes  every  day  a  more 
specific  feature  in  the  literature  of  France. 
And  only  the  other  year,  a  work  of  some  power 
appeared  in  Paris,  and  appeared  with  infinite 
scandal,  which  owed  its  whole  inner  significance 
and  much  of  its  outward  form  to  the  study  of 
our  rhyming  thief. 

The  world  to  which  he  introduces  us  is, 
as  before  said,  blackguardly  and  bleak.  Paris 
swarms  before  us,  full  of  famine,  shame,  and 
death;  monks  and  the  servants  of  great  lords 
hold  high  wassail  upon  cakes  and  pastry;  the 
poor  man  licks  his  lips  before  the  baker's  win- 
dow ;  people  with  patched  eyes  sprawl  all  night 
under  the  stall;  chuckling  Tabary  transcribes 
an  improper  romance;  bare-bosomed  lasses  and 
ruffling  students  swagger  in  the  streets;  the 
drunkard  goes  stumbling  homeward ;  the  grave- 
yard is  full  of  bones;  and  away  on  Mont- 
faucon,  Colin  de  Cayeux  and  Montigny  hang 
draggled  in  the  rain.  Is  there  nothing  better 
to  be  seen  than  sordid  misery  and  worthless 
joys?  Only  where  the  poor  old  mother  of  the 
poet  kneels  in  church  below  painted  windows, 
and  makes  tremulous  supplication  to  the 
Mother  of  God. 

In  our  mixed  world,  full  of  green  fields  and 
happy  lovers,  where  not  long  before,  Joan  of 
Arc  had  led  one  of  the  highest  and  noblest  lives 
in  the  whole  story  of  mankind,  this  was  all 
worth  chronicling  that  our  poet  could  perceive. 
His  eyes  were  indeed  sealed  with  his  own 
filth.  He  dwelt  all  his  life  in  a  pit  more  noi- 
some than  the  dungeon  at  Meun.  In  the  moral 
world,  also,  there  are  large  phenomena  not 
recognisable  out  of  holes  and  corners.  Loud 
winds  blow,  speeding  home  deep-laden  ships 
and  sweeping  rubbish  from  the  earth;  the 
lightning  leaps  and  cleans  the  face  of  heaven; 
high  purposes  and  brave  passions  shake  and 
sublimate  men's  spirits;  and  meanwhile,  in  the 
narrow  dungeon  of  his  soul,  Villon  is  mumbling 
crusts  and  picking  vermin. 

Along  with  this  deadly  gloom  of  outlook,  we 
must  take  another  characteristic  of  his  work: 


its  unrivalled  insincerity.  I  can  give  no  better 
similitude  of  this  quality  than  I  have  given 
already:  that  he  comes  up  with  a  whine,  and 
runs  away  with  a  whoop  and  his  finger  to  his 
nose.  His  pathos  is  that  of  a  professional 
mendicant  who  should  happen  to  be  a  man  of 
genius;  his  levity  that  of  a  bitter  street  arab, 
full  of  bread.  On  a  first  reading,  the  pathetic 
passages  preoccupy  the  reader,  and  he  is  cheated 
out  of  an  alms  in  the  shape  of  sympathy. 
But  when  the  thing  is  studied  the  illusion  fades 
away:  in  the  transitions,  above  all,  we  can  de- 
tect the  evil,  ironical  temper  of  the  man;  and 
instead  of  a  flighty  work,  where  many  crude 
but  genuine  feelings  tumble  together  for  the 
mastery  as  in  the  lists  of  tournament,  we  are 
tempted  to  think  of  the  Large  Testament  as 
of  one  long-drawn  epical  grimace,  pulled  by 
a  merry-andrew,  who  has  found  a  certain 
despicable  eminence  over  human  respect  and 
human  affections  by  perching  himself  astride 
upon  the  gallows.  Between  these  two  views, 
at  best,  all  temperate  judgments  will  be  found 
to  fall;  and  rather,  as  I  imagine,  toward  the 
last. 

There  were  two  things  on  which  he  felt  with 
perfect  and,  in  one  case,  even  threatening 
sincerity. 

The  first  of  these  was  an  undisguised  envy 
of  those  richer  than  himself.  He  was  forever 
drawing  a  parallel,  already  exemplified  from 
his  own  words,  between  the  happy  life  of  the 
well-to-do  and  the  miseries  of  the  poor.  Burns, 
too  proud  and  honest  not  to  work,  continued 
through  all  reverses  to  sing  of  poverty  with 
a  light,  defiant  note.  Beranger  waited  till  he 
was  himself  beyond  the  reach  of  want,  before 
writing  the  Old  Vagabond  or  Jacques.  Samuel 
Johnson,  although  he  was  very  sorry  to  be 
poor,  "was  a  great  arguer  for  the  advantages  of 
poverty"  in  his  ill  days.  Thus  it  is  that  brave 
men  carry  their  crosses,  and  smile  with  the  fox 
burrowing  in  their  vitals.  But  Villon,  who  had 
not  the  courage  to  be  poor  with  honesty,  now 
whiningly  implores  our  sympathy,  now  shows 
his  teeth  upon  the  dung-heap  with  an  ugly 
snarl.  He  envies  bitterly,  envies  passionately. 
Poverty,  he  protests,  drives  men  to  steal,  as 
hunger  makes  the  wolf  sally  from  the  forest. 
The  poor,  he  goes  on,  will  always  have  a  carp- 
ing word  to  say,  or,  if  that  outlet  be  denied, 
nourish  rebellious  thoughts.  It  is  a  calumny 
on  the  noble  army  of  the  poor.  Thousands  in 
a  small  way  of  life,  ay,  and  even  in  the  smallest, 
go  through  life  with  tenfold  as  much  honour  and 
dignity  and  peace  of  mind,  as  the  rich  gluttons 


520 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


whose  dainties  and  state-beds  awakened  Villon's 
covetous  temper.  And  every  morning's  sun 
sees  thousands  who  pass  whistling  to  their  toil. 
But  Villon  was  the  "  mauvais  pauvre  " :  defined 
by  Victor  Hugo,  and,  in  its  English  expression, 
so  admirably  stereotyped  by  Dickens.  He  was 
the  first  wicked  sans-culotte.  He  is  the  man  of 
genius  with  the  mole-skin  cap.  He  is  mighty 
pathetic  and  beseeching  here  in  the  street,  but  I 
would  not  go  down  a  dark  road  with  him  for  a 
large  consideration. 

The  second  of  the  points  on  which  he  was 
genuine  and  emphatic  was  common  to  the 
middle  ages;  a  deep  and  somewhat  snivelling 
conviction  of  the  transitory  nature  of  this  life 
and  the  pity  and  horror  of  death.  Old  age 
and  the  grave,  with  some  dark  and  yet  half- 
sceptical  terror  of  an  after-world  —  these 
were  ideas  that  clung  about  his  bones  like  a 
disease.  An  old  ape,  as  he  says,  may  play  all 
the  tricks  in  its  repertory,  and  none  of  them 
will  tickle  an  audience  into  good  humour. 
"Tousjours  vieil  synge  est  desplaisant."  It  is 
not  the  old  jester  who  receives  most  recognition 
at  a  tavern  party,  but  the  young  fellow,  fresh 
and  handsome,  who  knows  the  new  slang,  and 
carries  off  his  vice  with  a  certain  air.  Of  this, 
as  a  tavern  jester  himself,  he  would  be  pointedly 
conscious.  As  for  the  women  with  whom  he 
was  best  acquainted,  his  reflections  on  their  old 
age,  in  all  their  harrowing  pathos,  shall  remain 
in  the  original  for  me.  Horace  has  disgraced 
himself  to  something  the  same  tune;  but  what 
Horace  throws  out  with  an  ill-favoured  laugh, 
Villon  dwells  on  with  an  almost  maudlin  whim- 
per. 

It  is  in  death  that  he  finds  his  truest  inspira- 
tion; in  the  swift  and  sorrowful  change  that 
overtakes  beauty;  in  the  strange  revolution  by 
which  great  fortunes  and  renowns  are  dimin- 
ished to  a  handful  of  churchyard  dust;  and  in 
the  utter  passing  away  of  what  was  once  lovable 
and  mighty.  It  is  in  this  that  the  nii.xed  te.xture 
of  his  thought  enables  him  to  reach  such  poig- 
nant and  terrible  effects,  and  to  enhance  pity 
with  ridicule,  like  a  man  cutting  capers  to  a 
funeral  march.  It  is  in  this,  also,  that  he  rises 
out  of  himself  into  the  higher  spheres  of  art. 


So,  in  the  ballade  by  which  he  is  best  known,  he 
rings  the  changes  on  names  that  once  stood  for 
beautiful  and  queenly  women,  and  are  now  no 
more  than  letters  and  a  legend.  "Where  are 
the  snows  of  yester  year?"  runs  the  burden. 
And  so,  in  another  not  so  famous,  he  passes 
in  review  the  different  degrees  of  bygone  men, 
from  the  holy  Apostles  and  the  golden  Emperor 
of  the  East,  down  to  the  heralds,  pursuivants, 
and  trumpeters,  who  also  bore  their  part  in  the 
world's  pageantries  and  ate  greedily  at  great 
folks'  tables:  all  this  to  the  refrain  of  "So  much 
carry  the  winds  away!"  Probably,  there  was 
some  melancholy  in  his  mind  for  a  yet  lower 
grade,  and  Montigny  and  Colin  de  Cayeux 
clattering  their  bones  on  Paris  gibbet.  Alas, 
and  with  so  pitiful  an  experience  of  life,  Villon 
can  offer  us  nothing  but  terror  and  lamentation 
about  death !  No  one  has  ever  more  skilfully 
communicated  his  own  disenchantment;  no 
one  ever  blown  a  more  ear-piercing  note  of  sad- 
ness. This  unrepentant  thief  can  attain  neither 
to  Christian  confidence,  nor  to  the  spirit  of  the 
bright  Greek  saying,  that  whom  the  gods  love 
die  early.  It  is  a  poor  heart,  and  a  poorer 
age,  that  cannot  accept  the  conditions  of  life 
with  some  heroic  readiness. 

The  date  of  the  Large  Testament  is  the  last 
date  in  the  poet's  biography.  After  having 
achieved  that  admirable  and  despicable  per- 
formance, he  disapjiears  into  the  night  from 
whence  he  came.  How  or  when  he  died, 
whether  decently  in  bed  or  trussed  up  to  a 
gallows,  remains  a  riddle  for  foolhardy  com- 
mentators. It  ai)pears  his  health  had  suffered 
in  the  pit  at  Meun ;  he  was  thirty  years  of  age 
and  quite  bald;  with  the  notch  in  his  under  lip 
where  Sermaise  had  struck  him  with  the  sword, 
and  what  wrinkles  the  reader  may  imagine. 
In  default  of  portraits,  this  is  all  I  have  been  able 
to  piece  together,  and  perhaps  even  the  bald- 
ness should  be  taken  as  a  figure  of  his  destitu- 
tion. A  sinister  dog,  in  all  likelihood,  but  with 
a  look  in  his  eye,  and  the  loose  flexile  mouth 
that  goes  with  wit  and  an  overweening  sensual 
temperament.  Certainly  the  sorriest  figure  on 
the  rolls  of  fame. 


APPENDIX 


From    THE   MABINOGION 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  WELSH  BY  LADY 
CHARLOTTE  GUEST  i(SCHREIBER) 

(1812-1895) 

PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 

Earl  Evrawc  owned  the  Earldom  of  the 
North.  And  he  had  seven  sons.  And  Evrawc 
maintained  himself  not  so  much  by  his  own 
possessions  as  by  attending  tournaments,  and 
wars,  and  combats.  And,  as  it  often  befalls 
those  who  join  in  encounters  and  wars,  he  was 
slain,  and  six  of  his  sons  likewise.  Now  tlie 
name  of  his  seventh  son  was  Peredur,  and  he 
was  the  youngest  of  them.  And  he  was  not  of 
an  age  to  go  to  wars  and  encounters,  otherwise 
he  might  have  been  slain  as  well  as  his  father 
and  brothers.  His  mother  was  a  scheming 
and  thoughtful  woman,  and  she  was  very 
solicitous  concerning  this  her  only  son  and  his 
possessions.  So  she  took  counsel  with  herself 
to  leave  the  inhabited  country,  and  to  flee  to  the 
deserts  and  unfrequented  wildernesses.  And 
she  permitted  none  to  bear  her  company  thither 
but  women  and  boys,  and  spiritless  men,  who 
were  both  unaccustomed  and  unequal  to  war 
and  fighting.  And  none  dared  to  bring  either 
horses  or  arms  where  her  son  was,  lest  he  should 
set  his  mind  upon  them.  And  the  youth  went 
daily  to  divert  himself  in  the  forest,  by  flinging 
sticks  and  staves.  And  one  day  he  sav/  his 
mother's  flock  of  goats,  and  near  the  goats 
two  hinds  were  standing.  And  he  marvelled 
greatly  that  these  two  should  be  without  horns, 
while  the  others  had  them.  And  he  thought 
they  had  long  run  wild,  and  on  that  account 
they  had  lost  their  horns.  And  by  activity  and 
swiftness  of  foot,  he  drove  the  hinds  and  the 
goats  together  into  the  house  which  there  was 
for  the  goats  at  the  extremity  of  the  forest. 
Then  Peredur  returned  to  his  mother.  "Ah, 
mother,"  said  he,  "a  marvellous  thing  have  I 
seen  in  the  wood;  two  of  thy  goats  have  run 
wild,  and  lost  their  horns,  through  their  having 
been  so  long  missing  in  the  wood.     And  no 


man  had  ever  more  trouble  than  I  had  to  drive 
them  in."  Then  they  all  arose  and  went  to 
see.  And  when  they  beheld  the  hinds  they 
were  greatly  astonished. 

And  one  day  they  saw  three  knights  com- 
ing along  the  horse-road  on  the  borders  of  the 
forest.  And  the  three  knights  were  Gwalchmai 
the  son  of  Gwyar,  and  Geneir  Gwystyl,  and 
Owain  the  son  of  Urien.  And  Owain  kept 
on  the  track  of  the  knight  who  had  di voided  the 
apples  in  Arthur's  Court,  whom  they  were  in 
pursuit  of.  "Mother,"  said  Peredur,  "what 
are  those  yonder?"  "They  are  angels,  my 
son,"  said  she.  "By  my  faith,"  said  Peredur, 
"I  will  go  and  become  an  angel  with  them." 
And  Peredur  went  to  the  road,  and  met  them. 
"Teh  me,  good  soul,"  said  Owain,  "sawest  thou 
a  knight  pass  this  way,  either  to-day  or  yester- 
day?" "I  know  not,"  answered  he,  "what  a 
knight  is."  "Such  an  one  as  I  am,"  said 
Owain.  "If  thou  wilt  tell  me  what  I  ask  thee, 
I  will  tell  thee  that  which  thou  askest  me." 
"Gladly  will  I  do  so,"  replied  Owain.  "What 
is  this?"  demanded  Peredur,  concerning  the 
saddle.  "It  is  a  saddle,"  said  Owain.  Then 
he  asked  about  all  the  accoutrements  which  he 
saw  upon  the  men,  and  the  horses,  and  the 
arms,  and  what  they  were  for,  and  how  they 
were  used.  And  Owain  showed  him  all  these 
things  fully,  and  told  him  what  use  was  made 
of  them.  "Go  forward,"  said  Peredur,  "  for  I 
saw  such  an  one  as  thou  inquirest  for,  and  I 
win  follow  thee." 

Then  Peredur  returned  to  his  mother  and 
her  company,  and  he  said  to  her,  "Mother, 
those  were  not  angels,  but  honourable  knights." 
Then  his  mother  swooned  away.  And  Peredur 
went  to  the  place  where  they  kept  the  horses 
that  carried  firewood,  and  that  brought  meat 
and  drink  from  the  inhabited  country  to  the 
desert.  And  he  took  a  bony  piebald  horse, 
which  seemed  to  him  the  strongest  of  them 
And  he  pressed  a  pack  into  the  form  of  a  saddle, 
and  with  twisted  twigs  he  imitated  the  trap- 
pings which  he  had  seen  upon  the  horses. 
And  v/hen  Peredur  came  again  to  his  mother, 

521 


52: 


THE    MABINOGION 


the  Countess  had  recovered  from  her  swoon. 
"My  son,"  said  she,  "desirest  thou  to  ride 
forth?"  "Yes,  with  thy  leave,"  said  he. 
"Wait,  then,  that  I  may  counsel  thee  before 
thou  goest."  "Willingly,"  he  answered; 
"speak  quickly."  "Go  forward,  then,"  she 
said,  "to  the  Court  of  Arthur,  where  there  are 
the  best,  and  the  boldest,  and  the  most  bountiful 
of  men.  And  wherever  thou  seest  a  church, 
repeat  there  thy  Paternoster  unto  it.  And  if  thou 
see  meat  and  drink,  and  have  need  of  them, 
and  none  have  the  kindness  or  the  courtesy 
to  give  them  to  thee,  take  them  thyself.  If 
thou  hear  an  outcry,  proceed  towards  it,  espe- 
cially if  it  be  the  outcry  of  a  woman.  If  thou 
see  a  fair  jewel,  possess  thyself  of  it,  and  give 
it  to  another,  for  thus  thou  shalt  obtain  praise. 
If  thou  see  a  fair  woman,  pay  thy  court  to  her, 
whether  she  will  or  no;  for  thus  thou  wilt 
render  thyself  a  better  and  more  esteemed 
man  than  thou  wast  before." 

After  this  discourse,  Peredur  mounted  the 
horse,  and  taking  a  handful  of  sharp-pointed 
forks  in  his  hand,  he  rode  forth.  And  he 
journeyed  two  days  and  two  nights  in  the  woody 
wildernesses,  and  in  desert  places,  without 
food  and  without  drink.  And  then  he  came  to 
a  vast  wild  wood,  and  far  within  the  wood  he 
saw  a  fair  even  glade,  and  in  the  glade  he  saw 
a  tent,  and  the  tent  seeming  to  him  to  be  a 
church,  he  repeated  his  Paternoster  to  it.  And 
he  went  towards  it,  and  the  door  of  the  tent 
was  open.  And  a  golden  chair  was  near  the 
door.  And  on  the  chair  sat  a  lovely  auburn- 
haired  maiden,  with  a  golden  frontlet  on  her 
forehead,  and  sparkling  stones  in  the  frontlet, 
and  with  a  large  gold  ring  on  her  hand.  And 
Peredur  dismounted,  and  entered  the  tent. 
And  the  maiden  was  glad  at  his  coming,  and 
bade  him  welcome.  At  the  entrance  of  the 
tent  he  saw  food,  and  two  flasks  full  of  wine, 
and  two  loaves  of  fine  wheaten  flour,  and  collops 
of  the  flesh  of  the  wild  boar.  "  My  mother 
told  me,"  said  Peredur,  "wheresoever  I  saw 
meat  and  drink,  to  take  it."  "Take  the  meat 
and  welcome,  chieftain,"  said  she.  So  Pere- 
dur took  half  of  the  meat  and  of  the  liquor 
himself,  and  left  the  rest  to  the  maiden.  And 
when  Peredur  had  finished  eating,  he  bent  upon 
his  knee  before  the  maiden.  "My  mother," 
said  he,  "told  me,  wheresoever  I  saw  a  fair 
jewel,  to  take  it."  "Do  so,  my  soul,"  said  she. 
So  Peredur  took  the  ring.  And  he  mounted 
his  horse,  and  proceeded  on  his  journey. 

After  this,  behold  the  knight  came,  to  whom 
the  tent  belonged ;  and  he  was  the  Lord  of  the 


Glade.  And  he  saw  the  track  of  the  horse, 
and  he  said  to  the  maiden,  "Tell  me  who  has 
been  here  since  I  departed."  "A  man,"  said 
she,  "of  wonderful  demeanour."  And  she 
described  to  him  what  Peredur's  appearance 
and  conduct  had  been.  "Tell  me,"  said  he, 
"did  he  offer  thee  any  wrong?"  "No," 
answered  the  maiden,  "by  my  faith,  he  harmed 
me  not."  "By  my  faith,  I  do  not  believe  thee; 
and  until  I  can  meet  with  him,  and  revenge  the 
insult  he  has  done  me,  and  wreak  my  vengeance 
upon  him,  thou  shalt  not  remain  two  nights  in 
the  same  house."  And  the  knight  arose,  and 
set  forth  to  seek  Peredur. 

Meanwhile  Peredur  journeyed  on  towards 
Arthur's  Court.  And  before  he  reached  it, 
another  knight  had  been  there,  who  gave  a 
ring  of  thick  gold  at  the  door  of  the  gate  for 
holding  his  horse,  and  went  into  the  Hall  where 
Arthur  and  his  household,  and  Gwenhwyvar 
and  her  maidens,  were  assembled.  And  the 
page  of  the  chamber  was  serving  Gwenhwyvar 
with  a  golden  goblet.  Then  the  knight  dashed 
the  liquor  that  was  therein  upon  her  face,  and 
upon  her  stomacher,  and  gave  her  a  violent 
blow  on  the  face,  and  said,  "If  any  have  the 
boldness  to  dispute  this  goblet  with  me,  and  to 
revenge  the  insult  to  Gwenhwyvar,  let  him 
follow  me  to  the  meadow,  and  there  I  will 
await  him."  So  the  knight  took  his  horse,  and 
rode  to  the  meadow.  And  all  the  household 
hung  down  their  heads,  lest  any  of  them  should 
be  requested  to  go  and  avenge  the  insult  to 
Gwenhwyvar.  For  it  seemed  to  them,  that  no 
one  would  have  ventured  on  so  daring  an  out- 
rage, unless  he  possessed  such  powers,  through 
magic  or  charms,  that  none  could  be  able  to  take 
vengeance  upon  him.  Then,  behold,  Peredur 
entered  the  Hall,  upon  the  bony  piebald  horse, 
with  the  uncouth  trappings  upon  it;  and  in 
this  way  he  traversed  the  whole  length  of  the 
Hall.  In  the  centre  of  the  Hall  stood  Kai. 
"Tell  me,  tall  man,"  said  Peredur,  "is  that 
Arthur  yonder?"  "What  wouldest  thou  with 
Arthur?"  asked  Kai.  "My  mother  told  me 
to  go  to  Arthur,  and  receive  the  honour  of 
knighthood."  "By  my  faith,"  said  he,  "thou 
art  all  too  meanly  equipped  with  horse  and  with 
arms."  Thereupon  he  was  perceived  by  all 
the  household,  and  they  threw  sticks  at  him. 
Then,  behold,  a  dwarf  came  forward.  He  had 
already  been  a  year  at  Arthur's  Court,  both  he 
and  a  female  dwarf.  They  had  craved  har- 
bourage of  Arthur,  and  had  obtained  it;  and 
during  the  whole  year,  neither  of  them  had 
spoken  a  single  word  to  any  one.     When  the 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


523 


dwarf  beheld  Pcrcdur,  "Ilaha!"  said  he,  "the 
welcome  of  Heaven  be  unto  thee,  goodly 
Peredur,  son  of  Evrawc,  the  chief  of  warriors, 
and  flower  of  knighthood."  "Truly,"  said 
Kai,  "thou  art  ill-taught  to  remain  a  year  mute 
at  Arthur's  Court,  with  choice  of  society;  and 
now,  before  the  face  of  Arthur  and  all  his 
household,  to  call  out,  and  declare  such  a  man 
as  this  the  chief  of  warriors,  and  the  flower  of 
knighthood."  And  he  gave  him  such  a  box 
on  the  ear  that  he  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 
Then  exclaimed  the  female  dwarf,  "Haha! 
goodly  Peredur,  son  of  Evrawc;  the  welcome 
of  Heaven  be  unto  thee,  flower  of  knights, 
and  light  of  chivalry."  "Of  a  truth,  maiden," 
said  Kai,  "thou  art  ill-bred  to  remain  mute 
for  a  year  at  the  Court  of  Arthur,  and  then  to 
speak  as  thou  dost  of  such  a  man  as  this." 
And  Kai  kicked  her  with  his  foot,  so  that  she 
fell  to  the  ground  senseless.  "Tall  man," 
said  Peredur,  "show  me  which  is  Arthur." 
"Hold  thy  peace,"  said  Kai,  "and  go  after  the 
knight  who  went  hence  to  the  meadow,  and 
take  from  him  the  goblet,  and  overthrow  him, 
and  possess  thyself  of  his  horse  and  arms,  and 
then  thou  shalt  receive  the  order  of  knight- 
hood." "I  will  do  so,  tall  man,"  said  Peredur. 
So  he  turned  his  horse's  head  towards  the 
meadow.  And  when  he  came  there,  the  knight 
was  riding  up  and  down,  proud  of  his  strength, 
and  valour,  and  noble  mien.  "Tell  me," 
said  the  knight,  "didst  thou  see  anyone  com- 
ing after  me  from  the  Court?"  "The  tall  man 
that  was  there,"  said  he,  "desired  me  to  come, 
and  overthrow  thee,  and  to  take  from  thee  the 
goblet,  and  thy  horse  and  thy  armour  for  my- 
self." "Silence  !"  said  the  knight;  "go  back 
to  the  Court,  and  tell  Arthur,  from  me,  either 
to  come  himiself,  or  to  send  some  other  to  fight 
with  me;  and  unless  he  do  so  quickly,  I  will 
not  wait  for  him."  "By  my  faith,"  said  Pere- 
dur, "choose  thou  whether  it  shall  be  willingly 
or  unwillingly,  but  I  will  have  the  horse,  and 
the  arms,  and  the  goblet."  And  upon  this  the 
knight  ran  at  him  furiously,  and  struck  him 
a  violent  blow  with  the  shaft  of  his  spear,  be- 
tween the  neck  and  the  shoulder.  "Haha! 
lad,"  said  Peredur,  "my  mother's  servants 
were  not  used  to  play  with  me  in  this  wise; 
therefore,  thus  will  I  play  with  thee."  And 
thereupon  he  struck  him  with  a  sharp-pointed 
fork,  and  it  hit  him  in  the  eye,  and  came  out 
at  the  back  of  his  neck,  so  that  he  instantly 
fell  down  lifeless. 

"Verily,"  said  Owain  the  son  of  Urien  to  Kai, 
"thou  wert  ill-advised,  when  thou  didst  send 


that  madman  after  the  knight.  For  one  of 
two  things  mu.st  befall  him.  He  must  either 
be  overthrown,  or  slain.  If  he  is  overthrown 
by  the  knight,  he  will  be  counted  by  him  to  be 
an  honourable  person  of  the  Court,  and  an 
eternal  disgrace  will  it  be  to  Arthur  and  his 
warriors.  And  if  he  is  slain,  the  disgrace  will 
be  the  same,  and  moreover,  his  sin  will  be  upon 
him;  therefore  will  I  go  to  see  what  has  be- 
fallen him."  So  Owain  went  to  the  meadow, 
and  he  found  Peredur  dragging  the  man  about. 
"What  art  thou  doing  thus?"  said  Owain. 
"This  iron  coat,"  said  Peredur,  "will  never  come 
from  off  him;  not  by  my  efforts,  at  any  rate." 
And  Owain  unfastened  his  armour  and  his 
clothes.  "Here,  my  good  soul,"  said  he,  "is 
a  horse  and  armour  better  than  thine.  Take 
them  joyfully,  and  come  with  me  to  Arthur,  to 
receive  the  order  of  knighthood,  for  thou  dost 
merit  it."  "May  I  never  show  my  face  again 
if  I  go,"  said  Peredur;  "but  take  thou  the 
goblet  to  Gwenhwyvar,  and  tell  Arthur,  that 
wherever  I  am,  I  will  be  his  vaissal,  and  will  do 
him  what  profit  and  service  I  am  able.  And 
say  that  I  will  not  come  to  his  Court,  until  I 
have  encountered  the  tall  man  that  is  there, 
to  revenge  the  injury  he  did  to  the  dwarf  and 
dwarfess."  And  Owain  went  back  to  the 
Court,  and  related  all  these  things  to  Arthur 
and  Gwenhwyvar,  and  to  all  the  household. 

And  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, behold  a  knight  met  him.  "Whence 
comest  thou?"  said  the  knight.  "I  come  from 
Arthur's  Court,"  said  Peredur.  "Art  thou  one 
of  his  men?"  asked  he.  "Yes,  by  my  faith," 
he  answered.  "A  good  service,  truly,  is  that 
of  Arthur."  "Wherefore  sayest  thou  so?" 
said  Peredur.  "I  will  tell  thee,"  said  he; 
"I  have  always  been  Arthur's  enemy,  and  all 
such  of  his  men  as  I  have  ever  encountered  I 
have  slain."  And  without  further  parlance 
they  fought,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Peredur 
brought  him  to  the  ground,  over  his  horse's 
crupper.  Then  the  knight  besought  his  mercy. 
"Mercy  thou  shalt  have,"  said  Peredur,  "if 
thou  wilt  make  oath  to  me,  that  thou  wilt  go 
to  Arthur's  Court,  and  tell  him  that  it  was  I 
that  overthrew  thee,  for  the  honour  of  his 
service ;  and  say,  that  I  will  never  come  to  the 
Court  until  I  have  avenged  the  insult  offered 
to  the  dwarf  and  dwarfess."  The  knight 
pledged  him  his  faith  of  this,  and  proceeded  to 
the  Court  of  Arthur,  and  said  as  he  had  prom- 
ised, and  conveyed  the  threat  to  Kai. 

And  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  within  that 
week  he  encountered  sixteen  knights,  and  over- 


524 


THE    MABINOGION 


threw  them  all  shamefully.  And  they  all  went 
to  Arthur's  Court,  taking  with  them  the  same 
message  which  the  first  knight  had  conveyed 
from  Peredur,  and  the  same  threat  which  he 
had  sent  to  Kai.  And  thereupon  Kai  was 
reproved  by  Arthur;  and  Kai  was  greatly 
grieved  thereat. 

And  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  he  came  to 
a  vast  and  desert  wood,  on  the  confines  of  which 
was  a  lake.  And  on  the  other  side  was  a  fair 
castle.  And  on  the  border  of  the  lake  he  saw 
a  venerable,  hoary-headed  man,  sitting  upon  a 
velvet  cushion,  and  having  a  garment  of  velvet 
upon  him.  And  his  attendants  were  fishing 
in  the  lake.  When  the  hoary-headed  man 
beheld  Peredur  approaching,  he  arose  and 
went  towards  the  castle.  And  the  old  man  was 
lame.  Peredur  rode  to  the  palace,  and  the  door 
was  open,  and  he  entered  the  hall.  And  there 
was  the  hoary-headed  man  sitting  on  a  cushion, 
and  a  large  blazing  fire  burning  before  him. 
And  the  household  and  the  company  arose  to 
meet  Peredur,  and  disarrayed  him.  And  the 
man  asked  the  youth  to  sit  on  the  cushion; 
and  they  sat  down,  and  conversed  together. 
When  it  was  time,  the  tables  were  laid,  and  they 
went  to  meat.  And  when  they  had  finished 
their  meal,  the  man  inquired  of  Peredur  if 
he  knew  well  how  to  fight  with  the  sword. 
"I  know  not,"  said  Peredur,  "but  were  I  to 
be  taught,  doubtless  I  should."  "Whoever 
can  play  well  with  the  cudgel  and  shield,  will 
also  be  able  to  fight  with  a  sword."  And  the 
man  had  two  sons;  the  one  had  yellow  hair, 
and  the  other  auburn.  "Arise,  youths," 
said  he,  "and  play  with  the  cudgel  and  the 
shield."  And  so  did  they.  "Tell  me,  my 
soul,"  said  the  man,  "which  of  the  youths 
thinkest  thou  plays  best."  "I  think,"  said 
Peredur,  "that  the  yellow -haired  youth  could 
draw  blood  from  the  other,  if  he  chose." 
"Arise  thou,  my  life,  and  take  the  cudgel  and 
the  shield  from  the  hand  of  the  youth  with 
the  auburn  hair,  and  draw  blood  from  the 
)'ellow-haired  youth  if  thou  canst."  So  Pere- 
dur arose,  and  went  to  play  with  the  yellow- 
haired  youth;  and  he  lifted  up  his  arm,  and 
.struck  him  such  a  mighty  blow,  that  his  brow 
fell  over  his  eye,  and  the  blood  flowed  forth. 
"Ah,  my  life,"  said  the  man,  "come  now,  and 
sit  down,  for  thou  wilt  become  the  best  fighter 
with  the  sword  of  any  in  this  island ;  and  I  am 
thy  uncle,  thy  mother's  brother.  And  vk^ith  me 
shalt  thou  remain  a  space,  in  order  to  learn  the 
manners  and  customs  of  different  countries,  and 
courtesy,  and  gentleness,  and  noble  bearing. 


Leave,  then,  the  habits  and  the  discourse  of 
thy  mother,  and  I  will  be  thy  teacher;  and  I 
will  raise  thee  to  the  rank  of  knight  from  this 
time  forward.  And  thus  do  thou.  If  thou 
seest  aught  to  cause  thee  wonder,  ask  not  the 
meaning  of  it;  if  no  one  has  the  courtesy  to 
inform  thee,  the  reproach  will  not  fall  upon 
thee,  but  upon  me  that  am  thy  teacher."  And 
they  had  abundance  of  honour  and  service. 
And  when  it  was  time  they  went  to  sleep. 
At  the  break  of  day,  Peredur  arose,  and  took 
his  horse,  and  with  his  uncle's  permission  he 
rode  forth.  And  he  came  to  a  vast  desert 
wood,  and  at  the  further  end  of  the  wood  was  a 
meadow,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  meadow 
he  saw  a  large  castle.  And  thitherward  Pere- 
dur bent  his  way,  and  he  found  the  gate  open, 
and  he  proceeded  to  the  hall.  And  he  beheld 
a  stately  hoary-headed  man  sitting  on  one  side 
of  the  hall,  and  many  pages  around  him, 
who  arose  to  receive  and  to  honour  Peredur. 
And  they  placed  him  by  the  side  of  the  owner 
of  the  palace.  Then  they  discoursed  together; 
and  when  it  was  time  to  eat,  they  caused  Pere- 
dur to  sit  beside  the  nobleman  during  the  repast. 
And  when  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  as  much 
as  they  desired,  the  nobleman  asked  Peredur 
whether  he  could  fight  with  a  sword?  "Were 
I  to  receive  instruction,"  said  Peredur,  "I 
think  I  could."  Now,  there  was  on  the  floor 
of  the  hall  a  huge  staple,  as  large  as  a  warrior 
could  grasp.  "Take  yonder  sword,"  said  the 
man  to  Peredur,  "and  strike  the  iron  staple." 
So  Peredur  arose  and  struck  the  staple,  so  that 
he  cut  it  in  two ;  and  the  sword  broke  into  two 
parts  also.  "Place  the  two  parts  together,  and 
reunite  them,"  and  Peredur  placed  them  to- 
gether, and  they  became  entire  as  they  were 
before.  And  a  second  time  he  struck  upon  the 
staple,  so  that  both  it  and  the  sword  broke  in 
two,  and  as  before  they  reunited.  And  the 
third  time  he  gave  a  like  blow,  and  placed  the 
broken  parts  together,  and  neither  the  staple 
nor  the  sword  would  unite  as  before.  "Youth," 
said  the  nobleman,  "come  now,  and  sit  down, 
and  my  blessing  be  upon  thee.  Thou  fightest 
best  with  the  sword  of  any  man  in  the  kingdom. 
Thou  hast  arrived  at  two-thirds  of  thy  strength, 
and  the  other  third  thou  hast  not  yet  obtained; 
and  when  thou  attainest  to  thy  full  power,  none 
will  be  able  to  contend  with  thee.  I  am  thy 
uncle,  thy  mother's  brother,  and  I  am  brother 
to  the  man  in  whose  house  thou  wast  last  night." 
Then  Peredur  and  his  uncle  discoursed  to- 
gether, and  he  beheld  two  youths  enter  the  hall, 
and  proceed  up  to  the  chamber,  bearing  a  spear 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


525 


of  mighty  size,  with  three  streams  of  blood 
flowing  from  the  point  to  the  ground.  And 
when  all  the  company  saw  this,  they  began 
wailing  and  lamenting.  But  for  all  that,  the 
man  did  not  break  off  his  discourse  with 
Peredur.  And  as  he  did  not  tell  Peredur  the 
meaning  of  what  he  saw,  he  forbore  to  ask 
him  concerning  it.  And  when  the  clamour 
had  a  little  subsided,  behold  two  maidens 
entered,  with  a  large  salver  between  them,  in 
which  was  a  man's  head,  surrounded  by  a  pro- 
fusion of  blood.  And  thereupon  the  company 
of  the  court  made  so  great  an  outcry,  that  it 
was  irksome  to  be  in  the  same  hall  with  them. 
But  at  length  they  were  silent.  And  when  time 
was  that  they  should  sleep,  Peredur  was  brought 
into  a  fair  chamber. 

And  the  next  day,  with  his  uncle's  permission, 
he  rode  forth.  And  he  came  to  a  wood,  and 
far  within  the  wood  he  heard  a  loud  cry,  and 
he  saw  a  beautiful  woman  with  auburn  hair, 
and  a  horse  with  a  saddle  upon  it,  standing 
near  her,  and  a  corpse  by  her  side.  And  as 
she  strove  to  place  the  corpse  upon  the  horse, 
it  fell  to  the  ground,  and  thereupon  she  made 
a  great  lamentation.  "Tell  me,  sister,"  said 
Peredur,  "wherefore  art  thou  bewailing?" 
"Oh  I  accursed  Peredur,  little  pity  has  my  ill- 
fortune  ever  met  with  from  thee." 

"Wherefore,"  said  Peredur,  "am  I  ac- 
cursed?" "Because  thou  wast  the  cause  of 
thy  mother's  death ;  for  when  thou  didst  ride 
forth  against  her  will,  anguish  seized  upon  her 
heart,  so  that  she  died;  and  therefore  art  thou 
accursed.  And  the  dwarf  and  the  dwarfess 
that  thou  sawest  at  Arthur's  Court  were  the 
dwarfs  of  thy  father  and  mother;  and  I  am  thy 
foster-sister,  and  this  was  my  wedded  husband, 
and  he  was  slain  by  the  knight  that  is  in  the 
glade  in  the  wood;  and  do  not  thou  go  near 
him,  lest  thou  shouldest  be  slain  by  him  like- 
wise." "My  sister,  thou  dost  reproach  me 
wrongfully;  through  my  having  so  long  re- 
mained amongst  you,  I  shall  scarcely  vanquish 
him;  and  had  I  continued  longer,  it  would, 
indeed,  be  difificult  for  me  to  succeed.  Cease, 
therefore,  thy  lamenting,  for  it  is  of  no  avail, 
and  I  will  bury  the  body,  and  then  I  will  go 
in  quest  of  the  knight,  and  see  if  I  can  do  ven- 
geance upon  him."  And  when  he  had  buried 
the  body,  they  went  to  the  place  where  the 
knight  was,  and  found  him  riding  proudly 
along  the  glade;  and  he  inquired  of  Peredur 
whence  he  came.  "I  come  from  Arthur's 
Court."  "And  art  thou  one  of  Arthur's  men?" 
"Yes,  by  my  faith."     "A  profitable  alliance. 


truly,  is  that  of  Arthur."  And  without  further 
parlance,  they  encountered  one  another,  and 
immediately  Peredur  overthrew  the  knight, 
and  he  besought  mercy  of  Peredur.  "Mercy 
shalt  thou  have,"  said  he,  "upon  these  terms, 
that  thou  take  this  woman  in  marriage,  and 
do  her  all  the  honour  and  reverence  in  thy 
power,  seeing  thou  hast,  without  cause,  slain 
her  wedded  husband;  and  that  thou  go  to 
Arthur's  Court,  and  show  him  that  it  was  I 
that  overthrew  thee,  to  do  him  honour  and 
service;  and  that  thou  tell  him  that  I  will 
never  come  to  his  Court  again  until  I  have  met 
with  the  tall  man  that  is  there,  to  take  ven- 
geance upon  him  for  his  insult  to  the  dwarf 
and  dwarfess."  And  he  took  the  knight's 
assurance,  that  he  would  perform  all  this. 
Then  the  knight  provided  the  lady  with  a  horse 
and  garments  that  were  suitable  for  her,  and 
took  her  with  him  to  Arthur's  Court.  And  he 
told  Arthur  all  that  had  occurred,  and  gave 
the  defiance  to  Kai.  And  Arthur  and  all  his 
household  reproved  Kai,  for  having  driven  such 
a  youth  as  Peredur  from  his  Court. 

Said  Owain  the  son  of  Urien,  "This  youth 
will  never  come  into  the  Court  until  Kai  has 
gone  forth  from  it."  "By  my  faith,"  said 
Arthur,  "I  will  search  all  the  deserts  in  the 
Island  of  Britain,  until  I  find  Peredur,  and  then 
let  him  and  his  adversary  do  their  utmost  to 
each  other." 

Then  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  he  came 
to  a  desert  wood,  where  he  saw  not  the  track 
either  of  men  or  animals,  and  where  there  was 
nothing  but  bushes  and  weeds.  And  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  wood  he  saw  a  vast  castle, 
wherein  were  many  strong  towers;  and  when 
he  came  near  the  gate,  he  found  the  weeds  taller 
than  he  had  seen  them  elsewhere.  And  he 
struck  the  gate  with  the  shaft  of  his  lance,  and 
thereupon  behold  a  lean,  auburn-haired  youth 
came  to  an  opening  in  the  battlements. 
"Choose  thou,  chieftain,"  said  he,  "whether 
shall  I  open  the  gate  unto  thee,  or  shall  I  an- 
nounce unto  those  that  are  chief,  that  thou 
art  at  the  gateway?"  "Say  that  I  am  here," 
said  Peredur,  "and  if  it  is  desired  that  I  should 
enter,  I  will  go  in."  And  the  youth  came  back, 
and  opened  the  gate  for  Peredur.  And  wdien 
he  went  into  the  hall,  he  beheld  eighteen 
youths,  lean  and  red-headed,  of  the  same  height, 
and  of  the  same  aspect,  and  of  the  same  dress, 
and  of  the  same  age  as  the  one  who  had  opened 
the  gate  for  him.  And  they  were  well  skilled 
in  courtesy  and  in  service.  And  they  disar- 
rayed him.     Then  they  sat  down  to  discourse. 


526 


THE    MABINOGION 


Thereupon,  behold  five  maidens  came  from 
the  chamber  into  the  hall.  And  Peredur  was 
certain  that  he  had  never  seen  another  of  so 
fair  an  aspect  as  the  chief  of  the  maidens. 
And  she  had  an  old  garment  of  satin  upon  her, 
which  had  once  been  handsome,  but  was  then 
so  tattered,  that  her  skin  could  be  seen  through 
it.  And  whiter  was  her  skin  than  the  bloom 
of  crystal,  and  her  hair  and  her  two  eyebrows 
were  blacker  than  jet,  and  on  her  cheeks  were 
two  red  spots,  redder  than  whatever  is  reddest. 
And  the  maiden  welcomed  Peredur,  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  made  him  sit  down 
beside  her.  Not  long  after  this  he  saw  two 
nuns  enter,  and  a  flask  full  of  wine  was  borne 
by  one,  and  six  loaves  of  white  bread  by  the 
other.  "Lady,"  said  they,  "Heaven  is  witness, 
that  there  is  not  so  much  of  food  and  liquor 
as  this  left  in  yonder  Convent  this  night." 
Then  they  went  to  meat,  and  Peredur  observed 
that  the  maiden  wished  to  give  more  of  the  food 
and  of  the  liquor  to  him  than  to  any  of 
the  others.  "My  sister,"  said  Peredur, 
"I  will  share  out  the  food  and  the  liquor." 
"Not  so,  my  soul,"  said  she.  "By  my  faith 
but  I  will."  So  Peredur  took  the  bread,  and 
he  gave  an  equal  portion  of  it  to  each  alike, 
as  well  as  a  cup  full  of  the  liquor.  And  when 
it  was  time  for  them  to  sleep,  a  chamber 
was  prepared  for  Peredur,  and  he  went  to 
rest. 

"Behold,  sister,"  said  the  youths  to  the 
fairest  and  most  exalted  of  the  maidens,  "we 
have  counsel  for  thee."  "What  may  it  be?" 
she  inquired.  "Go  to  the  youth  that  is  in  the 
upper  chamber,  and  offer  to  become  his  wife, 
or  the  lady  of  his  love,  if  it  seem  well  to  him." 
"That  were  indeed  unfitting,"  said  she. 
"  Hitherto  I  have  not  been  the  lady-love  of  any 
knight,  and  to  make  him  such  an  offer  before  I  am 
wooed  by  him,  that,  truly,  can  I  not  do."  "By 
our  confession  to  Heaven,  unless  thou  actest 
thus,  we  will  leave  thee  here  to  thy  enemies, 
to  do  as  they  will  with  thee."  And  through 
fear  of  this,  the  maiden  went  forth ;  and  shed- 
ding tears,  she  proceeded  to  the  chamber.  And 
with  the  noise  of  the  door  opening,  Peredur 
awoke;  and  the  maiden  was  weeping  and 
lamenting.  "Tell  me,  my  sister,"  said  Pere- 
dur, "wherefore  dost  thou  weep?"  "I  will 
tell  thee,  lord,"  said  she.  "My  father  pos- 
sessed these  dominions  as  their  chief,  and  this 
palace  was  his,  and  with  it  he  held  the  best 
earldom  in  the  kingdom;  then  the  son  of 
another  earl  sought  me  of  my  father,  and  I  was 
not  willing  to  be  given  unto  him,  and  my  father 


would  not  give  me  against  my  will,  either  to 
him  or  any  earl  in  the  world.  And  my  father 
had  no  child  except  myself.  And  after  my 
father's  death,  these  dominions  came  into  my 
own  hands,  and  then  was  I  less  willing  to  accept 
him  than  before.  So  he  made  war  upon  me, 
and  conquered  all  my  possessions,  except  this 
one  house.  And  through  the  valour  of  the 
men  whom  thou  hast  seen,  who  are  my  foster- 
brothers,  and  the  strength  of  the  house,  it  can 
never  be  taken  while  food  and  drink  remain. 
And  now  our  provisions  are  exhausted ;  but,  as 
thou  hast  seen,  we  have  been  fed  by  the  nuns, 
to  whom  the  country  is  free.  And  at  length  they 
also  are  without  supply  of  food  or  liquor.  And 
at  no  later  date  than  to-morrow,  the  earl  will 
come  against  this  place  with  all  his  forces; 
and  if  I  fall  into  his  power,  my  fate  will  be  no 
better  than  to  be  given  over  to  the  grooms 
of  his  horses.  Therefore,  lord,  I  am  come  to 
offer  to  place  myself  in  thy  hands,  that  thou 
mayest  succour  me,  either  by  taking  me  hence, 
or  by  defending  me  here,  whichever  may  seem 
best  unto  thee."  "Go,  my  sister,"  said  he, 
"and  sleep;  nor  will  I  depart  from  thee  until 
I  do  that  which  thou  requirest,  or  prove  whether 
I  can  assist  thee  or  not."  The  maiden  went 
again  to  rest;  and  the  next  morning  she  came 
to  Peredur,  and  saluted  him.  "Heaven  prosper 
thee,  my  soul,  and  what  tidings  dost  thou 
bring?"  "  None  other,  than  that  the  earl  and 
all  his  forces  have  alighted  at  the  gate,  and  I 
never  beheld  any  place  so  covered  with  tents, 
and  thronged  with  knights  challenging  others 
to  the  combat."  "Truly,"  said  Peredur,  "let 
my  horse  be  made  ready."  So  his  horse  was 
accoutred,  and  he  arose  and  sallied  forth  to 
the  meadow.  And  there  was  a  knight  riding 
proudly  along  the  meadow,  having  raised  the 
signal  for  battle.  And  they  encountered,  and 
Peredur  threw  the  knight  over  his  horse's 
crupper  to  the  ground.  And  at  the  close  of  the 
day,  one  of  the  chief  knights  came  to  fight  with 
him,  and  he  overthrew  him  also,  so  that  he 
besought  his  mercy.  "Who  art  thou?"  said 
Peredur.  "Verily,"  said  he,  "I  am  Master  of 
the  Household  to  the  earl."  "And  how  much 
of  the  countess's  possessions  is  there  in  thy 
power?"  "The  third  part,  verily,"  answered 
he.  "Then,"  said  Peredur,  "restore  to  her 
the  third  of  her  possessions  in  full,  and  all  the 
profit  thou  hast  made  by  them,  and  bring  meat 
and  drink  for  a  hundred  men,  with  their  horses 
and  arms,  to  her  court  this  night.  And  thou 
shalt  remain  her  captive,  unless  she  wish  to 
take   thy  life."     And  this  he  did  forthwith. 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


527 


And  that  night  the  maiden  was  right  joyful, 
and  they  fared  plenteously. 

And  the  next  day  Peredur  rode  forth  to  the 
meadow;  and  that  day  he  vanquished  a  multi- 
tude of  the  host.  And  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
there  came  a  proud  and  stately  knight,  and 
Peredur  overthrew  him,  and  he  besought  his 
mercy.  "Who  art  thou?"  said  Peredur.  "I 
am  Steward  of  the  Palace,"  said  he.  "And 
how  much  of  the  maiden's  possessions  are  un- 
der thy  control?"  "One-third  part,"  answered 
he.  "Verily,"  said  Peredur,  "thou  shalt  fully 
restore  to  the  maiden  her  possessions,  and, 
moreover,  thou  shalt  give  her  meat  and  drink 
for  two  hundred  men,  and  their  horses  and 
their  arms.  And  for  thyself,  thou  shalt  be 
her  captive."  And  immediately  it  was  so 
done. 

And  the  third  day  Peredur  rode  forth  to  the 
meadow;  and  he  vanquished  more  that  day 
than  on  either  of  the  preceding.  And  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  an  earl  came  to  encounter  him, 
and  he  overthrew  him,  and  he  besought  his 
mercy.  "Who  art  thou?"  said  Peredur.  "I 
am  the  earl,"  said  he.  "I  will  not  conceal 
it  from  thee."  "Verily,"  said  Peredur,  "thou 
shalt  restore  the  whole  of  the  maiden's  earldom, 
and  shalt  give  her  thine  own  earldom  in  addi- 
tion thereto,  and  meat  and  drink  for  three 
hundred  men,  and  their  horses  and  arms,  and 
thou  thyself  shalt  remain  in  her  power."  And 
thus  it  was  fulfilled.  And  Peredur  tarried 
three  weeks  in  the  country,  causing  tribute  and 
obedience  to  be  paid  to  the  maiden,  and  the 
government  to  be  placed  in  her  hands.  "With 
thy  leave,"  said  Peredur,  "I  will  go  hence." 
"Verily,  my  brother,  desirest  thou  this?" 
"Yes,  by  my  faith;  and  had  it  not  been  for 
love  of  thee,  I  should  not  have  been  here  thus 
long."  "My  soul,"  said  she,  "who  art  thou?" 
"I  am  Peredur  the  son  of  Evrawc  from  the 
North;  and  if  ever  thou  art  in  trouble  or  in 
danger,  acquaint  me  therewith,  and  if  I  can,  I 
will  protect  thee." 

So  Peredur  rode  forth.  And  far  thence  there 
met  him  a  lady,  mounted  on  a  horse  that  was 
lean,  and  covered  with  sweat;  and  she  saluted 
the  youth.  "Whence  comest  thou,  my  sister ? " 
Then  she  told  him  the  cause  of  her  journey. 
Now  she  was  the  wife  of  the  Lord  of  the  Glade. 
"Behold,"  said  he,  "I  am  the  knight  through 
whom  thou  art  in  trouble,  and  he  shall  repent  it, 
who  has  treated  thee  thus."  Thereupon,  be- 
hold a  knight  rode  up,  and  he  inquired  of 
Peredur,  if  he  had  seen  a  knight  such  as  he 
was  seeking.     "Hold  thy  peace,"  said  Peredur, 


"I  am  he  whom  thou  seekest;  and  by  my  faith, 
thou  deservest  ill  of  thy  household  for  thy 
treatment  of  the  maiden,  for  she  is  innocent 
concerning  me."  So  they  encountered,  and 
they  were  not  long  in  combat  ere  Peredur  over- 
threw the  knight,  and  he  besought  his  mercy. 
"Mercy  thou  shalt  have,"  said  Peredur,  "so 
thou  wilt  return  by  the  way  thou  camest,  and 
declare  that  thou  boldest  the  maiden  innocent, 
and  so  that  thou  wilt  acknowledge  unto  her  the 
reverse  thou  hast  sustained  at  my  hands." 
And  the  knight  plighted  him  his  faith  thereto. 
Then  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  above 
him  he  beheld  a  castle,  and  thitherward  he 
went.  And  he  struck  upon  the  gate  with  his 
lance,  and  then,  behold,  a  comely  auburn- 
haired  youth  opened  the  gate,  and  he  had  the 
stature  of  a  warrior,  and  the  years  of  a  boy. 
And  when  Peredur  came  into  the  hall, 
there  was  a  tall  and  stately  lady  sitting  in  a 
chair,  and  many  handmaidens  around  her; 
and  the  lady  rejoiced  at  his  coming.  And 
when  it  was  4ime,  they  went  to  meat.  And 
after  their  repast  was  finished,  "It  were  well 
for  thee,  chieftain,"  said  she,  "to  go  elsewhere 
to  sleep."  "Wherefore  can  I  not  sleep  here?" 
said  Peredur.  "Nine  sorceresses  are  here, 
my  soul,  of  the  sorceresses  of  Gloucester,  and 
their  father  and  their  mother  are  with  them; 
and  unless  we  can  make  our  escape  before 
daybreak,  we  shall  be  slain;  and  already  they 
have  conquered  and  laid  waste  all  the  country, 
except  this  one  dwelling."  "Behold,"  said 
Peredur,  "I  will  remain  here  to-night,  and  if 
you  are  in  trouble,  I  will  do  you  what  service 
I  can;  but  harm  shall  you  not  receive  from 
me."  So  they  went  to  rest.  And  with  the 
break  of  day,  Peredur  heard  a  dreadful  outcry. 
And  he  hastily  arose,  and  went  forth  in  his  vest 
and  his  doublet,  with  his  sword  about  his  neck, 
and  he  saw  a  sorceress  overtake  one  of  the 
watch,  who  cried  out  violently.  Peredur  at- 
tacked the  sorceress,  and  struck  her  upon  the 
head  with  his  sword,  so  that  he  flattened  her 
helmet  and  her  headpiece  like  a  dish  upon  her 
head.  "Thy  mercy,  goodly  Peredur,  son  of 
Evrawc,  and  the  mercy  of  Heaven."  "How 
knowest  thou,  hag,  that  I  am  Peredur?"  "By 
destiny,  and  the  foreknowledge  that  I  should 
suffer  harm  from  thee.  And  thou  shalt  take 
a  horse  and  armour  of  me;  and  with  me  thou 
shalt  go  to  learn  chivalry  and  the  use  of  thy 
arms."  Said  Peredur,  "Thou  shalt  have 
mercy,  if  thou  pledge  thy  faith  thou  wilt  never 
more  injure  the  dominions  of  the  Countess." 
And  Peredur  took  surety  of  this,   and  with 


528 


THE    MABINOGION 


permission  of  the  Countess,  he  set  forth  with  the 
sorceress  to  the  palace  of  the  sorceresses.  And 
there  he  remained  for  three  weeks,  and  then 
he  made  choice  of  a  horse  and  arms,  and  went 
his  way. 

And  in  the  evening  he  entered  a  valley,  and 
at  the  head  of  the  valley  he  came  to  a  hermit's 
cell,  and  the  hermit  welcomed  him  gladly, 
and  there  he  spent  the  night.  And  in  the  morn- 
ing he  arose,  and  when  he  went  forth,  behold 
a  shower  of  snow  had  fallen  the  night  before, 
and  a  hawk  had  killed  a  wild  fowl  in  front  of 
the  cell.  And  the  noise  of  the  horse  scared  the 
hawk  away,  and  a  raven  alighted  upon  the  bird. 
And  Peredur  stood,  and  compared  the  black- 
ness of  the  raven  and  the  whiteness  of  the  snow, 
and  the  redness  of  the  blood,  to  the  hair  of  the 
lady  that  best  he  loved,  which  was  blacker  than 
jet,  and  to  her  skin,  which  was  whiter  than  the 
snow,  and  to  the  two  red  spots  upon  her  cheeks, 
which  were  redder  than  the  blood  upon  the 
snow  appeared  to  be. 

Now  Arthur  and  his  household  were  in  search 
of  Peredur.  "Know  ye,"  said  Arthur,  "who  is 
the  knight  with  the  long  spear  that  stands  by 
the  brook  up  yonder?"  "Lord,"  said  one  of 
them,  "I  will  go  and  learn  who  he  is."  So  the 
youth  came  to  the  place  where  Peredur  was, 
and  asked  him  what  he  did  thus,  and  who  he 
was.  And  from  the  intensity  with  which  he 
thought  upon  the  lady  whom  best  he  loved, 
he  gave  him  no  answer.  Then  the  youth  thrust 
at  Peredur  with  his  lance,  and  Peredur  turned 
upon  him,  and  struck  him  over  his  horse's 
crupper  to  the  ground.  And  after  this,  four- 
and-twenty  youths  came  to  him,  and  he  did 
not  answer  one  more  than  another,  but  gave 
the  same  reception  to  all,  bringing  them  with 
one  single  thrust  to  the  ground.  And  then  came 
Kai,  and  spoke  to  Peredur  rudely  and  angrily; 
and  Peredur  took  him  with  his  lance  under  the 
jaw,  and  cast  him  from  him  with  a  thrust,  so 
that  he  broke  his  arm  and  his  shoulder-blade, 
and  he  rode  over  him  one-and-twenty  times. 
And  while  he  lay  thus,  stunned  with  the  vio-. 
lence  of  the  pain  that  he  had  suffered,  his  horse 
returned  back  at  a  wild  and  prancing  pace. 
And  when  the  household  saw  the  horse  come 
back  without  his  rider,  they  rode  forth  in  haste 
to  the  place  where  the  encounter  had  been. 
And  when  they  first  came  there,  they  thought 
that  Kai  was  slain;  but  they  found  that  if  he 
had  a  skilful  physician,  he  yet  might  live. 
And  Peredur  moved  not  from  his  meditation, 
on  seeing  the  concourse  that  was  around  Kai. 
And  Kai  was  brought  to  Arthur's  tent,  and 


Arthur  caused  skilful  physicians  to  come  to 
him.  And  Arthur  was  grieved  that  Kai  had 
met  with  this  reverse,  for  he  loved  him  greatly. 

"Then,"  said  Gwalchmai,  "it  is  not  fitting 
that  any  should  disturb  an  honourable  knight 
from  his  thought  unadvisedly;  for  either  he  is 
pondering  some  damage  that  he  has  sustained, 
or  he  is  thinking  of  the  lady  whom  best  he  loves. 
And  through  such  ill-advised  proceeding,  per- 
chance this  misadventure  has  befallen  him 
who  last  met  with  him.  And  if  it  seem  well  to 
thee,  lord,  I  will  go  and  see  if  this  knight  has 
changed  from  his  thought;  and  if  he  has,  I 
will  ask  him  courteously  to  come  and  visit 
thee."  Then  Kai  was  wroth,  and  he  spoke 
angry  and  spiteful  words.  "Gwalchmai," 
said  he,  "I  know  that  thou  wilt  bring  him 
because  he  is  fatigued.  Little  praise  and  hon- 
our, nevertheless,  wilt  thou  have  from  van- 
quishing a  weary  knight,  who  is  tired  with 
fighting.  Yet  thus  hast  thou  gained  the  ad- 
vantage over  many.  And  while  thy  speech  and 
thy  soft  words  last,  a  coat  of  thin  linen  were 
armour  suflScient  for  thee,  and  thou  wilt  not 
need  to  break  either  lance  or  sword  in  fighting 
with  the  knight  in  the  state  he  is  in."  Then 
said  Gwalchmai  to  Kai,  "Thou  mightest  use 
more  pleasant  words,  wert  thou  so  minded; 
and  it  behoves  thee  not  upon  me  to  wreak  thy 
wrath  and  thy  displeasure.  Methinks  I  shall 
bring  the  knight  hither  with  me  without  break- 
ing either  my  arm  or  my  shoulder."  Then 
said  Arthur  to  Gwalchmai,  "Thou  speakest 
like  a  wise  and  prudent  man;  go,  and  take 
enough  of  armour  about  thee,  and  choose  thy 
horse."  And  Gwalchmai  accoutred  himself, 
and  rode  forward  hastily  to  the  place  wheje 
Peredur  was. 

And  Peredur  was  resting  on  the  shaft  of  his 
spear,  pondering  the  same  thought,  and  Gwalch- 
mai came  to  him  without  any  signs  of  hos- 
tility, and  said  to  him,  "If  I  thought  that  it 
would  be  as  agreeable  to  thee  as  it  would  be  to 
me,  I  would  converse  with  thee.  I  have  also 
a  message  from  Arthur  unto  thee,  to  pray  thee 
to  come  and  visit  him.  And  two  men  have 
been  before  on  this  errand."  "That  is  true," 
said  Peredur,  "and  uncourteously  they  came. 
They  attacked  me,  and  I  was  annoyed  thereat, 
for  it  was  not  pleasing  to  me  to  be  drawn  from 
the  thought  that  I  was  in,  for  I  was  thinking  of 
the  lady  whom  best  I  love,  and  thus  was  she 
brought  to  my  mind:  —  I  was  looking  upon 
the  snow,  and  upon  the  raven,  and  upon  the 
drops  of  the  blood  of  the  bird  that  the  hawk 
had  killed  upon  the  snow.     And  I  bethought 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


529 


me  that  her  whiteness  was  like  that  of  the  snow, 
and  that  the  blackness  of  her  hair  and  her  eye- 
brows like  that  of  the  raven,  and  that  the  two 
red  spots  upon  her  cheek  were  like  the  two 
drops  of  blood."  Said  Gwalchmai,  "This  was 
not  an  ungentle  thought,  and  I  should  marvel 
if  it  were  pleasant  to  thee  to  be  drawn  from  it." 
"Tell  me,"  said  Peredur,  "is  Kai  in  Arthur's 
Court?"  "He  is,"  said  he,  "and  behold  he 
is  the  knight  that  fought  with  thee  last;  and  it 
would  have  been  better  for  him  had  he  not 
come,  for  his  arm  and  his  shoulder-blade  were 
broken  with  the  fall  which  he  had  from  thy 
spear."  "Verily,"  said  Peredur,  "I  am  not 
sorry  to  have  thus  begun  to  avenge  the  in- 
sult to  the  dwarf  and  dwarfess."  Then 
Gwalchmai  marvelled  to  hear  him  speak  of  the 
dwarf  and  the  dwarfess;  and  he  approached 
him,  and  threw  his  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
asked  him  what  was  his  name.  "Peredur  the 
son  of  Evrawc  am  I  called,"  said  he;  "and 
thou,  who  art  thou?"  "I  am  called  Gwalch- 
mai," he  replied.  "I  am  right  glad  to  meet 
with  thee,"  said  Peredur,  "for  in  every  country 
where  I  have  been  I  have  heard  of  thy  fame 
for  prowess  and  uprightness,  and  I  solicit  thy 
fellowship."  "Thou  shalt  have  it,  by  my 
faith,  and  grant  me  thine,"  said  he.  "Gladly 
will  I  do  so,"  answered  Peredur. 

So  they  rode  forth  together  joyfully  towards 
the  place  where  Arthur  was,  and  when  Kai 
saw  them  coming,  he  said,"  I  knew  that  Gwalch- 
mai needed  not  to  fight  the  knight.  And  it 
is  no  wonder  that  he  should  gain  fame;  more 
can  he  do  by  his  fair  words  than  I  by  the 
strength  of  my  arm."  And  Peredur  went  with 
Gwalchmai  to  his  tent,  and  they  took  off  their 
armour.  And  Peredur  put  on  garments  like 
those  that  Gwalchmai  wore,  and  they  went 
together  unto  Arthur,  and  saluted  him.  "  Be- 
hold, lord,"  said  Gwalchmai,  "him  whom  thou 
hast  sought  so  long."  "Welcome  unto  thee, 
chieftain,"  said  Arthur.  "With  me  thou  shalt 
remain ;  and  had  I  known  thy  valour  had  been 
such,  thou  shouldst  not  have  left  me  as  thou 
didst;  nevertheless,  this  was  predicted  of  thee 
by  the  dwarf  and  the  dwarfess,  whom  Kai  ill- 
treated  and  whom  thou  hast  avenged."  And 
hereupon,  behold  there  came  the  Queen  and 
her  handmaidens,  and  Peredur  saluted  them. 
And  they  were  rejoiced  to  see  him,  and  bade  him 
welcome.  And  Arthur  did  him  great  honour 
and  respect,  and  they  returned  towards  Caer- 
lleon. 

And  the  first  night  Peredur  came  to  Caerlleon 
to  Arthur's  Court,  and  as  he  walked  in  the  city 


after  his  repast,  behold,  there  met  him  An- 
gharad  Law  Eurawc.  "By  my  faith,  sister," 
said  Peredur,  "thou  art  a  beauteous  and  lovely 
maiden;  and,  were  it  pleasing  to  thee,  I  could 
love  thee  above  all  women."  "I  pledge  my 
faith,"  said  she,  "that  I  do  not  love  thee,  nor 
will  I  ever  do  so."  "I  also  pledge  my  faith," 
said  Peredur,  "that  I  will  never  speak  a  word 
to  any  Christian  again,  until  thou  come  to  love 
me  above  all  men." 

The  ne.xt  day  Peredur  went  forth  by  the  high 
road,  along  a  mountain-ridge,  and  he  saw  a 
valley  of  a  circular  form,  the  confines  of  which 
were  rocky  and  wooded.     And  the  flat  part  of 
the  valley  was  in  meadows,   and  there  were 
fields   betwixt   the   meadows   and   the   wood. 
And  in  the  bosom   of  the  wood  he  saw  large 
black  houses  of  uncouth  workmanship.     And 
he  dismounted,  and  led  his  horse  towards  the 
wood.     And  a  little  way  within  the  wood  he 
saw  a  rocky  ledge,  along  which  the  road  lay. 
And  upon  the  ledge  was  a  lion  bound  by  a  chain, 
and  sleeping.     And  beneath  the  lion  he  saw 
a  deep  pit  of  immense  size,  full  of  the  bones 
of  men  and  animals.     And  Peredur  drew  his 
sword  and  struck  the  lion,  so  that  he  fell  into 
the  mouth  of  the  pit  and  hung  there  by  the 
chain;    and  with  a  second  blow  he  struck  the 
chain  and  broke  it,  and  the  lion  fell  into  the 
pit;    and  Peredur  led  his  horse  over  the  rocky 
ledge,  until  he  came  into  the  valley.     And  in 
the  centre  of  the  valley  he  saw  a  fair  castle,  and 
he  went  towards  it.     And  in  the  meadow  by 
the  castle  he  beheld  a  huge  gray  man  sitting, 
who  was  larger  than  any  man  he  had  ever  be- 
fore seen.     And  two  young  pages  were  shooting 
the  hilts  of  their  daggers,  of  the  bone  of  the  sea- 
horse.    And  one  of  the  pages  had  red  hair,  and 
the  other  auburn.     And  they  went  before  him 
to   the   place   where   the   gray   man   was,  and 
Peredur  saluted  him.     And  the  gray  man  said, 
"Disgrace  to  the  beard  of  my  porter."     Then 
Peredur  understood  that   the  porter  was  the 
lion.  —  And  the  gray  man  and  the  pages  went 
together  into  the  castle,  and  Peredur  accom- 
panied them;  and  he  found  it  a  fair  and  noble 
place.     And  they  proceeded  to  the  hall,  and 
the  tables  were  already  laid,  and  upon  them 
was  abundance  of  food  and  liquor.     And  there- 
upon he  saw  an  aged  woman  and  a  young  wo- 
man come  from  the  chamber;    and  they  were 
the   most   stately   women    he   had   ever  seen. 
Then  they  washed  and  went  to  meat,  and  the 
gray  man  sat  in  the  upper  seat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  the  aged  woman  next  to  him.     And 
Peredur  and  the  maiden  were  placed  together, 


53° 


THE    MABINOGION 


and  the  two  young  pages  served  them.  And 
the  maiden  gazed  sorrowfully  upon  Peredur, 
and  Peredur  asked  the  maiden  wherefore  she 
was  sad.  "For  thee,  my  soul;  for,  from  when 
I  first  beheld  thee,  I  have  loved  thee  above  all 
men.  And  it  pains  me  to  know  that  so  gentle 
a  youth  as  thou  should  have  such  a  doom 
as  awaits  thee  to-morrow.  Sawest  thou  the 
numerous  black  houses  in  the  bosom  of  the 
w^ood?  All  these  belong  to  the  vassals  of  the 
gray  man  yonder,  who  is  my  father.  And  they 
are  all  giants.  And  to-morrow  they  will  rise 
up  against  thee,  and  will  slay  thee.  And  the 
Round  Valley  is  this  valley  called."  "Listen, 
fair  maiden,  wilt  thou  contrive  that  my  horse 
and  arms  be  in  the  same  lodging  with  me  to- 
night?" "Gladly  will  I  cause  it  so  to  be,  by 
Heaven,  if  I  can." 

And  when  it  was  time  for  them  to  sleep  rather 
than  to  carouse,  they  went  to  rest.  And  the 
maiden  caused  Peredur's  horse  and  arms  to  be 
in  the  same  lodging  with  him.  And  the  next 
morning  Peredur  heard  a  great  tumult  of  men 
and  horses  around  the  castle.  And  Peredur 
arose,  and  armed  himself  and  his  horse,  and 
went  to  the  meadow.  Then  the  aged  woman 
and  the  maiden  came  to  the  gray  man :  "  Lord," 
said  they,  "take  the  word  of  the  youth,  that  he 
will  never  disclose  what  he  has  seen  in  this 
place,  and  we  will  be  his  sureties  that  he  keep 
it."  "I  will  not  do  so,  by  my  faith,"  said  the 
gray  man.  So  Peredur  fought  with  the  host, 
and  towards  evening  he  had  slain  the  one-third 
of  them  without  receiving  any  hurt  himself. 
Then  said  the  aged  woman,  "Behold,  many 
of  thy  host  have  been  slain  by  the  youth;  do 
thou,  therefore,  grant  him  mercy."  "I  will 
not  grant  it,  by  my  faith,"  said  he.  And  the 
aged  woman  and  the  fair  maiden  were  upon  the 
battlements  of  the  castle,  looking  forth.  And 
at  that  juncture,  Peredur  encountered  the 
yellow-haired  youth  and  slew  him.  "Lord," 
said  the  maiden,  "grant  the  young  man 
mercy."  "That  will  I  not  do,  by  Heaven,"  he 
replied;  and  thereupon  Peredur  attacked  the 
auburn-haired  youth,  and  slew  him  likewise. 
"It  were  better  thou  hadst  accorded  mercy 
to  the  youth  before  he  had  slain  thy  two  sons'; 
for  now  scarcely  wilt  thou  thyself  escape  from 
him."  "Go,  maiden,  and  beseech  the  youth 
to  grant  mercy  imto  us,  for  w^e  yield  ourselves 
mto  his  hands."  So  the  maiden  came  to  the 
place  where  Peredur  was,  and  besought  mercy 
for  her  father,  and  for  all  such  of  his  vassals 
as  had  escaped  alive.  "Thou  shalt  have  it, 
on  condition  that  thy  father  and  all  that  are 


under  him  go  and  render  homage  to  Arthur, 
and  tell  him  that  it  was  his  vassal  Peredur 
that  did  him  this  service."  "This  will  we  do 
willingly,  by  Heaven."  "And  you  shall  also 
receive  baptism;  and  I  will  send  to  Arthur, 
and  beseech  him  to  bestow  this  valley  upon  thee 
and  upon  thy  heirs  after  thee  forever."  Then 
they  went  in,  and  the  gray  man  and  the  tall 
woman  saluted  Peredur.  And  the  gray  man 
said  unto  him,  "Since  I  have  possessed  this 
valley  I  have  not  seen  any  Christian  depart 
with  his  life,  save  thyself.  And  w^e  will  go  to 
do  homage  to  Arthur,  and  to  embrace  the  faith 
and  be  baptized."  Then  said  Peredur,  "To 
Heaven  I  render  thanks  that  I  have  not  broken 
my  vow  to  the  lady  that  best  I  love,  which  was, 
that  I  would  not  speak  one  word  unto  any 
Christian." 

That  night  they  tarried  there.  And  the  next 
day,  in  the  morning,  the  gray  man,  with  his 
company,  set  forth  to  Arthur's  Court;  and 
they  did  homage  unto  Arthur,  and  he  caused 
them  to  be  baptized.  And  the  gray  man  told 
Arthur  that  it  w^as  Peredur  that  had  vanquished 
them.  .A.nd  Arthur  gave  the  valley  to  the  gray 
man  and  his  company,  to  hold  it  of  him  as 
Peredur  had  besought.  And  with  Arthur's 
permission,  the  gray  man  went  back  to  the 
Round  Valley. 

Peredur  rode  forward  next  day,  and  he  trav- 
ersed a  vast  tract  of  desert,  in  which  no  dwell- 
ings were.  And  at  length  he  came  to  a  habi- 
tation, mean  and  small.  And  there  he  heard 
that  there  was  a  serpent  that  lay  upon  a  gold 
ring,  and  suffered  none  to  inhabit  the  country 
for  seven  miles  around.  And  Peredur  came 
to  the  place  where  he  heard  the  serpent  was. 
And  angrily,  furiously,  and  desperately  fought 
he  with  the  serpent;  and  at  last  he  killed  it, 
and  took  away  the  ring.  And  thus  he  was 
for  a  long  time  without  speaking  a  word  to  any 
Christian.  And  therefrom  he  lost  his  colour 
and  his  aspect,  through  extreme  longing  after 
the  Court  of  .\rthur,  and  the  society  of  the 
lady  whom  best  he  loved,  and  of  his  compan- 
ions. Then  he  proceeded  forward  to  Arthur's 
Court,  and  on  the  road  there  met  him  Arthur's 
household  going  on  a  particular  errand,  with 
Kai  at  their  head.  And  Peredur  knew  them 
all,  but  none  of  the  household  recognised  him. 
"Whence  comest  thou,  chieftain?"  said  Kai. 
And  this  he  asked  him  twice  and  three  times, 
and  he  answered  him  not.  And  Kai  thrust 
him  through  the  thigh  with  his  lance.  And 
lest  he  should  be  compelled  to  speak,  and  to 
break  his  vow,  he  went  on  without  stopping. 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


531 


"Then,"  said  Gwalchmai,  "I  declare  to 
Heaven,  Kai,  that  thou  hast  acted  ill  in  com- 
mitting such  an  outrage  on  a  youth  like  this, 
who  cannot  speak."  And  Gwalchmai  returned 
back  to  Arthur's  Court.  "Lady,"  said  he 
to  Gwenhwyvar,  "seest  thou  how  wicked  an 
outrage  Kai  has  committed  upon  this  youth 
who  cannot  speak ;  for  Heaven's  sake,  and  for 
mine,  cause  him  to  have  medical  care  before  I 
come  back,  and  I  will  repay  thee  the  charge." 

And  before  the  men  returned  from  their 
errand,  a  knight  came  to  the  meadow  beside 
Arthur's  Palace,  to  dare  some  one  to  the  en- 
counter. And  his  challenge  was  accepted; 
and  Peredur  fought  with  him,  and  overthrew 
him.  And  for  a  week  he  overthrew  one  knight 
every  day. 

And  one  day,  Arthur  and  his  household  were 
going  to  Church,  and  they  beheld  a  knight  who 
had  raised  the  signal  for  combat.  "Verily," 
said  Arthur,  "by  the  valour  of  men,  I  will  not 
go  hence  until  I  have  my  horse  and  my  arms 
to  overthrow  yonder  boor."  Then  went  the 
attendants  to  fetch  Arthur's  horse  and  arms. 
And  Peredur  met  the  attendants  as  they  were 
going  back,  and  he  took  the  horse  and  arms 
from  them,  and  proceeded  to  the  meadow; 
and  all  those  who  saw  him  arise  and  go  to  do 
battle  with  the  knight,  went  upon  the  tops 
of  the  houses,  and  the  mounds,  and  the  high 
places,  to  behold  the  combat.  And  Peredur 
beckoned  with  his  hand  to  the  knight  to  com- 
mence the  fight.  And  the  knight  thrust  at  him, 
but  he  was  not  thereby  moved  from  where  he 
stood.  And  Peredur  spurred  his  horse,  and  ran 
at  him  wrathfully,  furiously,  fiercely,  desper- 
ately, and  with  mighty  rage,  and  he  gave  him  a 
thrust,  deadly-wounding,  severe,  furious,  adroit,' 
and  strong,  under  his  jaw,  and  raised  him  out 
of  his  saddle,  and  cast  him  a  long  way  from 
him.  And  Peredur  went  back,  and  left  the 
horse  and  the  arms  with  the  attendant  as  be- 
fore, and  he  went  on  foot  to  the  Palace. 

Then  Peredur  went  by  the  name  of  the 
Dumb  Youth.  And  behold,  Angharad  Law 
Eurawc  met  him.  *T  declare  to  Heaven, 
chieftain,"  said  she,  "woeful  is  it  that  thou 
canst  not  speak;  for  couldst  thou  speak,  I 
would  love  thee  best  of  all  men;  and  by  my 
faith,  although  thou  canst  not,  I  do  love  thee 
above  all."  "Heaven  reward  thee,  my  sister," 
said  Peredur,  "by  my  faith  I  also  do  love  thee." 
Thereupon  it  was  known  that  he  was  Peredur. 
And  then  he  held  fellowship  with  Gwalchmai, 
and  Owain  the  son  of  Urien,  and  all  the  house- 
hold, and  he  remained  in  Arthur's  Court. 


Arthur  was  in  Caerlleon  upon  Usk ;  and  he 
went  to  hunt,  and  Peredur  went  with  him. 
And  Peredur  let  loose  his  dog  upon  a  hart, 
and  the  dog  killed  the  hart  in  a  desert  place. 
And  a  short  space  from  him  he  saw  signs  of  a 
dwelling,  and  towards  the  dwelling  he  went, 
and  he  beheld  a  hall,  and  at  the  door  of  the 
hall  he  found  bald  swarthy  youths  playing  at 
chess.  And  when  he  entered,  he  beheld  three 
maidens  sitting  on  a  bench,  and  they  were  all 
clothed  alike,  as  became  persons  of  high  rank. 
And  he  came,  and  sat  by  them  upon  the  bench; 
and  one  of  the  maidens  looked  steadfastly 
upon  Peredur,  and  wept.  And  Peredur  asked 
her  wherefore  she  was  weeping.  "Through 
grief,  that  I  should  see  so  fair  a  youth  as  thou 
art,  slain."  "Who  will  slay  me?"  inquired 
Peredur.  "  If  thou  art  so  daring  as  to  remain 
here  to-night,  I  will  tell  thee."  "How  great 
soever  my  danger  may  be  from  remaining  here,  I 
will  listen  unto  thee."  "This  Palace  is  owned 
by  him  who  is  my  father,"  said  the  maiden, 
"and  he  slays  every  one  who  comes  hither 
without  his  leave."  "What  sort  of  a  man  is 
thy  father,  that  he  is  able  to  slay  every  one 
thus?"  "A  man  who  does  violence  and  wrong 
unto  his  neighbours,  and  who  renders  justice 
unto  none."  And  hereupon  he  saw  the  youths 
arise  and  clear  the  chessmen  from  the  board. 
And  he  heard  a  great  tumult;  and  after  the 
tumult  there  came  in  a  huge  black  one-eyed 
man,  and  the  maidens  arose  to  meet  him. 
And  they  disarrayed  him,  and  he  went  and  sat 
down;  and  after  he  had  rested  and  pondered 
awhile,  he  looked  at  Peredur,  and  asked  who 
the  knight  was.  "Lord,"  said  one  of  the  maid- 
ens, "he  is  the  fairest  and  gentlest  youth  that 
ever  thou  didst  see.  And  for  the  sake  of 
Heaven,  and  of  thine  own  dignity,  have  patience 
with  him."  "For  thy  sake  I  will  have  patience, 
and  I  will  grant  him  his  life  this  night."  Then 
Peredur  came  towards  them  to  the  fire,  and 
partook  of  food  and  liquor,  and  entered  into 
discourse  with  the  ladies.  And  being  elated 
with  the  liquor,  he  said  to  the  black  man,  "It 
is  a  marvel  to  me,  so  mighty  as  thou  sayest 
thou  art,  who  could  have  put  out  thine  eye." 
"It  is  one  of  my  habits,"  said  the  black  man, 
"that  whosoever  puts  to  me  the  question  which 
thou  hast  asked,  shall  not  escape  with  his  life, 
either  as  a  free  gift  or  for  a  price."  "Lord," 
said  the  maiden,  "whatsoever  he  may  say  to 
thee  in  jest,  and  through  the  excitement  of 
liquor,  make  good  that  which  thou  saidst  and 
didst  promise  me  just  now."  "  I  will  do  so, 
gladly,    for   thy   sake,"    said    he.     "Willingly 


532 


THE    MABINOGION 


will  I  grant  him  his  life  this  night."  And  that 
night  thus  they  remained. 

And  the  next  day  the  black  man  got  up,  and 
put  on  his  armour,  and  said  to  Peredur,  "Arise, 
man,  and  suffer  death."  And  Peredur  said 
unto  him,  "Do  one  of  two  things,  black  man; 
if  thou  wilt  fight  with  me,  either  throw  off  thy 
own  armour,  or  give  arms  to  me,  that  I  may 
encounter  thee."  "Ha,  man,"  said  he, 
"couldst  thou  fight,  if  thou  hadst  arms?  Take, 
then,  what  arms  thou  dost  choose."  And 
thereupon  the  maiden  came  to  Peredur  with 
such  arms  as  pleased  him;  and  he  fought  with 
the  black  man,  and  forced  him  to  crave  his 
mercy.  "Black  man,  thou  shalt  have  mercy, 
provided  thou  tell  me  who  thou  art,  and  who 
put  out  thine  eye."  "Lord,  I  will  tell  thee; 
I  lost  it  in  fighting  with  the  Black  Serpent  of  the 
Cam.  There  is  a  mound,  which  is  called  the 
Mound  of  Mourning;  and  on  the  mound  there 
is  a  cam,  and  in  the  cam  there  is  a  serpent,  and 
on  the  tail  of  the  serpent  there  is  a  stone,  and 
the  virtues  of  the  stone  are  such,  that  whosoever 
should  hold  it  in  one  hand,  in  the  other  he  will 
have  as  much  gold  as  he  may  desire.  And  in 
fighting  with  this  serpent  was  it  that  I  lost  my 
eye.  And  the  Black  Oppressor  am  I  called. 
And  for  this  reason  I  am  called  the  Black  Op- 
pressor, that  there  is  not  a  single  man  around 
me  whom  I  have  not  oppressed,  and  justice 
have  I  done  unto  none."  "Tell  me,"  said 
Peredur,  "how  far  is  it  hence?"  "The  same 
day  that  thou  settest  forth,  thou  wilt  come  to  the 
Palace  of  the  Sons  of  the  King  of  the  Tortures." 
"Wherefore  are  they  called  thus?"  "The 
Addanc  of  the  Lake  slays  them  once  every  day. 
When  thou  goest  thence,  thou  wilt  come  to  the 
Court  of  the  Countess  of  the  Achievements." 
"What  achievements  are  there?"  asked  Pere- 
dur. "Three  hundred  men  there  are  in  her 
household,  and  unto  every  stranger  that  comes 
to  the  Court,  the  achievements  of  her  house- 
hold are  related.  And  this  is  the  manner  of  it, 
—  the  three  hundred  men  of  the  household  sit 
next  unto  the  Lady;  and  that  not  through 
disrespect  unto  the  guests,  but  that  they  may 
relate  the  achievements  of  the  household. 
And  the  day  that  thou  goest  thence,  thou  wilt 
reach  the  Mound  of  Mourning,  and  round  about 
the  mound  there  are  the  owners  of  three 
hundred  tents  guarding  the  serpent."  "Since 
thou  hast,  indeed,  been  an  oppressor  so  long," 
said  Peredur,  "I  will  cause  that  thou  continue 
so  no  longer."     So  he  slew  h'm. 

Then  the  maiden  spoke,  and  began  to  con- 
verse with  him.      "If  thou  wast  poor  when 


thou  earnest  here,  hencefortlr  thou  wilt  be  rich 
through  the  treasure  of  the  black  man  whom 
thou  hast  slain.  Thou  seest  the  many  lovely 
maidens  that  there  are  in  this  Court;  thou 
shalt  have  her  whom  thou  best  likest  for  the 
lady  of  thy  love."  "Lady,  I  came  not  hither 
from  my  country  to  woo;  but  match  yourselves 
as  it  liketh  you  with  the  comely  youths  I  see 
here;  and  none  of  your  goods  do  I  desire, 
for  I  need  them  not."  Then  Peredur  rode 
forward,  and  he  came  to  the  Palace  of  the  Sons 
of  the  King  of  the  Tortures;  and  when  he 
entered  the  Palace,  he  saw  none  but  women; 
and  they  rose  up,  and  were  joyful  at  his  com- 
ing; and  as  they  began  to  discourse  with  him, 
he  beheld  a  charger  arrive,  with  a  saddle  upon 
it,  and  a  corpse  in  the  saddle.  And  one  of  the 
women  arose,  and  took  the  corpse  from  the 
saddle,  and  anointed  it  in  a  vessel  of  warm 
water,  which  was  below  the  door,  and  placed 
precious  balsam  upon  it;  and  the  man  rose  up 
alive,  and  came  to  the  place  where  Peredur 
was,  and  greeted  him,  and  was  joyful  to  see 
him.  And  two  other  men  came  in  upon  their 
saddles,  and  the  maiden  treated  these  two  in  the 
same  manner  as  she  had  done  the  first.  Then 
Peredur  asked  the  chieftain  wherefore  it  was 
thus.  And  they  told  him,  that  there  w*as  an 
Addanc  in  a  cave,  w^hich  slew  them  once  every 
day.     And  thus  they  remained  that  night. 

And  next  moming  the  youths  arose  to  sally 
forth,  and  Peredur  besought  them,  for  the  sake 
of  the  ladies  of  their  love,  to  permit  him  to  go 
with  them;  but  they  refused  him,  saying,  "If 
thou  shouldst  be  slain  there,  thou  hast  none  to 
bring  thee  back  to  life  again."  And  they  rode 
forward,  and  Peredur  followed  after  them; 
and,  after  they  had  disappeared  out  of  his  sight, 
he  came  to  a  mound,  whereon  sat  the  fairest 
lady  he  had  ever  beheld.  "I  know  thy  quest," 
said  she;  "thou  art  going  to  encounter  the 
Addanc,  and  he  will  slay  thee,  and  that  not  by 
courage,  but  by  craft.  He  has  a  cave,  and  at 
the  entrance  of  the  cave  there  is  a  stone  pillar, 
and  he  sees  every  one  that  enters,  and  none  see 
him ;  and  from  behind  the  pillar  he  slays  every 
one  with  a  poisonous  dart.  And  if  thou 
wouldst  pledge  me  thy  faith  to  love  me  above 
all  women,  I  would  give  thee  a  stone,  by  which 
thou  shouldst  see  him  when  thou  goest  in,  and 
he  should  not  see  thee."  "I  will,  by  my  troth," 
said  Peredur,  "for  when  first  I  beheld  thee  I 
loved  thee;  and  where  shall  I  seek  thee?" 
"  When  thou  seekest  me,  seek  towards  India." 
And  the  maiden  vanished,  after  placing  the 
stone  in  Peredur's  hand. 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


533 


And  he  came  towards  a  valley,  through  which 
ran  a  river;  and  the  borders  of  the  valley  were 
wooded,  and  on  each  side  of  the  river  were 
level  meadows.  And  on  one  side  of  the  river 
he  saw  a  flock  of  white  sheep,  and  on  the  other 
a  flock  of  black  sheep.  And  whenever  one 
of  the  white  sheep  bleated,  one  of  the  black 
sheep  would  cross  over  and  become  white; 
and  when  one  of  the  black  sheep  bleated,  one 
of  the  white  sheep  would  cross  over  and  become 
black.  And  he  saw  a  tall  tree  by  the  side  of  the 
river,  one  half  of  which  was  in  flames  from  the 
root  to  the  top,  and  the  other  half  was  green 
and  in  full  leaf.  And  nigh  thereto  he  saw 
a  youth  sitting  upon  a  mound,  and  two  grey- 
hounds, white-breasted  and  spotted,  in  leashes, 
lying  by  his  side.  And  certain  was  he  that  he 
had  never  seen  a  youth  of  so  royal  a  bearing 
as  he.  And  in  the  wood  opposite  he  heard 
hounds  raising  a  herd  of  deer.  And  Peredur 
saluted  the  youth,  and  the  youth  greeted  him 
in  return.  And  there  were  three  roads  leading 
from  the  mound ;  two  of  them  were  wide  roads, 
and  the  third  was  more  narrow.  And  Peredur 
inquired  where  the  three  roads  went.  "  One  of 
them  goes  to  my  palace,"  said  the  youth;  "  and 
one  of  two  things  I  counsel  thee  to  do;  either 
to  proceed  to  my  palace,  which  is  before  thee, 
and  where  thou  wilt  find  my  wife,  or  else  to 
remain  here  to  see  the  hounds  chasing  the 
roused  deer  from  the  wood  to  the  plain.  And 
thou  shalt  see  the  best  greyhounds  thou  didst 
ever  behold,  and  the  boldest  in  the  chase,  kill 
them  by  the  water  beside  us;  and  when  it  is 
time  to  go  to  meat,  my  page  will  come  with  my 
horse  to  meet  me,  and  thou  shalt  rest  in  my 
palace  to-night."  "Heaven  reward  thee;  but 
I  cannot  tarry,  for  onward  must  I  go."  "  The 
other  road  leads  to  the  town,  which  is  near  here, 
and  wherein  food  and  liquor  may  be  bought; 
and  the  road  which  is  narrower  than  the  others 
goes  towards  the  cave  of  the  Addanc."  "  With 
thy  permission,  young  man,  I  will  go  that  way." 

And  Peredur  went  towards  the  cave.  And 
he  took  the  stone  in  his  left  hand,  and  his  lance 
in  his  right.  And  as  he  went  in  he  perceived 
the  Addanc,  and  he  pierced  him  through  with 
his  lance,  and  cut  off  his  head.  And  as  he 
came  from  the  cave,  behold  the  three  compan- 
ions were  at  the  entrance;  and  they  saluted 
Peredur,  and  told  him  that  there  was  a  pre- 
diction that  he  should  slay  that  monster. 
And  Peredur  gave  the  head  to  the  young  men, 
and  they  offered  him  in  marriage  whichever  of 
the  three  sisters  he  might  choose,  and  half  their 
kingdom  with   her.     "I   came  not   hither  to 


woo,"  said  Peredur,  "but  if  peradventure  I 
took  a  wife,  I  should  prefer  your  sister  to  all 
others."  And  Peredur  rode  forward,  and  he 
heard  a  noise  behind  him.  And  he  looked 
back,  and  saw  a  man  upon  a  red  horse,  with  red 
armour  upon  him;  and  the  man  rode  up  by 
his  side,  and  saluted  him,  and  wished  him  the 
favour  of  Heaven  and  of  man.  And  Peredur 
greeted  the  youth  kindly.  "Lord,  I  come  to 
make  a  request  unto  thee."  "  What  wouldest 
thou?"  "That  thou  shouldest  take  me  as 
thine  attendant."  "Whom  then  should  I  take 
as  my  attendant,  if  I  did  so?"  "I  will  not 
conceal  from  thee  what  kindred  I  am  of. 
Etlym  Gleddyv  Coch  am  I  called,  an  Earl 
from  the  East  Country."  "I  marvel  that  thou 
shouldest  offer  to  become  attendant  to  a  man 
whose  possessions  are  no  greater  than  thine 
own;  for  I  have  but  an  earldom  like  thyself. 
But  since  thou  desirest  to  be  my  attendant,  I 
will  take  thee  joyfully." 

And  they  went  forward  to  the  Court  of  the 
Countess,  and  all  they  of  the  Court  were  glad 
at  their  coming;  and  they  were  told  it  was  not 
through  disrespect  they  were  placed  below  the 
household,  but  that  such  was  the  usage  of 
the  Court.  For,  whoever  should  overthrow  the 
three  hundred  men  of  her  household,  would  sit 
next  the  Countess,  and  she  would  love  him 
above  all  men.  And  Peredur  having  over- 
thrown the  three  hundred  men  of  her  house- 
hold, sat  down  beside  her,  and  the  Countess 
said,  "I  thank  Heaven  that  I  have  a  youth  so 
fair  and  so  valiant  as  thou,  since  I  have  not 
obtained  the  man  whom  best  I  love."  "Who 
is  he  whom  best  thou  lovest?"  "By  my 
faith,  Etlym  Gleddyv  Coch  is  the  man  whom  I 
love  best,  and  I  have  never  seen  him."  "  Of  a 
truth,  Etlym  is  my  companion;  and  behold  here 
he  is,  and  for  his  sake  did  I  come  to  joust  with 
thy  household.  And  he  could  have  done  so 
better  than  I,  had  it  pleased  him.  And  I  do 
give  thee  unto  him."  "  Heaven  reward  thee, 
fair  youth,  and  I  will  take  the  man  whom  I 
love  above  all  others."  And  the  Countess  be- 
came Etlym's  bride  from  that  moment. 

And  the  next  day  Peredur  set  forth  towards 
the  Mound  of  Mourning.  "  By  thy  hand,  lord, 
but  I  will  go  with  thee,"  said  Etlym.  Then 
they  went  forwards  till  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
mound  and  the  tents.  "  Go  unto  yonder  men," 
said  Peredur  to  Etlym,  "and  desire  them  to 
come  and  do  me  homage."  So  Etlym  went  unto 
them,  and  said  unto  them  thus,  —  "  Come  and 
do  homage  to  my  lord."  "Who  is  thy  lord?" 
said  they.     "  Peredur  with  the  long  lance  is  my 


534 


THE    MABINOGION 


lord,"  said  Etlym.  "Were  it  permitted  to  slay 
a  messenger,  thou  shouldest  not  go  back  to  thy 
lord  alive,  for  making  unto  Kings,  and  Earls, 
and  Barons  so  arrogant  a  demand  as  to  go  and 
do  him  homage."  Peredur  desired  him  to  go 
back  to  them,  and  to  give  them  their  choice, 
either  to  do  him  homage,  or  to  do  battle  with 
him.  And  they  chose  rather  to  do  battle. 
And  that  day  Peredur  overthrew  the  owners  of 
a  hundred  tents;  and  the  next  day  he  over- 
threw the  owners  of  a  hundred  more;  and  the 
third  day  the  remaining  hundred  took  counsel 
to  do  homage  to  Peredur.  And  Peredur  in- 
quired of  them,  wherefore  they  were  there. 
And  they  told  him  they  were  guarding  the  ser- 
pent until  he  should  die.  "  For  then  should  we 
fight  for  the  stone  among  ourselves,  and  who- 
ever should  be  conqueror  among  us  would 
have  the  stone."  "  Await  here,"  said  Peredur, 
"and  I  will  go  to  encounter  the  serpent." 
"Not  so,  lord,"  said  they;  "we  will  go  alto- 
gether to  encounter  the  serpent."  "  Verily," 
said  Peredur,  "that  will  I  not  permit;  for  if 
the  serpent  be  slain,  I  shall  derive  no  more  fame 
therefrom  than  one  of  you."  Then  he  went  to 
the  place  where  the  serpent  was,  and  slew  it, 
and  came  back  to  them,  and  said,  "  Reckon 
up  what  you  have  spent  since  you  have  been 
here,  and  I  will  repay  you  to  the  full."  And 
he  paid  to  each  what  he  said  was  his  claim. 
And  he  required  of  them  only  that  they  should 
acknowledge  themselves  his  vassals.  And  he 
said  to  Etlym,  "  Go  back  unto  her  whom  thou 
lovest  best,  and  I  will  go  forwards,  and  I  will 
reward  thee  for  having  been  my  attendant." 
And  he  gave  Etlym  the  stone.  "  Heaven  repay 
thee  and  prosper  thee,"  said  Etlym. 

And  Peredur  rode  thence,  and  he  came  to  the 
fairest  valley  he  had  ever  seen,  through  which 
ran  a  river;  and  there  he  beheld  many  tents 
of  various  colours.  And  he  marvelled  still 
more  at  the  number  of  water-mills  and  of  wind- 
mills that  he  saw.  And  there  rode  up  with  him 
a  tall  auburn-haired  man,  in  a  workman's 
garb,  and  Peredur  inquired  of  him  who  he 
was.  "I  am  the  chief  miller,"  said  he,  "of 
all  the  mills  yonder."  "Wilt  thou  give  me 
lodging?"  said  Peredur.  "I  will,  gladly,"  he 
answered.  And  Peredur  came  to  the  miller's 
house,  and  the  miller  had  a  fair  and  pleasant 
dwelling.  And  Peredur  asked  money  as  a 
loan  from  the  miller,  that  he  might  buy  meat  and 
liquor  for  himself  and  for  the  household,  and 
he  promised  that  he  would  pay  him  again 
ere  he  went  thence.  And  he  inquired  of  the 
miller,  wherefore  such  a  multitude  was  there 


assembled.  Said  the  miller  to  Peredur,  "  One 
thing  is  certain:  either  thou  art  a  man  from 
afar,  or  thou  art  beside  thyself.  The  Empress 
of  Christinobyl  the  Great  is  here;  and  she  will 
have  no  one  but  the  man  who  is  most  valiant ; 
for  riches  does  she  not  require.  And  it  was 
impossible  to  bring  food  for  so  many  thou- 
sands as  are  here,  therefore  were  all  these 
mills  constructed."  And  that  night  they  took 
their  rest. 

And  the  next  day  Peredur  arose,  and  he 
equipped  himself  and  his  horse  for  the  tourna- 
ment. And  among  the  other  tents  he  beheld 
one,  which  was  the  fairest  he  had  ever  seen. 
And  he  saw  a  beauteous  maiden  leaning  her 
head  out  of  a  window  of  the  tent,  and  he  had 
never  seen  a  maiden  more  lovely  than  she. 
And  upon  her  was  a  garment  of  satin.  And  he 
gazed  fixedly  on  the  maiden,  and  began  to  love 
her  greatly.  And  he  remained  there,  gazing 
upon  the  maiden  from  morning  until  mid-day, 
and  from  mid-day  until  evening;  and  then  the 
tournament  was  ended,  and  he  went  to  his 
lodging  and  drew  off  his  armour.  Then  he 
a.sked  money  of  the  miller  as  a  loan,  and  the 
miller's  wife  was  wroth  with  Peredur;  never- 
theless, the  miller  lent  him  the  money.  And 
the  next  day  he  did  in  like  manner  as  he  had 
done  the  day  before.  And  at  night  he  came  to 
his  lodging,  and  took  money  as  a  loan  from  the 
miller.  And  the  third  day,  as  he  was  in  the 
same  place,  gazing  upon  the  maiden,  he  felt 
a  hard  blow  between  the  neck  and  the  shoulder, 
from  the  edge  of  an  axe.  And  when  he  looked 
behind  him,  he  saw  that  it  was  the  miller; 
and  the  miller  said  to  him,  "  Do  one  of  two 
things:  either  turn  thy  head  from  hence, 
or  go  to  the  tournament."  And  Peredur 
smiled  on  the  miller,  and  went  to  the  tourna- 
ment; and  all  that  encountered  him  that  day 
he  overthrew.  And  as  many  as  he  vanquished 
he  sent  as  a  gift  to  the  Empress,  and  their  horses 
and  arms  he  sent  as  a  gift  to  the  wife  of  the 
miller,  in  payment  of  the  borrowed  money. 
Peredur  attended  the  tournament  until  all  were 
overthrown,  and  he  sent  all  the  men  to  the 
prison  of  the  Empress,  and  the  horses  and  arms 
to  the  wife  of  the  miller,  in  payment  of  the  bor- 
rowed money.  And  the  Empress  sent  to  the 
Knight  of  the  Mill,  to  ask  him  to  come  and 
visit  her.  And  Peredur  went  not  for  the  first 
nor  for  the  second  message.  And  the  third 
time  she  sent  a  hundred  knights  to  bring  him 
against  his  will,  and  they  went  to  him  and  told 
him  their  mission  from  the  Empress.  And 
Peredur  fought  well  wuth    them,  and    caused 


PEREDUR    THE    SON    OF    EVRAWC 


535 


them  to  be  bound  like  stags,  and  thrown  into 
the  mill-dike.  And  the  Empress  sought  ad- 
vice of  a  wise  man  who  was  in  her  counsel; 
and  he  said  to  her,  "With  thy  permission,  I 
will  go  to  him  myself."  So  he  came  to  Peredur, 
and  saluted  him,  and  besought  him,  for  the  sake 
of  the  lady  of  his  love,  to  come  and  visit  the 
Empress.  And  they  went,  together  with  the 
miller.  And  Peredur  went  and  sat  down  in 
the  outer  chamber  of  the  tent,  and  she  came 
and  placed  herself  by  his  side.  And  there 
was  but  little  discourse  between  them.  And 
Peredur  took  his  leave,  and  went  to  his 
lodging. 

And  the  next  day  he  came  to  visit  her,  and 
when  he  came  into  the  tent  there  was  no  one 
chamber  less  decorated  than  the  others.  And 
they  knew  not  where  he  would  sit.  And  Peredur 
went  and  sat  beside  the  Empress,  and  discoursed 
with  her  courteously.  And  while  they  were 
thus,  they  beheld  a  black  man  enter  with  a 
goblet  full  of  wine  in  his  hand.  And  he  dropped 
upon  his  knee  before  the  Empress,  and  besought 
her  to  give  it  to  no  one  who  would  not  fight  with 
him  for  it.  And  she  looked  upon  Peredur. 
"Lady,"  said  he,  "bestow  on  me  the  goblet." 
And  Peredur  drank  the  wine,  and  gave  the  gob- 
let to  the  miller's  wife.  And  while  they  were 
thus,  behold  there  entered  a  black  man  of 
larger  stature  than  the  other,  with  a  wild  beast's 
claw  in  his  hand,  wrought  into  the  form  of  a 
goblet  and  filled  with  wine.  And  he  presented 
it  to  the  Empress,  and  besought  her  to  give  it 
to  no  one  but  the  man  who  would  fight  with  him. 
"Lady,"  said  Peredur,  "bestow  it  on  me." 
And  she  gave  it  to  him.  And  Peredur  drank 
the  wine,  and  sent  the  goblet  to  the  wife  of  the 
miller.  And  while  they  were  thus,  behold  a 
rough-looking,  crisp-haired  man,  taller  than 
either  of  the  others,  came  in  with  a  bowl  in  his 
hand  full  of  wine;  and  he  bent  upon  his  knee, 
and  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  the  Empress,  and 
he  besought  her  to  give  it  to  none  but  him  who 
would  fight  with  him  for  it;  and  she  gave  it  to 
Peredur,  and  he  sent  it  to  the  miller's  wife. 
And  that  night  Peredur  returned  to  his  lodging; 
and  the  next  day  he  accoutred  himself  and  his 
horse,  and  went  to  the  meadow  and  slew  the 
three  men.  Then  Peredur  proceeded  to  the 
tent,  and  the  Empress  said  to  him,  "Goodly 
Peredur,  remember  the  faith  thou  didst  pledge 
me  when  I  gave  thee  the  stone,  and  thou  didst 
kill  the  Addanc."  "Lady,"  answered  he, 
"thou  sayest  truth,  I  do  remember  it."  And 
Peredur  was  entertained  by  the  Empress  four- 
teen years,  as  the  story  relates. 


Arthur  was  at  Caerlleon  upon  Usk,  his 
principal  palace;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  floor 
of  the  hall  were  four  men  sitting  on  a  carpet  of 
velvet,  Owain  the  son  of  Urien,  and  Gwalchmai 
the  son  of  Gwyar,  and  Howel  the  son  of  Emyr 
Llydaw,  and  Peredur  of  the  long  lance.  And 
thereupon  they  saw  a  black  curly-headed 
maiden  enter,  riding  upon  a  yellow  mule, 
with  jagged  thongs  in  her  hand  to  urge  it  on; 
and  havinga  rough  and  hideous  aspect.  Blacker 
were  her  face  and  her  two  hands  than  the 
blackest  iron  covered  with  pitch;  and  her  hue 
was  not  more  frightful  than  her  form.  High 
cheeks  had  she,  and  a  face  lengthened  down- 
wards, and  a  short  nose  with  distended  nostrils. 
And  one  eye  was  of  a  piercing  mottled  gray, 
and  the  other  was  as  black  as  jet,  deep-sunk 
in  her  head.  And  her  teeth  were  long  and 
yellow,  more  yellow  were  they  than  the  flower 
of  the  broom.  And  her  stomach  rose  from 
the  breast-bone,  higher  than  her  chin.  And 
her  back  was  in  the  shape  of  a  crook,  and  her 
legs  were  large  and  bony.  And  her  figure  was 
very  thin  and  spare,  except  her  feet  and  her 
legs,  which  were  of  huge  size.  And  she 
greeted  Arthur  and  all  his  household  except 
Peredur.  And  to  Peredur  she  spoke  harsh 
and  angry  words.  "Peredur,  I  greet  thee  not, 
seeing  that  thou  dost  not  merit  it.  Blind  was 
fate  in  giving  thee  fame  and  favour.  When 
thou  wast  in  the  Court  of  the  Lame  King, 
and  didst  see  there  the  youth  bearing  the  stream- 
ing spear,  from  the  points  of  which  were  drops 
of  blood  flowing  in  streams,  even  to  the  hand 
of  the  youth,  and  many  other  wonders  likewise, 
thou  didst  not  inquire  their  meaning  nor  their 
cause.  Hadst  thou  done  so,  the  King  would 
have  been  restored  to  health,  and  his  domin- 
ions to  peace.  Whereas  from  henceforth,  he 
will  have  to  endure  battles  and  conflicts,  and 
his  knights  wiU  perish,  and  wives  will  be 
widowed,  and  maidens  will  be  left  portionless, 
and  all  this  is  because  of  thee."  Then  said 
she  unto  Arthur,  "May  it  please  thee,  lord,  my 
dwelling  is  far  hence,  in  the  stately  castle  of 
which  thou  hast  heard,  and  therein  are  five 
hundred  and  sixty-six  knights  of  the  order  of 
Chivalry,  and  the  lady  whom  best  he  loves  with 
each;  and  whoever  would  acquire  fame  in 
arms,  and  encounters,  and  conflicts,  he  will  gain 
it  there,  if  he  deserve  it.  And  whoso  would 
reach  the  summit  of  fame  and  of  honour,  I 
know  where  he  may  find  it.  There  is  a  castle 
on  a  lofty  mountain,  and  there  is  a  maiden 
therein,  and  she  is  detained  a  prisoner  there, 
and  whoever  shall  set  her  free  will  attain  the 


536 


THE    MABINOGION 


summit  of  the  fame  of  the  world."  And  there- 
upon she  rode  away. 

Said  Gwalchmai,  "By  my  faith,  I  will  not 
rest  tranquilly  until  I  have  proved  if  I  can 
release  the  maiden."  And  many  of  Arthur's 
household  joined  themselves  with  him.  Then, 
likewise,  said  Peredur,  "  By  my  faith,  I  will  not 
rest  tranquilly  until  I  know  the  story  and  the 
meaning  of  the  lance  whereof  the  black  maiden 
spoke."  And  while  they  were  equipping  them- 
selves, behold  a  knight  came  to  the  gate.  And 
he  had  the  size  and  strength  of  a  warrior,  and 
was  equipped  with  arms  and  habiliments. 
And  he  went  forward,  and  saluted  Arthur  and 
all  his  household,  except  Gwalchmai.  And 
the  knight  had  upon  his  shoulder  a  shield, 
ingrained  with  gold,  with  a  fesse  of  azure  blue 
upon  it,  and  his  whole  armour  was  of  the  same 
hue.  And  he  said  to  Gwalchmai,  "  Thou  didst 
slay  my  lord  by  thy  treachery  and  deceit,  and 
that  will  I  prove  upon  thee."  Then  Gwalchmai 
rose  up.  "Behold,"  said  he,  "here  is  my  gage 
against  thee,  to  maintain,  either  in  this  place 
or  wherever  else  thou  wilt,  that  I  am  not  a  trai- 
tor or  deceiver."  "Before  the  King  whom  I 
obey,  will  I  that  my  encounter  with  thee  take 
place,"  said  the  knight.  "Willingly,"  said 
Gwalchmai;  "go  forward,  and  I  will  follow 
thee."  So  the  knight  went  forth,  and  Gwalch- 
mai accoutred  himself,  and  there  was  offered 
unto  him  abundance  of  armour,  but  he  would 
take  none  but  his  own.  And  when  Gwalch- 
mai and  Peredur  were  equipped,  they  set 
forth  to  follow  him,  by  reason  of  their  fellow- 
ship and  of  the  great  friendship  that  was  be- 
tween them.  And  they  did  not  go  after  him 
in  company  together,  but  each  went  his  own 
way. 

At  the  dawn  of  day  Gwalchmai  came  to  a 
valley,  and  in  the  valley  he  saw  a  fortress,  and 
within  the  fortress  a  vast  palace  and  lofty  tow- 
ers around  it.  And  he  beheld  a  knight  com- 
ing out  to  hunt  from  the  other  side,  mounted 
on  a  spirited  black  snorting  palfrey,  that  ad- 
vanced at  a  prancing  pace,  proudly  stepping, 
and  nimbly  bounding,  and  sure  of  foot;  and 
this  was  the  man  to  whom  the  palace  belonged. 
And  Gwalchmai  saluted  him.  "  Heaven  prosper 
thee,  chieftain,"  said  he,  "and  whence  comest 
thou?"  "I  come,"  answered  Gwalchmai, 
"from  the  Court  of  Arthur."  "And  art  thou 
Arthur's  vassal?"  "Yes,  by  my  faith,"  said 
Gwalchmai.  "I  will  give  thee  good  counsel," 
said  the  knight.  "I  see  that  thou  art  tired 
and  weary;  go  unto  my  palace,  if  it  may  please 
thee,  and  tarry  there  to-night."     "Willingly, 


lord,"  said  he,  "and  Heaven  reward  thee." 
"  Take  this  ring  as  a  token  to  the  porter,  and  go 
forward  to  yonder  tower,  and  therein  thou 
wilt  find  my  sister."  And  Gwalchmai  went  to 
the  gate,  and  showed  the  ring,  and  proceeded 
to  the  tower.  And  on  entering  he  beheld  a 
large  blazing  fire,  burning  without  smoke  and 
with  a  bright  and  lofty  flame,  and  a  beauteous 
and  stately  maiden  was  sitting  on  a  chair  by 
the  fire.  And  the  maiden  was  glad  at  his 
coming,  and  welcomed  him,  and  advanced  to 
meet  him.  And  he  went  and  sat  beside  the 
maiden,  and  they  took  their  repast.  And 
when  their  repast  was  over,  they  discoursed 
pleasantly  together.  And  while  they  were  thus, 
behold  there  entered  a  venerable,  hoary- 
headed  man.  "Ah!  base  girl,"  said  he,  "if 
thou  didst  think  that  it  was  right  for  thee  to 
entertain  and  to  sit  by  yonder  man,  thou 
wouldest  not  do  so."  And  he  withdrew  his 
head,  and  went  forth.  "Ah!  chieftain,"  said 
the  maiden,  "if  thou  wilt  do  as  I  counsel  thee, 
thou  wilt  shut  the  door,  lest  the  man  should  have 
a  plot  against  thee."  Upon  that  Gwalchmai 
arose,  and  when  he  came  near  unto  the  door, 
the  man,  with  sixty  others,  fully  armed,  were 
ascending  the  tower.  And  Gwalchmai  de- 
fended the  door  with  a  chessboard,  that  none 
might  enter  until  the  man  should  return  from 
the  chase.  And  thereupon,  behold  the  Earl 
arrived.  "What  is  all  this?"  asked  he.  "It 
is  a  sad  thing,"  said  the  hoary-headed  man; 
"the  young  girl  yonder  has  been  sitting  and 
eating  with  him  who  slew  your  father.  He  is 
Gwalchmai,  the  son  of  Gwyar."  "Hold  thy 
peace,  then,"  said  the  Earl,  "I  will  go  in." 
And  the  Earl  was  joyful  concerning  Gwalch- 
mai. "Ha!  chieftain,"  said  he,  "it  was 
wrong  of  thee  to  come  to  my  court,  when  thou 
knewest  that  thou  didst  slay  my  father;  and 
though  we  cannot  avenge  him,  Heaven  will 
avenge  him  upon  thee."  "My  soul,"  said 
Gwalchmai,  "thus  it  is:  I  came  not  here  either 
to  acknowledge  or  to  deny  having  slain  thy 
father;  but  I  am  on  a  message  from  Arthur, 
and  therefore  do  I  crave  the  space  of  a  year 
until  I  shall  return  from  my  embassy,  and  then, 
upon  my  faith,  I  will  come  back  unto  this 
palace,  and  do  one  of  two  things,  either  ac- 
knowledge it,  or  deny  it. "  And  the  time  was 
granted  him  willingly;  and  he  remained  there 
that  night.  And  the  next  morning  he  rode 
forth.  And  the  story  relates  nothing  further 
of  Gwalchmai  respecting  this  adventure. 

And   Peredur  rode  forward.     And  he  wan- 
dered over  the  whole  island,  seeking  tidings  of 


PEREDUR    THE    SON    OF    EVRAWC 


537 


the  black  maiden,  and  he  could  meet  with 
none.  And  he  came  to  an  unknown  land,  in 
the  centre  of  a  valley,  watered  by  a  river.  And 
as  he  traversed  the  valley  he  beheld  a  horseman 
coming  towards  him,  and  wearing  the  garments 
of  a  priest;  and  he  besought  his  blessing. 
"Wretched  man,"  said  he,  "thou  meritest  no 
blessing,  and  thou  wouldcst  not  be  profited  by 
one,  seeing  that  thou  art  clad  in  armour  on 
such  a  day  as  this."  "  And  what  day  is  to-day  ?" 
said  Peredur.  "To-day  is  Good  Friday," 
he  answered.  "Chide  me  not  that  I  knew 
not  this,  seeing  that  it  is  a  year  to-day  since  I 
journeyed  forth  from  my  country."  Then  he 
dismounted,  and  led  his  horse  in  his  hand. 
And  he  had  not  proceeded  far  along  the  high 
road  before  he  came  to  a  cross  road,  and  the 
cross  road  traversed  a  wood.  And  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wood  he  saw  an  unfortified  castle, 
which  appeared  to  be  inhabited.  And  at  the 
gate  of  the  castle  there  met  him  the  priest  whom 
he  had  seen  before,  and  he  asked  his  blessing. 
"The  blessing  of  Heaven  be  unto  thee,"  said 
he,  "  it  is  more  fitting  to  travel  in  thy  present 
guise  than  as  thou  wast  erewhile;  and  this" 
night  thou  shalt  tarry  with  me."  So  he  re- 
mained there  that  night. 

And  the  next  day  Peredur  sought  to  go  forth. 
"  To-day  may  no  one  journey.  Thou  shalt  re- 
main with  me  to-day  and  to-morrow,  and  the 
day  following,  and  I  will  direct  thee  as  best  I 
may  to  the  place  which  thou  art  seeking." 
And  the  fourth  day  Peredur  sought  to  go  forth, 
and  he  entreated  the  priest  to  tell  him  how 
he  should  find  the  Castle  of  Wonders.  "  What 
I  know  thereof  I  will  tell  thee,"  he  replied. 
"  Go  over  yonder  mountain,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain  thou  wilt  come  to  a 
river,  and  in  the  valley  wherein  the  river  runs 
is  a  King's  palace,  wherein  the  King  sojourned 
during  Easter.  And  if  thou  mayest  have  tid- 
ings anywhere  of  the  Castle  of  Wonders,  thou 
wilt  have  them  there." 

Then  Peredur  rode  forward.  And  he  came  to 
the  valley  in  which  was  the  river,  and  there  met 
him  a  number  of  men  going  to  hunt,  and  in 
the  midst  of  them  was  a  man  of  exalted  rank, 
and  Peredur  saluted  him.  "  Choose,  chieftain," 
said  the  man,  "  whether  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to 
the  chase,  or  wilt  proceed  to  my  palace,  and  I 
will  despatch  one  of  my  household  to  com- 
mend thee  to  my  daughter,  who  is  there,  and 
who  will  entertain  thee  with  food  and  liquor 
until  I  return  from  hunting;  and  whatever 
may  be  thine  errand,  such  as  I  can  obtain  for 
thee  thou  shalt   gladly  have."     And  the  King 


sent  a  little  yellow  page  with  him  as  an  at- 
tendant; and  when  they  came  to  the  palace 
the  lady  had  arisen,  and  was  about  to  wash 
before  meat.  Peredur  went  forward,  and  she 
saluted  him  joyfully,  and  placed  him  by  her 
side.  And  they  took  their  repa.st.  And  what- 
soever Peredur  said  unto  her,  she  laughed 
loudly,  so  that  all  in  the  palace  could  hear. 
Then  spoke  the  yellow  page  to  the  lady.  "  By 
my  faith,"  said  he,  "this  youth  is  already  thy 
husband;  or  if  he  be  not,  thy  mind  and  thy 
thoughts  are  set  upon  him."  And  the  little 
yellow  page  went  unto  the  King,  and  told  him 
that  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  youth  whom  he 
had  met  with  was  his  daughter's  husband,  or 
if  he  were  not  .so  already  that  he  would  shortly 
become  so  unless  he  were  cautious.  "What 
is  thy  counsel  in  this  matter,  youth?"  said  the 
King.  "  My  counsel  is,"  he  replied,  "  that  thou 
set  strong  men  upon  him,  to  seize  him,  until 
thou  hast  ascertained  the  truth  respecting  this." 
So  he  set  strong  men  upon  Peredur,  who  seized 
him  and  cast  him  into  prison.  And  the  maiden 
went  before  her  father,  and  asked  him  where- 
fore he  had  caused  the  youth  from  Arthur's 
Court  to  be  imprisoned.  "  In  truth,"  he  an- 
swered, "  he  shall  not  be  free  to-night,  nor  to- 
morrow, nor  the  day  following,  and  he  shall 
not  come  from  where  he  is."  She  replied  not 
to  what  the  King  had  said,  but  she  went  to  the 
youth.  "Is  it  unpleasant  to  thee  to  be  here?" 
said  she.  "  I  should  not  care  if  I  were  not," 
he  replied.  "Thy  couch  and  thy  treatment 
shg,ll  be  in  no  wise  inferior  to  that  of  the  King 
himself,  and  thou  shalt  have  the  best  enter- 
tainment that  the  palace  affords.  And  if  it 
were  more  pleasing  to  thee  that  my  couch  should 
be  here,  that  I  might  discourse  with  thee,  it 
should  be  so,  cheerfully."  "This  can  I  not 
refuse,"  said  Peredur.  And  he  remained  in 
prison  that  night.  And  the  maiden  provided 
all  that  she  had  promised  him. 

And  the  next  day  Peredur  heard  a  tumult  in 
the  town.  "Tell  me,  fair  maiden,  what  is  that 
tumult?"  said  Peredur.  "All  the  King's 
host  and  his  forces  have  come  to  the  town  to- 
day." "And  what  seek  they  here?"  he  in- 
quired. "There  is  an  Earl  near  this  place  who 
possesses  two  earldoms,  and  is  as  powerful 
as  a  king;  and  an  engagement  will  take  place 
between  them  to-day."  "I  beseech  thee," 
said  Peredur,  "  to  cause  a  horse  and  arms  to  be 
brought,  that  I  may  view  the  encounter,  and  I 
promise  to  come  back  to  my  prison  again." 
"Gladly,"  said  she,  "will  I  provide  thee  with 
horse  and  arms."     So  she  gave  him  a  horse  and 


538 


THE    MABINOGION 


arms,  and  a  bright  scariet  robe  of  honour  over 
his  armour,  and  a  yellow  shield  upon  his 
shoulder.  And  he  went  to  the  combat;  and  as 
many  of  the  Earl's  men  as  encountered  him 
that  day  he  overthrew;  and  he  returned  to  his 
prison.  And  the  maiden  asked  tidings  of 
Peredur,  and  he  answered  her  not  a  word. 
And  she  went  and  asked  tidings  of  her  father, 
and  inquired  who  had  acquitted  himself  best 
of  the  household.  And  he  said  that  he  knew 
not,  but  that  it  was  a  man  with  a  scarlet  robe 
of  honour  over  his  armour,  and  a  yellow  shield 
upon  his  shoulder.  Then  she  smiled,  and 
returned  to  where  Peredur  was,  and  did  him 
great  honour  that  night.  And  for  three  days 
did  Peredur  slay  the  Earl's  men;  and  before 
any  one  could  know  who  he  was,  he  returned  to 
his  prison.  And  the  fourth  day  Peredur  slew 
the  Earl  himself.  And  the  maiden  went  unto 
her  father,  and  inquired  of  him  the  news. 
"I  have  good  news  for  thee,"  said  the  King; 
"  the  Earl  is  slain,  and  I  am  the  owner  of  his 
two  earldoms."  "  Knowest  thou,  lord,  who 
slew  him?"  "I  do  not  know,"  said  the  King. 
"It  was  the  knight  with  the  scarlet  robe  of 
honour  and  the  yellow  shield."  "Lord," 
said  she, "  I  know  who  that  is."  "  By  Heaven  ! " 
he  exclaimed,  "who  is  he?"  "Lord,"  she 
replied,  "  he  is  the  knight  whom  thou  hast 
imprisoned."  Then  he  went  unto  Peredur, 
and  saluted  him,  and  told  him  that  he  would 
reward  the  service  he  had  done  him,  in  any  way 
he  might  desire.  And  when  they  went  to  meat, 
Peredur  was  placed  beside  the  King,  and  the 
maiden  on  the  other  side  of  Peredur.  "  I 
will  give  thee,"  said  the  King,  "  my  daughter 
in  marriage,  and  half  my  kingdom  with  her, 
and  the  two  earldoms  as  a  gift."  "Heaven 
reward  thee,  lord,"  said  Peredur,  "but  I 
came  not  here  to  woo."  "What  seekest  thou 
then,  chieftain?"  "I  am  seeking  tidings  of 
the  Castle  of  Wonders ? "  "Thy  enterprise  is 
greater,  chieftain,  than  thou  wilt  wish  to  pur- 
sue," said  the  maiden,  "nevertheless,  tidings 
shalt  thou  have  of  the  Castle,  and  thou  shalt 
have  a  guide  through  my  father's  dominions, 
and  a  sufficiency  of  provisions  for  thy  journey, 
for  thou  art,  O  chieftain,  the  man  whom  best 
I  love."  Then  she  said  to  him,  "  Go  over  yon- 
der mountain,  and  thou  wilt  find  a  lake,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  lake  there  is  a  Castle,  and 
that  is  the  Castle  that  is  called  the  Castle  of 
Wonders ;  and  we  know  not  what  wonders  are 
therein,  but  thus  is  it  called." 

And  Peredur  proceeded  towards  the  Castle, 
and  the  gate  of  the  Castle  was  open.     And 


when  he  came  to  the  hall,  the  door  was  open,  and 
he  entered.  And  he  beheld  a  chessboard  in  the 
hall,  and  the  chessmen  were  playing  against 
each  other,  by  themselves.  And  the  side  that 
he  favoured  lost  the  game,  and  thereupon  the 
others  set  up  a  shout,  as  though  they  had  been 
living  men.  And  Peredur  was  wroth,  and 
took  the  chessmen  in  his  lap,  and  cast  the  chess- 
board into  the  lake.  And  when  he  had  done 
thus,  behold  the  black  maiden  came  in,  and  she 
said  to  him,  "  The  welcome  of  Heaven  be  not 
unto  thee.  Thou  hadst  rather  do  evil  than 
good."  "What  complaint  hast  thou  against 
me,  maiden?"  said  Peredur.  "That  thou  hast 
occasioned  unto  the  Empress  the  loss  of  her 
chessboard,  which  she  would  not  have  lost  for 
all  her  empire.  And  the  way  in  which  thou 
mayest  recover  the  chessboard  is,  to  repair  to 
the  Castle  of  Ysbidinong}'!,  where  is  a  black 
man,  who  lays  waste  the  dominions  of  the 
Empress;  and  if  thou  canst  slay  him,  thou  wilt 
recover  the  chessboard.  But  if  thou  goest  there, 
thou  wilt  not  return  alive."  "Wilt  thou  direct 
me  thither?"  said  Peredur.  "I  will  show 
thee  the  way,"  she  replied.  So  he  went  to  the 
Castle  of  Ysbidinongyl,  and  he  fought  with  the 
black  man.  And  the  black  man  besought  mercy 
of  Peredur.  "Mercy  will  I  grant  thee,"  said 
he,  "on  condition  that  thou  cause  the  chess- 
board to  be  restored  to  the  place  where  it  was 
when  I  entered  the  hall."  Then  the  maiden 
came  to  him,  and  said,  "The  malediction  of 
Heaven  attend  thee  for  thy  work,  since  thou  hast 
left  that  monster  alive,  who  lays  waste  all  the 
possessions  of  the  Empress."  "  I  granted  him 
his  life,"  said  Peredur,  "  that  he  might  cause  the 
chessboard  to  be  restored."  "The  chessboard 
is  not  in  the  place  where  thou  didst  find  it; 
go  back,  therefore,  and  slay  him,"  answered 
she.  So  Peredur  went  back,  and  slew  the  black 
man.  And  when  he  returned  to  the  palace,  he 
found  the  black  maiden  there.  "  Ah  !  maiden," 
said  Peredur,  "where  is  the  Empress?"  "I 
declare  to  Heaven  that  thou  wilt  not  see  her 
now,  unless  thou  dost  slay  the  monster  that  is 
in  yonder  forest."  "What  monster  is  there?" 
"  It  is  a  stag  that  is  as  swift  as  the  swiftest  bird; 
and  he  has  one  horn  in  his  forehead,  as  long  as 
the  shaft  of  a  spear,  and  as  sharp  as  whatever 
is  sharpest.  And  he  destroys  the  branches  of 
the  best  trees  in  the  forest,  and  he  kills  every 
animal  that  he  meets  with  therein;  and  those 
that  he  doth  not  slay  perish  of  hunger.  And 
what  is  worse  than  that,  he  comes  every  night, 
and  drinks  up  the  fish-pond,  and  leaves  the 
fishes  exposed,  so  that  for  the  most  part  they 


PEREDUR  THE  SON  OF  EVRAWC 


539 


die  before  the  water  returns  again."  "Maiden," 
said  Peredur,  "wilt  thou  come  and  show  me 
this  animal?"  "Not  so,"  said  the  maiden, 
"  for  he  has  not  permitted  any  mortal  to  enter 
the  forest  for  above  a  twelvemonth.  Behold, 
here  is  a  little  dog  belonging  to  the  Empress, 
which  will  rouse  the  stag,  and  will  chase  him 
towards  thee,  and  the  stag  will  attack  thee." 
Then  the  little  dog  went  as  a  guide  to  Peredur, 
and  roused  the  stag,  and  brought  him  towards 
the  place  where  Peredur  was.  And  the  stag 
attacked  Peredur,  and  he  let  him  pass  by  him, 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  smote  off  his  head  with  his 
sword.  And  while  he  was  looking  at  the  head 
of  the  stag,  he  saw  a  lady  on  horseback  coming 
towards  him.  And  she  took  the  little  dog  in 
the  lappet  of  her  cap,  and  the  head  and  the  body 
of  the  stay  lay  before  her.  And  around  the 
stag's  neck  was  a  golden  collar.  "Ha!  chief- 
tain," said  she,  "  uncourteously  hast  thou  acted 
in  slaying  the  fairest  jewel  that  was  in  my 
dominions."  "I  was  entreated  so  to  do;  and 
is  there  any  way  by  which  I  can  obtain  thy 
friendship?"  "There  is,"  she  replied.  "Go 
thou  forward  unto  yonder  mountain,  and  there 
thou  wilt  find  a  grove;  and  in  the  grove  there 
is  a  cromlech;  do  thou  there  challenge  a  man 
three  times  to  fight,  and  thou  shalt  have  my 
friendship." 

So  Peredur  proceeded  onward,  and  came  to 
the  side  of  the  grove,  and  challenged  any  man 
to  fight.  And  a  black  man  arose  from  beneath 
the  cromlech,  mounted  upon  a  bony  horse, 
and  both  he  and  his  horse  were  clad  in  huge 
rusty  armour.  And  they  fought.  And  as  of- 
ten as  Peredur  cast  the  black  man  to  the  earth, 
he  would  jump  again  into  his  saddle.  And 
Peredur  dismounted,  and  drew  his  sword ;  and 
thereupon  the  black  man  disappeared  with 
Peredur's  horse  and  his  own,  so  that  he  could 
not  gain  sight  of  him  a  second  time.  And 
Peredur  went  along  the  mountain,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain  he  beheld  a  castle 
in  the  valley,  wherein  was  a  river.  And  he 
went  to  the  castle ;  and  as  he  entered  it,  he  saw 
a  hall,  and  the  door  of  the  hall  was  open,  and 


he  went  in.  And  there  he  saw  a  lame  gray- 
headed  man  sitting  on  one  side  of  the  hall, 
with  Gwalchmai  beside  him.  And  Peredur 
beheld  his  horse,  which  the  black  man  had 
taken,  in  the  same  stall  with  that  of  Gwalchmai. 
And  they  were  glad  concerning  Peredur.  And 
he  went  and  seated  himself  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hoary-headed  man.  Then,  behold  a 
yellow-haired  youth  came,  and  bent  upon  the 
knee  before  Peredur,  nd  besought  his  friend- 
ship. "Lord,"  said  the  youth,  "it  was  I  that 
came  in  the  form  of  the  black  maiden  to  Arthur's 
Court,  and  when  thou  didst  throw  down  the 
chessboard,  and  when  thou  didst  slay  the 
black  man  of  Ysbidinongyl,  and  when  thou 
didst  slay  the  stag,  and  when  thou  didst  go 
to  fight  the  black  man  of  the  cromlech.  And 
I  came  with  the  bloody  head  in  the  salver, 
and  with  the  lance  that  streamed  with  blood 
from  the  point  to  the  hand,  all  along  the  shaft; 
and  the  head  was  thy  cousin's,  and  he  was 
killed  by  the  sorceresses  of  Gloucester,  who 
also  lamed  thine  uncle;  and  I  am  thy  cousin. 
And  there  is  a  prediction  that  thou  art  to 
avenge  these  things."  Then  Peredur  and 
Gwalchmai  took  counsel,  and  sent  to  Arthur 
and  his  household,  to  beseech  them  to  come 
against  the  sorceresses.  And  they  began  to 
fight  with  them;  and  one  of  the  sorceresses 
slew  one  of  Arthur's  men  before  Peredur's 
face,  and  Peredur  bade  her  forbear.  And 
the  sorceress  slew  a  man  before  Peredur's 
face  a  second  time,  and  a  second  time  he  for- 
bade her.  And  the  third  time  the  sorceress 
slew  a  man  before  the  face  of  Peredur;  and 
then  Peredur  drew  his  sword,  and  smote  the 
sorceress  on  the  helmet;  and  all  her  head- 
armour  was  split  in  two  parts.  And  she  set 
up  a  cry,  and  desired  the  other  sorceresses  to 
flee,  and  told  them  that  this  was  Peredur,  the 
man  who  had  learned  Chivalry  with  them,  and 
by  whom  they  were  destined  to  be  slain.  Then 
Arthur  and  his  household  fell  upon  the  sorcer- 
esses, and  slew  the  sorceresses  of  Gloucester 
every  one.  And  thus  is  it  related  concerning 
the  Castle  of  Wonders. 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph,  198 
Arnold,  Matthew,  478 
Ascham,  Roger,  38 
Austen,  Jane,  328 

Bacon,     Francis,     Viscount     St. 

Albans,  74 
Berkeley,  George,  Bishop,  216 
Borrow,  George,  417 
Boswell,  James,  277 
Bourchier,  Sir  John,  22 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  iii 
Bunyan,  John,  139 
Burke,  Edmund,  267 
Burton,  Robert,  97 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  366 
Caxton,  William,  21 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  12 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  317 
Cooper,    Anthony    Ashley,    Earl 

of  Shaftesbury,  197 
Cross,  Mary  Ann  Evans,  458 

Defoe,  Daniel,  176 
Dekker,  Thomas,  89 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  357 
Dickens,  Charles,  440 
Dryden,  John,  146 

"Eliot,  George,"  458 

Evans  (Cross),  Mary  Ann,  458 

Fielding,  Henry,  226 
Foxe,  John,  41 


Francis,  Sir  Philip  (?),  292 
Froude,  James  Anthony,  450 
Fuller,  Thomas,  117 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  255 

Greene,  Robert,  64 

Guest,  Lady  Charlotte,  521 

Hazlitt,  William,  349 
Henry  HI,  4 
Hobbes,  Thomas,   102 
Hooker,  Richard,  54 
Hume,  David,  243 
Hunt,  Leigh,  354 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  320 
Johnson,  Samuel,  234 
Jonson,  Ben,  94 
Junius,  292 

Lamb,  Charles,  337 
Landor,  Walter  Savage,  345 
Latimer,  Hugh,  36 
Locke,  John,  163 
Lodge,  Thomas,  60 
Lyly,  John,  57 

Macaulav,    Thomas    Babington, 

Lord,  382 
Macpherson,  James  (?),  275 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  18 
Mandeville,  Sir  John  (?),  6 
Milton,  John,  120 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  29 

Nashe,  Thomas,  86 


Newman,     John     Henry     (Car- 
dinal), 409 

Ossian,  275 

Pater,  Walter,  492 

Pecock,  Reginald,  Bishop,  16 

Pepys,  Samuel,  168 

Poore,  Richard  (?),  Bishop,  2 

Richardson,  Samuel,  221 
Rolle,  Richard,  5 
Ruskin,  John,  463 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  308 
Shaftesbury,  Earl  of,  197 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  45 
Smollett,  Tobias,  251 
South,  Robert,  173 
Southey,  Robert,  321 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  207 
Stephen,  Leslie,  489 
Sterne,  Laurence,  247 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  509 
Swift,  Jonathan,  184 

Taylor,  Jeremv,  136 
Temple,  Sir  William,  143 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 

425 
Trevisa,  John  de,  1 1 
Tyndale,  William,  34 

Walton,  Izaak,  104 
Wiclif,  John,  9 
Wordsworth,  William,  298 


541 


INDEX    OF   TITLES    AND    SUB-TITLES 


Acts  and  Monuments  of  These  Latter 

AND  PeRILLOUS  DaYES 41 

Ad\-ersity,  Of  ....  ^ 7^ 

/Esop  and  Rhodope .345 

.\GE,  Of  Youth  and !^5 

Anatomy  of  Melancholy 97 

Ancren  Riwle 2 

Angler,  The  Complete 104 

.'\nglo-Saxon  Chronicle i 

Apollyon,  The  Fight  with 139 

.\rcadia 45 

Argot's  Debts,  The  Nabob  of 267 

Areopagitica 126 

Art  (The)  of  Cony-Gatching 67 

Astrolabe,  A  Treatise  on  the 12 

Atheism,  Of 79 

Authors,  A  Club  of 263 

Bachelors,  On  the  Great  Number  of 

Old  Maids  and 262 

Battle's  (Mrs.)  Opinions  on  Whist 340 

Beauty,  Of 85 

Belief,  Newman's  Theory  of 489 

Biographia  Literaria 317 

Black,  The  M.an  in 258 

Boethius:     De    Consolatione     Philoso- 
phic    13 

Boffin's  Bower 441 

Bonis  et  M.'\lis,  De 95 

Byzantine  Palaces 470 

C.i:s.AR 450 

Captain  Singleton,  The  Life,  Adventures, 

AND  Piracies  of 176 

Cat,  Nuns  May  Keep  No  Be.ast  but  a 4 

Cath-Loda 275 

Centre  of  Indifference 373 

Ch.aracteristics  of  Men,  Manners,  etc.  .  ig7 

Charity n  i 

Child's  (A)  Dream  of  a  Star 440 

Child  (The)  in  the  House .' 502 

Chronicle,  The  Anglo-Saxon i 

Citizen  (A)  of  the  World 255 

Clarissa  Harlowe 221 

Clinker,  Humphry 251 

Club  (A)  of  Authors 263 

Coleridge,  Mr 349 

College,  A  Propos.al  for  a 216 

Commandment  (The)  of  Love  to  God.  ...  5 

Complete  Angler,  The 104 


Confessions  of  .an  English  Opium-Eater.  .  357 

Congreve 234 

Consol.atione  Philo.sophl«,  De 13 

Convers.ations,  Im.aginary 345 

Cony-Catching,  The  Art  of 67 

Crown  (The)  of  Wild  Olive 473 

Culture  .-vnd  An.archy 478 

Daughter  (The)  of  Hippocrates 354 

De.ath,  Of 75 

Di.ALOGUE  of  Sir  Thom.as  More 29 

Diary  (The)  of  S.amuel  Pepys 168 

Discoveries  made  upon  Men  and  Matter  .  94 

Disp.vrcii,  Of 81 

Drake,  The  Life  of 117 

Dra.matic  Poesy,  An  Essay  of 146 

Ears,  A  Ch.-\pter  on. 343 

Ecclesiastical  Polity,  Of  the  Laws  of.  .  54 

Education,  Of 120 

Eneydos,  Pref.'Vce  to  the  Booke  of 21 

Engl.xnd,  The  History  of 382 

English  Proclamation  of  Henry  HI 4 

Essays  (Bacon's) 74 

Euphues  .and  his  England 57 

Euphues'  Golden  Legacy 60 

Everlasting  No,  The 370 

Everlasting  Ye.a,  The 377 

Fat.al  Imposture  and  Force  of  Words,  Of 

THE 173 

Floss,  The  Mill  on  the 458 

Francois  Villon 509 

Friendship,  Of 82 

Froissart,  The  Cronycle  of  Syr  John.  . .  22 

Gospel  of  M.athew 9>  34 

Grafton,  Letters  to  the  Duke  of 292 

Gre.at  Place,  Of 78 

Greene's  Never  Too  L.ate 69 

Groat's  Worth  (A)  of  Wit 64 

Gull's  (The)  Hornbook 89 

He.ad-Dress,  The 201 

Henry  III,  English  Procl.amation  of 4 

Higden's  Polychronicon II 

HiLPA  and  Sh.alum 205 

Hippocr.ates,  The  Daughter  of 354 

Holy  Dying,  The  Rule  and  Exercises  of  136 

542 


INDEX    OF    TITLES    AND    SUB-TITLES 


543 


Holy  State,  The 117 

Homily,  An  Old  English i 

Hornbook,  The  Gull's 89 

House,  The  Child  in  the 502 

Humourists,  The  English 425 

Humphry  Clinker 251 

Hydriotaphia  :    Urn-Burial 115 

Idea  (The)  of  a  University 409 

Indifference,  Centre  of 373 

Innocentia,  De 95 

Inquiry  (An)  concerning  the  Principles 
of  Morals 243 

Johnson,  Life  of  Dr.  Samuel 277 

Jones,  Tom 226 

Junius,  Letters  of 292 

Knowledge  VIEWED  in  Relation  to  Learn- 
ing    409 

Lavengro. 417 

Laws  (The)  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  ...  54 

Leviathan 102 

Love,  Of 77 

Love,  Heroical 97 

Love  to  God,  The  Commandment  of 5 

"Lyrical  B.^llads,"  Preface  to 298 

Mabinogion 52T 

Man  (The)  in  Black 258 

Mankind,  The  N.'^tural  Condition  of 102 

Marriage  and  Single  Life,  Of 76 

Martyrs,  Foxe's  Book  of 41 

Mathew,  The  Gospel  of 9,  34 

Maundevile,  Voiage  and  Travaile  of  Sir 

John 6 

Melancholy,  The  Anatomy  of 97 

Mill  (The)  on  the  Floss 458 

MiRZA,  The  Vision  of 203 

Modest  Proposal,  A 193 

Morals,  An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Prin- 
ciples OF 243 

MoRTE  Darthur,  Le 18 

Mutual  Friend,  Our 441 

Nabob  of  Argot's  Debts,  The 267 

Nelson,  The  Life  of 321 

Netherlands,  Observations  upon  the..  143 

Never  too  Late,  Greene's 69 

Newman's  Theory  of  Belief 489 

Nile,  The  Battle  of  the 321 

Nuns  May  Keep  No  Beast  but  a  Cat 4 

Old  English  Homily,  An i 

Old    Maids     and    Bachelors,     On    the 

Great  Number  of 262 

Olive,  The  Crown  of  Wild 473 

Opium-EatEr,  Confessions  of  an  English  357 

Ossi.-^N,  Poems  of 275 

Our  Mutu.^  Friend 441 


P.almer's  T.'iLE,  The 69 

Peredur 521 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  The 139 

Place,  Of  Great 78 

Play,  The  Chinese  goes  to  see  a 255 

POLYCHRONICON II 

Preface  to  the  Booke  of  Eneydos 21 

Preface  TO  THE  "Lyrical  Ball.'\ds" 298 

Pride  and  Prejudice 328 

Printing,  A  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of 

Unlicensed 126 

Proclamation  of  Henry  III,  The  English      4 

Proposal  (A)  for  a  College 216 

Proposal,  A  Modest 193 

R.\CES  OF  Men,  The  Two 337 

Rambler,  Essays  from  the 239 

Redgauntlet 308 

Religio  Medici in 

Repressor  (The)  of  Over  Much  Bl.\ming 

of  the  Clergy 16 

Revenge,  Of 75 

Revolution   in   Fr.a.nce,    Reflections  on 

THE 270 

Ridley  and  L.atimer,  The  Behaviour  of.  . .  41 
rosalynde  :  euphues'  golden  legacy  .  .  6o 
Rule  (The)  .xnd  Exercises  of  Holy  Dying  136 
Rylstone,  The  White  Doe  of 320 

St.  Mark's 467 

Sartor  Resartus 366 

Scholemaster,  The 38 

Sermon  before  Edward  \T,  The  First 36 

Shakespe.are  Nostr.^ti,  De 94 

Sh.^ndy,  Tristr.am 247 

Singleton,   The   Life,   Adventures,    and 

PiR.ACIES  OF  CaPT.MN 1 76 

Spectator,  The 198,  214 

Speech 2 

Star,  A  Child's  Dream  of  a 440 

Sterne 425 

Stilo,  De 95 

Stones  (The)  of  Venice 463 

Style 95,  492 

Sweetness  and  Light 478 

Tatler,  The 207 

Teufelsdrockh,  Sorrows  of 366 

Throne,  The 463 

Timber 94 

Tom  Jones 226 

Traveller,  The  Unfortunate 86 

Tristram  Shandy 247 

Truth,  Of : 74 

Tub,  The  Tale  of  a 184 

Two  Races  of  Men,  The 337 

Understanding,  Of  the  Conduct  of  the  163 

Unfortunate  Traveller,  The 86 

University,  The  Idea  of  a 409 

Urn-Buri.\l 115 

Utility  Ple.-\ses,  Why 243 


544  INDEX   TO    TITLES    AND    SUB-TITLES 

Vanity  and  Shortness  of  Man's  Life,  Of              Wandering  Willie's  Tale ,08 

THE 136      Westminster  Abbey,  Thoughts  in 200 

Vanity  Fair 141      Whist,  Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on 340 

Vanity  Fair 430      White  Doe  (The)  of  R\-lstone 320 

Venice,  The  Stones  of 463      Wild  Olive,  The  Crown  of ^  .  47, 

Verulamius,  Dominus ^ 94      Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self,  Of 80 

Villon,   Francois ' 509      Wit  and  Humour,  Freedom  of.  .  .        107 

Vision  (The)  of  MiRZA 203      Words,    Of    the    F.^t.al    Imposture    and 

VoiAGE  (The)  and  Travaile  of  Sir  John                     Force  of j-^ 

Maundevile 6                                                             ~^ 

Youth  and  Age,  Of 8- 


Date  Due 


/^. 


